A Few of Loretta's Favorite Nerdy History Books

Globe-Wernicke, ad in American Homes & Gardens c 1905

Loretta reports:

Readers often ask which books we recommend on this, that, or the other subject. For this holiday season, it seemed like a good idea to mention some favorites. They might become gifts for the nerdy history person in your life or for yourself. Many are still in print and easily available. Some are trickier to find. While I could recommend hundreds, I winnowed it down to the following, which I often turn to for information and inspiration.

Adams, Samuel & Sarah. The Complete Servant (1825). You can read this online, or can buy your own copy. Details about not only the servant hierarchy, servants’ duties, but also the economics of maintaining household staff.

Black, A&C (publishers) Titles and Forms of Address: A Guide to Correct Use. This or Debrett’s Correct Form will help readers understand titles and forms of address they encounter in books as well as prevent writers’ committing social atrocities in their stories.

Bradfield, Nancy. Costume in Detail: Women's Dress 1730-1930. A detailed look, inside and out, of the way clothes were constructed. Extremely helpful for dressing and undressing our heroines.

Cunnington, C. Willitt. English Women’s Clothing in the Nineteenth Century and Cunnington, C. Willett and Cunnington, Phillis. The History of Underclothes (1992).  The Cunnington books, written in the early part of the 20th century, feature some outdated viewpoints. However, they still offer a wealth of examples as well as amusing and enlightening quotations from primary sources.

Gill, Gillian. We Two: Victoria and Albert: Rulers, Partners, Rivals. My favorite biography to date, and I’ve read quite a few. It reads like fiction. I originally hesitated to buy it because my sense was that Victoria lost the most fun and interesting part of herself when she wed, and that just depressed the daylights out of me. But this book offers a rather different perspective, bringing two strong personalities into sharp focus, and the compelling story starts well before she was born, with an almost operatic account of the events leading to her becoming Queen.

Grimble, Frances. The Lady's Stratagem: A Repository of 1820s Directions for the Toilet, Mantua-Making, Stay-Making, Millinery & Etiquette. Exactly as described in subtitle, it’s a marvelous compilation of information from various sources.

Inglis, John R. and Sanders, Jill. Panorama of the Thames: A Riverside View of Georgian London. A beautiful book and a labor of love that takes us on a voyage up and down the Thames during the Regency.

Rylance, Ralph. The Epicure’s Almanack. A moment in the Regency captured, as the author takes us on a detailed tour of all London’s eating establishments, and tells us what foods are in season when.

Félix Vallotton, La bibliothèque 1915 

Salisbury, Deb. Elephant’s Breath & London Smoke. A sort of OED of historical color, including dates for color names, and descriptions, it also offers advice on what colors for what complexions and occasions, among other fascinating details.

A Member of the Aristocracy. Manners and Rules of Good Society. A helpful etiquette book, as long as we remember it’s late Victorian to Edwardian (depending on the edition), when rules were more complicated and rigid than in earlier generations.

For more books we've referred to in our work and blogging, please click on the NHG library tag.

Images: Globe-Wernicke, advertisement in American Homes & Gardens c 1905;  Félix Vallotton, 1915  La bibliothèque.

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.

Friday Video: 18th Century Dining

Loretta reports:

As I’ve pointed out in a previous blog post, the dinner table of the late 1700s and early 1800s looked very different from our own, with a large number of dishes, both sweet and savory, presented at the same time.

This video gives a nice, three-dimensional view of what was on the table, as well as short explanations of the dishes. Also, I think you'll enjoy curator Ivan Day’s dry wit.

If the macaroni and cheese surprises you (as it did some commenters), you might want to check out Susan’s blog post on the subject.  Also, as she explains in this blog post, the governor of Virginia would have been eating in the same fashion as his aristocratic counterparts in London.

YouTube Video: English Taste: The Art of Dining in 18th Century England with curator Ivan Day
Image is a still from the video.
Readers who receive our blog via email might see a rectangle, square, or nothing where the video ought to be. To watch the video, please click on the title to this post (which will take you to our blog) or the video title (which will take you to YouTube).

What Ordinary People Wore in the Early 1800s

1808 Woman Churning Butter

Country Fair 1808

Loretta reports:

Given comments on my last blog, it seemed like a good time to look at resources for what working people wore. Susan and I have written about tradespeople and servants here, here, here, here, here, and elsewhere.

They are rarely the subjects of portraits, although they might be included in scenes of, say, a great estate. Also, a few employers actually had at least some of their servants’ portraits painted. Later in  the 1800s, Victorian servants appear in quite a few photographs. But for those of us who are looking at English dress before photography, there are other ways to get an understanding of what ordinary people wore.

William Henry Pyne is one of my go-to illustrators. I have two reprints of his work dealing with this subject: Picturesque Views of Rural Occupations in Early Nineteenth-Century England and Pyne's British Costumes.

Online, there’s also his Etchings of rustic figures, for the embellishment of landscape.

Rustic figures

Rustic figures

Other sources include satirical prints. Though we need to be aware of exaggerations, they generally seem to get the clothing details right. Images in Ackermann’s Microcosm of London show ordinary people as well as those of the upper orders.

In some cases, we see a distinctive uniform for a trade or profession. The watermen or firemen, for instance. Others might wear a certain type of vest. Many professions and trades required badges. Whether one’s clothes were in fashion or not would depend on one’s business. A dressmaker, for instance, would need to look up-to-date. For haymakers, it was another case entirely.

Images:
14. A woman churning butter with a cloth apron tied about her waist and a mob-cap on her head, another woman milking a cow beyond. Title page lettered "The Costume of Great Britain. Designed, Engraved , and Written by W. H. Pyne." "London: Published by William Miller, Albermarle-Street. 1808." Courtesy the British Museum
Couple at fair looking at a clown and a bell ringer, W.H. Pyne, [1808], courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA
Rustic figures from Pyne, Etchings of rustic figures, for the embellishment of landscape.

Rowlandson, Thames Watermen from Miseries of London 1807I courtesy the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Clicking on the image will enlarge it.  Clicking on the caption will take you to the source, where you can learn more and enlarge images as needed.

What Story Is This 18thc Painting Telling?

Susan reporting,

Earlier in the year, I posted this painting on Instagram along with close-ups of various details. The painting is so intriguing that I'm going to assemble my rambling observations here as a blog post as well - please feel free to offer your own interpretations! (And, as always, click on the images to enlarge them.)

The artist is Louis Rolland Trinquesse (c1746-1800), a Frenchman who specialized in creating titillating scenes like this that his wealthy patrons craved. With that in mind, I doubt that the title the painting has now - An Elegant Interior with Two Ladies and a Gentleman - was what it was originally called. I'm sure it went by something much more suggestive and saucy; that's just the kind of picture it is.

The gentleman is clearly a good "friend," and has been granted the intimacy of being here in the boudoir of the woman in pink while she dresses. We'll call her the mistress of the house, and I'd guess that she may be (or has been) his mistress as well. This could be an expensively appointed room in their love-nest, or it could be the house she shares with an absent husband. She's wearing a sheer white dressing robe to protect her gown as she arranges her hair and make-up - another sign of intimacy.

But while the man is doing his best to press his advantage - he's leaning into her, his foot nearly touches hers, and his hand is almost on her knee - the  mistress doesn't seem entirely pleased that he's there. She's paying more attention to repairing her somewhat mussed hair and cap than to him. Her tiny feet in seductively high-heeled mules do point towards him, but her legs are firmly crossed at the knee.

Meanwhile, the maidservant (and despite the painting's current title, she is definitely a servant from her dress) seems to be watching the other two with sly interest. She definitely Knows Things, and has probably Seen Things, too, and she'd be perfectly happy to tell them. Note how familiarly she's leaning on the back of her mistress's chair. She's probably wearing her cast-off clothing, as was a common practice among lady's maids, and her cap is nearly as impressive as the one her mistress is wearing. But the front of the maid's pinner apron seems loose, even rumpled, and without that flat, straight front that 18thc stays gave to every woman's torso. Has she left off her stays? Is her body uncorseted, and agreeable available beneath her gown? Maybe she's plotting to take her mistress's place in the man's attentions and his bed - or perhaps she already has.

Outside the window, the sun is either setting, or rising. Does it signify the beginning of an affair, or the end of it? Is the the aftermath of a nigh-long dalliance that the mistress is already regretting, or is she wrestling with her consciences, and wondering whether to give in to the man's persuasive seduction? Consider how she's holding that elaborate cap on her equally elaborate hair with one hand, while taking a pin from the pin cushion with the other (she would have used ordinary straight pins to anchor the cap to her hair.) Would she use one of those pins to jab his wrist if his hand creeps too close?

The fluttering pages of the open book in the background imply an unfinished story. It also appears as if the green drape around the mistress's looking glass on her dressing table has been pulled to cover the glass entirely. Is her conscience so unsettled that she doesn't want to confront her own reflection?

One final thing to note: the large incense burner (the peculiar item on the tripod stand in the foreground) is smoking: richly, luxuriantly, fragrantly. And where's there's smoke....

So what story do you see when you look at this painting?

Above: An Elegant Interior with Two Ladies and a Gentleman by Louise Rolland Trinquess, 1776, The Wadsworth Atheneum.

A Parade of Potential Nursemaids, 1827

Susan reporting,

I recently spotted this amusing illustration on the Instagram account of Patrick Baty, an expert on the history of paint and colors (and a good friend of this blog), and he has graciously permitted me to share it with you here. It hasn't appeared anywhere else, because it's from his family papers, a drawing done by one of his ancestors to amuse the rest of the family. As always, click on the image to enlarge it.

The illustration is entitled Preparations for the Grand Review December 1827. Patrick describes it as a "piece of family satire. Drawn as a result of a letter from my 3rd great-grandmother, Elizabeth Susanna Graham, from Hove to the housekeeper at their London house. 'Get as many nurses as you can collect against our coming up' [was the order.] As Madame la Générale, she orders: 'Fall back there - eyes right.'"

To explain a bit more: moving a large family from one house in the country to another in London must have been a considerable challenge for Mrs. Graham in 1827. Here she stands, sword in hand and a feathered turban on her head, reviewing the possible nurses that have been gathered. Another lady (whose name I can't make out, but who is wearing an equally formidable hat) beats the drum and says "Rub a dub, rub a dub, who'll enlist?"

The nurses are a mixed assortment of women, wearing equally assorted attire. The caption in the upper left gives them each a brief statement, ranging from "I have a sweet voice & good lungs" to "I speak grammatically." Most poignant is the statement of the elderly woman who's first in line: "I have lived 50 years in my last place."

Whichever of the nurses is finally hired (perhaps all!), it's clear that there will be certain strict standards to maintain. The family carriage is fast approaching in the background, filled with heads that likely belong to the children, and flying a standard that proclaims "Perfection or death." I feel sorry for those nurses. . . .

Many thanks to Patrick Baty. His new book, The Anatomy of Color: The Story of Heritage Paints and Pigments, will be published this July.

Parisian Porters in 1835

Loretta reports:

As part of Avon’s Diamond Anniversary, they’re highlighting certain of their books, one a month. Since my historical romance, Lord of Scoundrels,* is being honored this month, I’ll be offering bits of related research.

One personage who appears in the first part of the book is the porter for the apartment building in Paris in which the heroine’s brother lives. The porter was the all-purpose servant for everybody in the building.

Porter of Paris

When I wrote the book, believe it or not, I had no access to the Internet. Google didn’t exist. My main source was Frances Trollope’s Paris and the Parisians in 1835.** As is often the case in travel writings, the author’s attitudes and prejudices color her observations. My English characters reflect some of these views, though I may tone them down a bit to accommodate my readers’ sensibilities. (In historical romance, it’s always a balancing act, on so many counts.)

Porter of Paris

In any case, as Ms Trollope makes clear, the position entailed a great deal more than that of the porter in a large English establishment, where many other servants, especially footmen, were available to perform various tasks.

Porter of Paris

You may wish to continue reading the chapter (just click on the link under the image and continue paging through): The author makes some interesting points about Parisian vs London modes of living.

If I understand correctly, the porter/concierge is still part of Parisian apartment life, albeit he/she seems to be a dying breed. Parisian readers, please feel free to chime in!

*EBook on sale this month for $1.99 (U.S. & Canada only, sorry!)

** From whom I’ve quoted before, here and here.

Porter of Paris image from James Jackson Jarves’ Parisian Sights and French Principles: Seen Through American Spectacles (1853)

Clicking on the image will enlarge it.  Clicking on the caption will take you to the source, where you can learn more and enlarge images as needed.

Laws regarding servants

Servant registry office

Loretta reports:

On many occasions, we’ve talked about servants’ work and the cost of keeping them (here, here, here, here—and more if you click on the "servants" label at right).

What many of us are not aware of are the various laws enacted to protect servant as well as master.

Very likely, at least a few items on these pages will surprise some of our readers.  They certainly surprised me.  Masters did not have quite the power one would expect.  Notice how many decisions about employees needed to be brought before magistrates.  This might have been a mere formality, magistrates usually being people of some standing in a community and likely to take the employer’s side.  All the same, it’s interesting to discover that servants as well as master had some protection.  And please do note the paragraph dealing with pregnant servants.

Laws re servants

 —The Servant's Guide and Family Manual  (1831)

Image: Thomas Rowlandson, Register office for the hiring of servants (ca 1800-1805) courtesy Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.

From the archives: What's at the Makeup Counter in the 1820s

With deadlines looming, we've pulled this post from our archives to share again.

Loretta reports:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouse fur eyebrows not included.

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

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

Infant Care in 1831

La Belle Assemblée 1830

Loretta reports: 

~~~

THE NURSERY.

Early Care of Infants.  Among the first precautions are the following:-

Every symptom of approaching disease should be watched and reported to the parents or medical attendant of the family; and, in this respect nothing should be concealed or deferred till remedies are too late.

In the daily washings, the state of the skin should be examined and noticed, as well as the tongue, and the appetite, and spirits; and, above all things, all chances of accident, or juvenile mischief, should be guarded against and removed.

Windows should be fenced with bars, or the lower sashes nailed down; knives and sharp instruments should be kept out of reach; scalding water and dangerous ingredients secured from access; ponds and rivers fenced in; ladders removed; and fireplaces guarded by well-fastened wire fenders.

The water for washing the infant, the first month after its birth, should be tepid; its being quite cold is improper, except in very warm weather. It should be free from brandy, or any ardent spirit, which nurses are generally accustomed to use: pure water only should be allowed, as spirits have quite the opposite effect of producing warmth. An infant should never be allowed to get chilled before it is washed.

No part of the management of the infant can produce the same good effect, as its having a due portion of sleep: this is in compliance with Nature's laws. Infants should never be laid down on their backs after going to sleep; the superfluous quantity of saliva in the mouth, while cutting the teeth, is so considerably increased, that it cannot be discharged when they are in that situation, but must necessarily fall into the stomach so as to cause disease. The best plan is to lay them down on their side alternately.

The frequent use of soothing medicines, as American Soothing Syrup, Godfrey's Cordial,* or Dalby's Carminative,* should be guarded against. Opium, in every form, weakens the infant, and brings on the most distressing diseases.

Dalby's Carminative

Godfrey's Cordial

—The Servant's Guide and Family Manual, 1831

*See here (1835) and here (1970)

What the Stable-Boy Wore, c. 1765

Isabella reporting,

Thanks to our friends in the historic trades program in Colonial Williamsburg, we've seen what several ordinary women might have worn in 18th c. England and North America, including a housewife, a mantua-maker's apprentice, and a blacksmith. Today we're outfitting some of the male servants in a wealthy household: the grooms and stable-boys who looked after the horses and carriages.

This stable jacket is a reproduction based on original garments, cut, tailored, and stitched entirely by hand. It's one of the first projects for the shop by apprentice tailor Michael McCarty, who is also shown wearing the jacket. It's made from red and white striped twilled woolen, cut with the stripes running horizontally, and lined in cotton fustian that is napped on one side for additional warmth. The buttons are wrapped thread, red and white to coordinate with the striped fabric.

While servants who worked outside the house did not wear livery, the master usually provided smart stable jackets like this one  as a kind of uniform for his grooms and stable-boys, and to reflect well on the household in general.  The jackets are often seen in the paintings by English artist George Stubbs (1724-1806.). Here's an excellent example: Lord Torrington's Hunt Servants Setting out from Southill, c. 1765-8.

Stable jackets were closely tailored to the body, with the narrow shoulders typical of 18th c. gentleman's coats. Yet as Michael demonstrated to me, there was still plenty of room for the movement necessary for work in the stables. While this is long before the ease of Lycra, the sleeves are cut on the bias (the diagonal), which provides a woven stretch to the fabric. The jacket's cuffs, below right, are cut on the straight of the grain to keep the bias-cut sleeves from stretching out of shape.

Stable jackets could be worn either simply over a shirt, or as a warmer waistcoat with sleeves beneath another coat.  They were also occasionally tucked into to breeches, giving the jacket the cropped look that often appears in paintings of jockeys.

But just as modern young bankers will affect cowboy boots or heavy overalls on the weekend, "buckish" young gentlemen in the 18th c. wore stable jackets, too – albeit bespoke versions from their London tailors. They were particularly popular with sporting gentlemen with a love of racing, expensive horses, and gambling.

The photograph, top, recreates a classic Stubbs pose, with Michael dressed as a stable-boy, wearing the stable jacket, linen shirt, sheepskin breeches, and a round cap. The gentleman on the horse is interpreter/actor Mark Schneider (and another of our CW friends - remember him here with Loretta? ), and the horse is Toby, also a CW employee.

Many thanks to Michael McCarty and Mark Hutter for their help with this post, as well as the photographs here. For more pictures of the stable jacket, see the tailors' Facebook page - and please give them a "like" while you're there.

What the Maidservant Wore, c 1770

Isabella/Susan reporting:

We've seen what a stylish British mantua-maker's apprentice might wear in the shop in the 1770s, what a female blacksmith or other laboring woman might wear at her work, and, what, too, a housewife might wear as she went about her day. Now Abby Cox, one of our knowledgable friends from Colonial Williamsburg, shows us what a woman in domestic service might wear. (Her clothes are modern replicas, not 18th c originals, but cut and sewn entirely by hand in true 18th c fashion.)

Uniforms for female servants were a 19th c. innovation. While Georgian-era male servants were often provided with livery, their female counterparts - whether at the top of the servant-ladder as ladies' maids or lowly maids-of-all-work - were expected to provide their own clothing from their meager wages. They were also expected to dress in a manner that was modest, fit for their station, tidy, and clean. Samuel Johnson noted that "women servants. though obliged to be at the expense of the purchasing their own clothes, have much lower wages than men servants, to whom a great proportion of that article is furnished, and when in fact our female house servants work much harder than the male."

Here Abby is wearing an untrimmed English-style gown of a woven striped cotton. The gown has inverted back pleats to shape the waist, and is worn over a plain dark linen petticoat (the under-skirt) and a white linen apron. She has looped her skirts up both to help keep them clean, and to mimic the elaborate skirts of more fashionable gowns - though the effect in the soft cotton fabric lacks the exuberance of poufs of crisp, costly silk.

She also wears white thread stockings, low-heeled buckled shoes, and a linen kerchief tucked around her shoulders. Beneath her gown, her figure is shaped by her stays (corset), which every respectable young woman would wear - see here for more about her stays. Her only indulgence is her cap, ruffled white cotton trimmed with a silk ribbon. While Abby's dress is suitable for a servant, it could be equally worn by a young woman working in a tavern or shop, or simply at home.

Like nearly all 18th c women's clothing, regardless of cost, Abby's gown is pinned closed in front (see detail, left). While men's clothing fastened with buttons and ties, women pinned their clothes together with straight pins; the points of the pins were safely buried in the multiple layers of gown and stays. Pinning was not only a neat finish, but also offered an endless, practical range of adjustments to a woman's changing body.

Photographs by Susan Holloway Scott. Many thanks to Abby Cox for being our maid servant!

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

Susan reporting:

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to subscribe to the Minerva Library in 1807

Loretta reports:

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Footman

Loretta reports:

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

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

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

~~~

More on footmen here & here.

What's at the makeup counter in the 1820s

Loretta reports:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouse fur eyebrows not included.

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

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

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

Susan reporting:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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