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A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hairdressing

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Portrait of Evelyn Nesbit, 1900.

I have a new article out today over at the English Historical Fiction Authors’ blog!  If you would like to learn more about Victorian era hairdressing, including the basics of false hair, curling tongs, and hairstyles such as basket plaits and the Gibson Girl, do stop by and have a look at my new post: A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hairdressing.  You can click straight through to my article HERE.



Cat Funerals in the Victorian Era

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Inconsolable Grief by Ivan Kramskoi, 1884.

During the early 19th century, it was not uncommon for the mortal remains of a beloved pet cat to be buried in the family garden.  By the Victorian era, however, the formality of cat funerals had increased substantially.  Bereaved pet owners commissioned undertakers to build elaborate cat caskets.  Clergymen performed cat burial services.  And stone masons chiseled cat names on cat headstones.  Many in society viewed these types of ceremonies as no more than an amusing eccentricity of the wealthy or as yet another odd quirk of the elderly spinster.  Others were deeply offended that an animal of any kind should receive a Christian burial. 

In March of 1894, several British newspapers reported the story of a Kensington lady “of distinction” who held a funeral for her cat, Paul.  An article on the subject in the Cheltenham Chronicle states:

“Except that the Church did not lend its sanction, the function was conducted quite as if it had been the interment of a human person of some importance.  A respectable undertaker was called in, and instructed to conduct the funeral in the ordinary way; the body was to be enclosed in a shell which would go inside a fine oak coffin.  There were the usual trappings, including a plate on which was inscribed the statement that ‘Paul’ had for seventeen years been the beloved and faithful cat of Miss —, who now mourned his loss in suitable terms.  The coffin, with a lovely wreath on it, was displayed in the undertaker’s shop, where it was an object of intense interest and not a little amusement.”

Though Paul’s burial service was not sanctioned by the Church, this did not stop other cat funerals from adopting a religious tone.  An 1897 edition of the Hull Daily Mail reports the story of a clergyman who held a funeral for his cat.  This particular cat is described as an obese, black and white female who was known to go for walks with her master.  Upon her death, the clergyman and his household were “thrown into mourning.”  The Hull Daily Mail reports:

“For three days pussy, whose remains were placed with loving care in a beautiful brass-bound oaken coffin, with inner linings of silk and wool, lay in state in the drawing-room.  At the termination of this period, the rev. gentleman hired a cab, drove to the station, and took a train for the North, bearing with him the oak coffin and the precious remains.  Where the funeral took place seems to be somewhat of a mystery – at least there are conflicting accounts – but of one thing people seem to be certain.  The ceremonial respect which had been accorded to the deceased was maintained to the last, and the burial service, or part thereof, was recited at pussy’s grave.”

The majority of historical reports on cat funerals from the Victorian era are recounted with humor.  Others show a darker response to pet burials.  A September 1885 article in the Edinburgh Evening News relates the story of an “old old woman” in Abercromby Street intent on giving her deceased cat, Tom, a “decent burial.”  She applied to the local undertaker to build Tom a suitable coffin and employed a gravedigger, by the name of Jamie, to dig a grave for Tom in the local burying ground.  As the article states:

“…the funeral, which took place in the afternoon yesterday, was largely attended.  Miss — carried the coffin, and on the way to the graveyard the crowd of youngsters who followed became exceedingly noisy, and being apprehensive that the affair would end in a row, ‘Jamie’ closed the iron gate with the view of preventing any but a select few from entering.  The crowd, however, became even more excited, scaled the wall, hooting and yelling vociferously, crying that it was a shame and a disgrace to bury a cat like a Christian.”

Sorrow by Émile Friant, 1898.

Sorrow by Émile Friant, 1898.

Whether this uproar was truly a result of outrage over Tom being buried “like a Christian” or simply an excuse for rowdy youths to misbehave is unclear.  Regardless, the results of the riot that ensued were exceedingly unpleasant for Tom’s elderly, bereaved owner.  The Edinburgh Evening News reports:

“The coffin was afterwards smashed, and the body of the cat taken out, and ultimately the uproar became so great that the police had to be called to protect the gravedigger and the old lady.  The latter managed to get hold of the dead body of Tom, and with the assistance of Constables Johnston and Smith escaped into a house in the neighborhood, where she remained for some time.  In Abercromby Street, where she resides, a number of policemen had to be kept on duty till a late hour in order to protect her from the violence of the crowd.”

Perhaps the main cause of outrage lies in the fact that Tom’s owner was attempting to bury a cat in the human graveyard.  This was not an uncommon complaint.  Many graveyards did not allow pets to be buried in consecrated ground.  As a result, pet cemeteries were established.  One of the most well-known was the Hyde Park Dog Cemetery, opened in 1881.  As the name denotes, this was primarily a burial ground for dogs.  However, according to author Gordon Stables (qtd. in Animal Death 22), the cemetery also admitted the corpses of “three small monkeys, and two cats.”

Other pet cemeteries existed throughout Victorian England, both public and private.  The pet cemetery at the Essex seat of Sir Thomas Lennard had pet monuments dating as far back as the 1850s.  While the pet cemetery at Edinburgh Castle originated as a burial place for 19th century regimental mascots and officers’ dogs.  And I would be remiss if I did not mention author Thomas Hardy, who had a pet cemetery at his home at Max Gate in Dorchester in which all but one of the headstones were carved with the famous novelist’s own hands.

Unsurprisingly, the majority of headstones and monuments in pet cemeteries of that era are for dogs.  Dogs were incredibly popular pets during the 19th century.  They were typically viewed as selfless, devoted friends and guardians.  While cats were, to some extent, still seen as sly, self-serving opportunists (for more on this, see my article Peter Parley Presents the Treacherous 19th Century Cat).  In addition, as author Laurel Hunt points out in her book, Angel Pawprints:

“Queen Victoria’s fondness for dogs strengthened their role as companions in the Victorian era.”

This bias in favor of dogs had no effect on Victorian cat fanciers whatsoever.  Cat funerals continued to take place with just as much pomp and ceremony as dog funerals.  The public reaction to both was very much the same – amusement, outrage, and occasionally scorn.  One of my favorite examples of the latter is from an article in an 1880 edition of the Portsmouth Evening News which reports on a lady who sent out “black-edged funeral cards” upon the death of her dog.  As a sort of disclaimer, the article states:

“It is superfluous to affirm that the owner of that lamented Fido is a maiden lady.”

It does seem that a great many reports of pet funerals in the 19th century news involve some stereotypical variety of spinster – the Victorian cat (or dog) lady, if you will.  Though humorous, I do not believe this was the norm.  The simple fact is that, throughout history, there have been people who have grieved at the loss of their pets.  During the Victorian era, this grief took shape in elaborate pet funerals.  For cats, who were still persecuted in so many ways, these ceremonies strike me as especially poignant.

Elizabeth Platonovna Yaroshenko by Nikolai Yaroshenko, 1880.

Elizabeth Platonovna Yaroshenko by Nikolai Yaroshenko, 1880.

I close this article with poet Clinton Scollard’s 1893 elegy for his cat, Peter.  In her book Concerning Cats (1900), author Helen Winslow claims that this tribute to a deceased cat is the “best ever written.”  I’ll let you be the judge.

GRIMALKIN.
AN ELEGY ON PETER, AGED 12.

In vain the kindly call: in vain

The plate for which thou once wast fain

At morn and noon and daylight’s wane,

O King of mousers.

No more I hear thee purr and purr

As in the frolic days that were,

When thou didst rub thy velvet fur

Against my trousers.

How empty are the places where

Thou erst wert frankly debonair,

Nor dreamed a dream of feline care,

A capering kitten.

The sunny haunts where, grown a cat,

You pondered this, considered that,

The cushioned chair, the rug, the mat,

By firelight smitten.

Although of few thou stoodst in dread,

How well thou knew a friendly tread,

And what upon thy back and head

The stroking hand meant.

A passing scent could keenly wake

Thy eagerness for chop or steak,

Yet, Puss, how rarely didst thou break

The eighth commandment.

Though brief thy life, a little span

Of days compared with that of man,

The time allotted to thee ran

In smoother metre.

Now with the warm earth o’er thy breast,

O wisest of thy kind and best,

Forever mayst thou softly rest,

In pace, Peter.

In Memoriam by Alfred Stevens, (1823-1906).

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like help a cat in need, either by providing a home or by donating your time or money, the following links may be useful as resources:

Alley Cat Rescue, Inc. (United States)

The Cats Protection League (United Kingdom)


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Animal Death.  Ed. Jay Johnston and Fiona Probyn-Rapsey.  Sydney: Sydney University Press, 2006.

“A Cat’s Funeral.”  Edinburgh Evening News.  September 17, 1885.

“A Cat’s Funeral.”  Hull Daily Mail.  April 1, 1897.

“A Cat’s Funeral.”  Rhyl Record and Advertiser.  February 25, 1899.

“A Dog’s Funeral.”  Portsmouth Evening News.  August 17, 1880.

Hunt, Laurel E.  Angel Pawprints: Reflections on Loving and Losing a Canine Companion.  New York: Hyperion, 1998.

“A Kensington Cat’s Funeral.”  Sheffield Daily Telegraph.  March 5, 1894.

“A Pets’ Cemetery.”  Dover Express.  September 8, 1898.

“Pussy Buried with Pomp.”  Cheltenham Chronicle.  March 10, 1894.

Scollard, Clinton.  “Grimalkin: An Elegy on Peter, Aged 12.”  The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine.  Vol. XLVI.  May.  1893.

Wallis, Steve.  Thomas Hardy’s Dorset Through Time.  Stroud: Amberley Publishing, 2013.

Winslow, Helen Maria.  Concerning Cats.  Boston: Lothrop Publishing, 1900.


 © 2015 Mimi Matthews

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The 1860s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

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1860s in Fashionable Gowns Collage

Individual Images of Gowns via Met Museum

The 1860s was the most significant decade in 19th century women’s fashion.  It began with skirts having reached their maximum size of the century and ended with the yards of fabric that had once been draped over enormous wire crinolines being drawn to the back and draped over a wire bustle.  This was a dramatic change in silhouette, further accentuated by the popularity of tightly laced corsets and the gradual raising of hemlines to expose a lady’s feet – and her ankles! 

This was also the decade of the American Civil War.  It had no direct effect on the evolution of fashionable dresses, however, in consideration of reenactors (many of whom make their own costumes), I’ve included extra images in this article.  As a result, it may be a bit longer than previous installments in this series.

*Please note: These are primarily visual guides – fashion CliffsNotes, if you will.  For more in depth information, please consult the recommended links.  

1860

Beginning the decade, the majority of gowns were now machine made and, thanks to the invention of aniline dyes, fabrics came in a new range of colors, including mauve and magenta.  Meanwhile, crinolines were at their absolute largest.  Hemlines could be as much as 10 to 15 feet in circumference.

1860 American or European Cotton Gown,
(Image via Met Museum)

Although large skirts were still all the rage, the first signs of change were beginning to be visible.  According to fashion historian C. Willett Cunnington, skirts were now very slightly gored on each side.  This goring had the effect of flattening the front.  The new shape was relatively subtle, but it nonetheless necessitated that crinolines be altered to fit.  Addressing this change in undergarments, an article in the 1860 edition of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports that “the best people” preferred “the trailing bell shape” of wire crinoline.

In the below side view of an 1860-1865 gown, you can clearly see the change in shape as the fabric of the skirts flattens in the front and “trails” in the back.

1860-65 Silk Dress with Mother-of-Pearl Spangles.(image via Met Museum)

1860-65 American Silk Dress with Mother-of-Pearl Spangles.
(Image via Met Museum)

There was not a great deal of change in the area of sleeves in 1860.  Pagoda sleeves with puffed undersleeves were still widely worn, as were close fitting long sleeves that ended at the wrist.  The latter type of sleeve is shown in the below image of a gown from 1860-1865.  The side image of this gown also shows the subtle change in the shape of the skirts.

1860-65 Morning Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1860-65 Morning Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1861

Moving into 1861, hemlines were made shorter in the front to allow for freedom of movement when walking.  Skirts, though still very full, continued to drift toward the back of the gown.  An 1861 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book explains:

“…three points of gores are added at the bottom of the under skirt, one between the widths at each side, and one behind.  These points make the lower part of the skirt spread well, and form a train.”

Nyaste Journal för Damer, 1861.

When it came to fabrics, the ladies of 1861 were rather spoiled for choice.  For daywear, there were terry velvets and poplins.  While for eveningwear, Godey’s declares:

“For young ladies, thulle [sic], white and colored crape, gauze, tarleton, and other diaphanous fabrics, are the most suitable.  Still, the rich silks in stripes of contrasting high colors, in moire, and particularly watered silks, in stripes of large and small waves, or brocaded silks with plain grounds, and Jacquarded figures, seem to be most sought after.”

Chevron Organdy Dress, Godey's Lady's Book, 1861.

Chevron Organdy Dress,
Godey’s Lady’s Book, 1861.

Striped fabrics were particularly popular, with Godey’s reporting:

“The novelty of the season is the Chevron dress…This dress has diagonal stripes of rose de chine, about an inch and a half in width, meeting in the centre of the breadth, and between these stripes are bouquets of roses with their foliage, which has a charming effect.  We have had this design in silk, but this is the first appearance of diagonal stripes on muslin.”

Solid color fabrics had not fallen completely by the wayside.  In fact, when trimmed with rich lace, silk fringe, or other embellishments, they could still be quite striking.  A perfect example of this is the 1861 lace-trimmed, black silk dress below.  Note that the skirt is drawing toward the back.  It even has a stylish bow where, in future, the bustle will be.

1861 French Silk Dress.(Image viaMet Museum)

1861 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1861 French Silk Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1861 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1862

Proceeding into 1862, skirts were still the primary focus.  However, instead of directing their attention to the size of their crinolines, Cunnington reports that English ladies were more interested in displaying their petticoats.  He writes:

“The coloured petticoat was far too ravishing to remain hid, so that the device of the hitched-up skirt became common.”

December 1861 and February 1862 Gowns with Petticoats, Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine Illustrations.

Gowns with Colored Petticoats,
Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, Dec. 1861 & Feb. 1862.

Tightly fitting jackets, especially Spanish bolero jackets, were very much in style and many fashion plates of the day show gowns with voluminous skirts, narrow waists, and buttoned up bodices topped with smart little coats.  The below 1862 French silk gown is one example of this fashion.

1862 French Silk Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1862 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

An article in the 1862 edition of the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine reports that simplicity was the order of the day when it came to traveling clothes, seaside wear, and country fashions.  Trimmings were spare, but elegant and, as the article states:

“Any young lady industriously inclined could, at a very trifling cost, arrange for herself a pretty sea-side costume, by purchasing a few yards of piqué or alpaca, and some narrow black worsted braid.”

The below image of an 1862 American cotton promenade dress illustrates this principle perfectly.  It is both simple and elegant and is an ideal ensemble for the seaside.

1862-64 American Cotton Promenade Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1862-64 American Cotton Promenade Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1862-64 American Cotton Promenade Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1862-64 American Cotton Promenade Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1863

Advancing into 1863, the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine reports that “fancy jackets and waistcoats appear to be more in vogue than ever.”  Addressing popular colors, the magazine states:

“The following colours are destined to be very fashionable: —Mexican blue, nankeen, dove-colour, Chinese green, with varieties of purple, and all shades of grey and of buff, and such undefined tints”

The below gown in a lovely shade of blue is one example of the fashionable shape and color of dresses in 1863.

1863 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

This very pretty green gown is another example of the rich colors popular that year, as well as of the shape.

1863 American Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

According to the 1863 edition of the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, dresses were made longer “with perfect trains behind.”  The below images show the side view of the green and blue gowns above.  You can clearly see the beginnings of the bustle shape that would eventually overtake the crinoline silhouette.

1863 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1863 American Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1864

The fashions in 1864 did not change greatly from the previous year.  Skirts were now heavily gored.  Jackets and waistcoats continued to be very popular.  And for daywear, sleeves were long and shaped to the arm.

Le Journal des Dames et des Demoiselles, 1864.

Le Journal des Dames et des Demoiselles, 1864.

For eveningwear, sleeves were short and bodices were cut low off the shoulders.  Ball gowns were often trimmed with tulle and lace on the neckline and sleeves, as seen in the below image.

1864 French Silk Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1864 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

As for the length of hemlines, the 1864 edition of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports:

“Skirts are made quite short in front, and all the fullness is thrown to the back, which is made very long.”

The front of the skirts continued to flatten as the bulk of the fabric moved toward the back.  This is plainly visible in the purple dress below.

1863-65 American Silk Visiting Dress. (Image via Met Museum)

1863-65 American Silk Visiting Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Colors were vibrant even in daywear.  A striking example of this can be seen in the below image of a rich green silk taffeta dress.

1860s Silk Taffetta Dress.(Image via Kent State Museum)

1860s Silk Taffetta Dress.
(Image via Kent State Museum)

With more fabric at the back of the gown, the train grew longer, pooling on the floor behind.  You can see examples of this in the below images which show side views of the purple and green gowns above.

1863-65 American Silk Visiting Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1860s Silk Taffetta Dress.(Image via Kent State Museum)

1860s Silk Taffetta Dress.
(Image via Kent State Museum)

1865

By the spring of 1865, fashion magazines were foretelling the end of the crinoline.  An April article published in the 1865 edition of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports:

“It is said that a radical change is soon to take place in fashions.  Crinoline is to be discarded, skirts to be gored almost tight to the figure, and very short.  Waists are also to be short, and heart-shaped in front, and worn with wide belts and large buckles.  We give this merely as an on dit; we think the costumes of our grandmothers are not likely to be adopted very soon by us.”

In fact, by the close of the year, the most fashionable ladies in society had abandoned the crinoline in favor of gored horsehair petticoats.  For the average lady of style, however, crinolines were still generally worn.  This did not prevent the continued change in silhouette.  For example, in the below image of a white satin ball dress trimmed with ribbons, you can see how the majority of flounces and adornment are toward the back of the dress.

1865 French Women's Evening Dress.(Image via MFA Boston)

1865 French Women’s Evening Dress.
(Image via MFA Boston)

On some gowns, the elaborate trim on the skirts foreshadowed the heavy tassels and fringe that would come to adorn the bustled gowns at the end of the decade.  We get a glimpse of this in the breathtaking 1865 silk ball gown below.

1865 French Silk Ball Gown.(Image via Met Museum)

1865 French Silk Ball Gown.
(Image via Met Museum)

Not all dresses were as heavily embellished.  Many day dresses, like the lovely silk taffeta gown below, remained relatively simple.

1865 Blue Silk Taffeta Day Dress.(Image via Kyoto Costume Institute)

1865 Blue Silk Taffeta Day Dress.
(Image via Kyoto Costume Institute)

1866

Entering 1866, Cunnington reports that “the principle of two colours in one dress is further developed.”  While the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine states:

“The one universal law imposed by fashion at present is that of the gored skirt.  It gives great elegance to the figure, throwing all the fullness of the dress to the back, so as to form a graceful train, while in front the dress is quite plain, and short enough to let the feet show.”

The below image of an 1866 afternoon dress illustrates both the fashion in contrasting colors as well as the current style in long, graceful trains.

1866 French Silk Afternoon Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Though trimmed out less than the train, the front of the gown was not always completely devoid of adornment.  An example of this can be seen in the below front facing image of the same afternoon dress shown above.

1866 French Silk Afternoon Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1866 French Silk Afternoon Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

The fashion for hitching up skirts to reveal a decorative petticoat had generally fallen out of favor by the end of 1866.  However, some examples of it can still be seen in both British and American fashion magazines of that year.  The below image is from the 1866 Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  It is particularly interesting because of the almost Steampunk-style way the overskirt of the morning promenade dress on the far left is hitched up with metal buckles.  As the accompanying description reads:

“A dress of grey poplin or gros-grain silk, looped up with tirettes composed of velvet and steel, and fastened with steel buckles.”

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, 1866.

For evening dresses, Cunnington reports that bodices were cut very low off the shoulders, with “shoulder straps or bows of ribbon.”  Sleeves grew smaller and, in some ball gowns, appeared to disappear altogether.  Many gowns sported a close-fitting belt or a ribbon sash.  In the below image of an 1866 silk taffeta evening dress, you can see how the ribbon at the waist is tied in a large bow at the back, emphasizing the increased size of the skirts at the back of the gown.

1866 Striped Silk Taffeta Evening Dress. (Image via Kyoto Costume Institute)

1866 Striped Silk Taffeta Evening Dress.
(Image via Kyoto Costume Institute)

1867

At the beginning of the year, the 1867 edition of Godey’s Lady’s Book pronounced:

“The fiat has gone forth — short dresses are to be fashionable, and hoops are to be reduced in size.  Already do we see a number of short-skirted, collapsed individuals perambulating our streets, but so far the custom is not general.  It is, however, struggling hard for supremacy, which it is bound ere long to obtain.”

1867-69 French Silk Gown.(Image via Met Museum)

1867-69 French Silk Gown.
(Image via Met Museum)

However, with long skirts, Godey’s concedes that “ample crinoline must of course be worn, to give a graceful sweep to the dress.

1867-69 French Silk Gown.(Image via Met Museum)

1867-69 French Silk Gown.
(Image via Met Museum)

There were those who still clung to their crinolines, but in fashionable capitols like Paris and London, most of the stylish female denizens embraced the new silhouette.

1867 French Silk Visiting Dress.( Image via Met Museum)

1867 French Silk Visiting Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

With tight fitting, buttoned bodices, sleeves shaped to the arms, and skirts artfully draped behind, the new style in gowns, such as the French silk visiting dress shown above and below, emphasized a lady’s assets in a way that the previous years of crinoline had failed to do.  Cunnington refers to this new era in fashion as the “Epoch of Curves,” writing:

“We perceive, in this year, the different methods by which the curve is about to be exploited as a device of sexual attraction.  The bulk of the dress moves further and further to the rear, taking on an undulating shape.”

1867 French Silk Visiting Dress.(Image Met Museum)

1867 French Silk Visiting Dress.
(Image Met Museum)

1868

1868 ushered in what is commonly known as the “first bustle era.”  As for the crinoline, Cunnington reports:

“…the crinoline is now small and hooped only behind and at the bottom, becoming, in fact, a crinolette.”

Le Journal des Dames et des Demoiselles, 1868.

Le Journal des Dames et des Demoiselles, 1868.

Day dresses were now categorized into morning and afternoon costume.  According to the 1868 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book:

“For morning wear, dresses are mostly made high in the throat, but for afternoon toilette they are made as described, or with square neck, when a fichu is not worn.”

Day dresses had shorter skirts and did not have a train.  The Metropolitan Museum classifies the below dress as an afternoon dress, however, given the style of the skirts, I am inclined to think that it is actually a morning gown.

Late 1860s Silk Afternoon Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

Late 1860s Silk Afternoon Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Afternoon costumes generally had a train and were appropriate for a variety of activities, including, as Cunnington explains, “carriage, flower shows, concerts, and similar occasions.”

1868 American Silk Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1868 American Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Trains were embellished with pleats, ribbons, bows, silk fringe, tassels, and decorative buttons.  The below image shows the train of the same dress as above.  You can see the dramatic effect achieved by heavy fringe and a few artfully placed bows.

1868 American Silk Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1868 American Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Gowns in two contrasting solid colors were still quite popular.  Often, the sole contrast was in the trim, with ribbons, bows, and fringe being a different color from the body of the gown.  As you can see in the below images of an 1868 silk taffeta day dress, the effect of this contrast could be quite delicate and lovely.

1868 Women's Dress Ensemble.(Image via LACMA)

1868 Women’s Dress Ensemble.
(Image via LACMA)

1868 Women's Dress Ensemble.(Image via LACMA)

1868 Women’s Dress Ensemble.
(Image via LACMA)

1869

Closing out the decade, an article in the 1869 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports that, short skirts suitable for walking were “the only dress worn in the promenade.”

Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine, 1869.

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, 1869.

As for trains, Godey’s states that, though the length of fabric in a gown’s train was the same as the previous year (generally eighty inches from waist to the floor), trains appeared to be longer than ever, owing to the way fabric was draped over the hoops in the crinolette.

1869 American or European Silk Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1869 American or European Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Further enhancing the shape of a lady’s gowns, Godey’s describes the new style of structural undergarment:

“A skirt of hair-cloth gored and trained, with three deep flounces on all but the front width, is by many substituted for the steel spring skirts.”

1869 American or European Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

The previous years in women’s fashion had been almost exclusively focused on the skirts, but by 1869 attention was drawing upward.  Bodices of gowns were now heavily adorned, corsets were very tightly laced, and, according to Cunnington, there was “a prevalence of huge sash bows” at the back.  Not all gowns were made of heavy fabric trimmed with fringe and bows, however.  For spring and summer, cotton was still quite popular and, when made in the new style, managed to look very sweet and pretty.  The below gown is an 1869 cotton muslin summer day dress.

1869 Cotton Muslin Summer Day Dress.( Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

1869 Cotton Muslin Summer Day Dress.
(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

One recurring criticism in the final years of the decade was that elements of current fashion mimicked fashions from the court of Louis XV of France.  In fact, by 1869, Cunnington states that lady’s fashions were a “frank revival” of the styles in the Louis XV period.  As a frame of reference, below is the back view of a gown from 1745.

Court dress, Reign of Louis XV, 1745.(Image via Claremont Colleges Digital Library)

Court dress, Reign of Louis XV, 1745.
(Image via Claremont Colleges Digital Library)

A suitable coda to this transitional decade in 19th century fashion is provided by C. Willett Cunnington – who, incidentally, appears to become a bit more cynical and more than slightly misogynistic as the decades progress.  Addressing himself to the new, curvaceous silhouette in gowns, he writes:

“Above all, every device is employed to emphasise the diminutive waist.  It was determined, in short, that the new weapon for man’s undoing should be the curve, of all weapons perhaps the least original but the most effective.”

IN CLOSING…

I hope you have found the above overview to be helpful in navigating your way through the gowns of the 1860s.  Again, I remind you that this is just a brief, primarily visual, guide.  If you would like to know more about the changes in fashion during the 1860s, I encourage you to consult a reliable reference book.  The following links may provide a starting point:

Nineteenth Century Fashion in Detail by Lucy Johnston

Fashion: The Definitive History of Costume and Style by DK Publishing

English Women’s Clothing in the Nineteenth Century by C. Willett Cunnington

For a refresher on the decades we have already covered, the previous articles in my series on 19th century gowns are available here:

The Evolution of the 19th Century Gown: A Visual Guide

The 1820s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

The 1830s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

The 1840s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

The 1850s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Cunnington, C. Willett.  English Women’s Clothing in the Nineteenth Century.  London: Faber and Faber Ltd., 1939.

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  Vol. I.  London: S. O. Beeton, 1860.

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  Vol. IV.  London: S. O. Beeton, 1861.

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  Vol. V.  London: S. O. Beeton, 1862.

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  Vol. VI.  London: S. O. Beeton, 1863.

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  Vol. I.  London: S. O. Beeton, 1866.

Fashion: The Definitive History to Costume and Style.  New York: DK Publishing, 2012.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 60-61.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1860.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 62-63.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1861.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 64.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1862.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 68.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1864.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 70-71.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1865.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 72-73.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1866.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 74-75.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1867.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 77.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1868.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 78-79.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1869.

The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion.  London: William Stevens, 1866.


  © 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Deerhounds of Windsor Great Park

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Hector, Nero, and Dash with the parrot, Lory by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1838.
(Royal Collection Trust)

In his 1825 novel, The Talisman, Sir Walter Scott famously refers to the Scottish Deerhound as “a most perfect creature of heaven.”  A truly noble and majestic breed, the purebred Scottish or “Scotch” Deerhound was a rarity outside of Scotland throughout much of the 19th century.  Those that did reside in England lived under the auspices of Queen Victoria.  Early in her reign, she had a favorite Scottish Deerhound named Hector (seen in the above portrait by Landseer).  By the 1870s, there were several Scottish Deerhounds at Windsor Great Park.  And by the end of the century, the Scottish Deerhound Club was established under the queen’s patronage.   

According to an article in an 1870 edition of The Graphic, the Deerhounds at Windsor Great Park were “the only true Deerhounds in England.”  They were employed at Windsor for catching fawns and for assisting in the capture of  red deer that would be sent on to Swinley Paddock for stag hunting.  On occasion, they were even used to “secure the wounded deer that had got away.”  As the article reports:

“Like all pure-bred dogs they are obedient to the voice of the keeper, and do their work in an intelligent and orderly way, as befits dogs of genteel education, and they take to their business naturally like hereditary legislators.”

Not all of the Deerhounds at Windsor Great Park were natural born hunters.  According to the article, deer hunting was done by “sight and not scent” and, in some young dogs, the instinct was slow to develop.  One particular Scottish Deerhound at Windsor, who went on to become “a first-rate dog,” refused to follow his “natural vocation” until he was two years old.

Bran, Illustration from Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters, 1894.

Hoping to improve the breed, Mr. Cole, the head deer and gamekeeper at Windsor Great Park, frequently crossed the Scottish Deerhounds in residence with other breeds of dogs.  As the article in The Graphic reports:

“A very useful cross is obtained with a good big greyhound, but after the first cross the quality deteriorates.  Useful crosses are also obtained with the Talbot, or so-called bloodhound, the mastiff, Cuba mastiff, bulldog, foxhound, and the colley [sic].” 

A decade later, an even better cross was to be achieved.  In 1880, the Russian Czar made a gift to Queen Victoria of two “magnificent Russian wolfhounds.”  In his 1894 book Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters, author George Cupples writes:

“…after which — by Mr. Cole at Windsor Great Park, and by the head forester at Balmoral — the said ‘breeding expedient’ was begun and continued, with a decisive success that has been often manifested since then in the deer-stalking feats which dogs of this strain have performed under H.R.H. the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh, when engaged in Highland forest-sport.”

The Graphic, April 2, 1870.

The above illustration depicts the Scottish Deerhounds who lived at Windsor Great Park in 1870.  The Graphic lists their names as follows:

“The large hound in the foreground to the right, is Caird, the sitting hound facing him is Mark, the other hounds at the back, beginning at the right hand, are Strath, Hag, Swankey, and Keildar.  Of these Caird, Hag, and Keildar, are winners of prizes at various shows.”

Despite its increase in popularity, the Scottish Deerhound was never as common in Victorian England as other hunting breeds, such as the Foxhound or the Greyhound.  Throughout the century, it remained an elegant, noble creature, more likely to be possessed by royalty or those in the upper echelons of society than by the average huntsman.

Lufra, Illustration from Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters, 1894.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to learn more about Scottish Deerhounds or would like to adopt a Scottish Deerhound of your own, the following links may be useful as resources:

Scottish Deerhound Club of America (United States)

The Deerhound Club (United Kingdom)


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Cupples, George.  Scotch Deerhounds and their Masters.  Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons, 1894.

Dalziel, Hugh.  British Dogs.  Vol. I.  London: L. Upcott Gill, 1888.

“Deerhounds.”  The Graphic.  April 2, 1870.

Scott, Sir Walter.  The Novels and Poems of Sir Walter Scott.  Boston: Estes and Lauriat, 1894.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hair Care

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Hall's Vegetable Sicilian Hair Renewer, 19th Century Advertisement.

Hall’s Vegetable Sicilian Hair Renewer, 19th Century Advertisement.

Since biblical times, a woman’s hair has been known as her crowning glory.  This was never more true than in the Victorian era – a span of years during which thick, glossy hair was one of the primary measures of a lady’s beauty.  But how did our 19th century female forbears maintain long, luxurious hair without the aid of special shampoos, crème rinses, and styling treatments?  And how did they deal with hair-related complaints such as an oily scalp, dry, brittle tresses, or premature greyness?

To start with, shampoo as we know it today did not exist during the 19th century.  In fact, the word shampoo meant something quite different to the Victorians.  Derived from the Hindi word champo, it was an Indian technique of pressing or massaging the scalp and other parts of the body.  In her 1840 book titled Female Beauty, as Preserved and Improved by Regimen, Cleanliness and Dress, author Mrs. Walker describes the process of shampooing:

Ayer's Hair Vigor, 19th Century Advertisement.

Ayer’s Hair Vigor,
19th Century Advertisement.

“To give readers an idea of the practice of shampooing as it exists in many nations, I shall repeat here what Anquetil says concerning shampooing among the Indians.  One of the servants of the bath stretches you on a plank, and sprinkles you with warm water.  He next presses the whole body with the palms of his hands, and cracks the joints of the fingers, legs, arms, and other members.  He then turns you over on your stomach; kneels upon the loins; and taking hold of the shoulders, makes the spine crack by acting upon all the vertebrae, and strikes some sharp blows upon the most fleshy and muscular parts, &c.”

As you can see, Victorian shampooing was not the ideal method to cleanse one’s hair of everyday dirt and grime.  In order to do that, most ladies had a complete regime of haircare which encompassed everything from regimented brushing to egg washes and perfumed pomades made of bear grease.  To begin, Mrs. Walker advises on the basic tools of the trade.  Her exhaustive list of “necessary” items includes, amongst many other things, three combs made of tortoiseshell with teeth of varying widths, a “hard or penetrating brush” to clean the roots of the hair after combing, and a soft brush to smooth the hair.  Mrs. Walker writes:

“When the hair has been well cleaned with combs, it should be brushed with a brush, made of very fine hairs, or which is still better of fine rice roots.  Constant use of the brush effectually clears the head from scurf and dust.  This should be employed for about ten minutes night and morning, to preserve its bright glossy appearance.”

A Woman Seated at her Dressing Table having her Hair Brushed, 19th Century.(Image via Wellcome Library)

A Woman Seated at her Dressing Table having her Hair Brushed, 19th Century.
(Image via Wellcome Library)

Added to this twice-daily ritual of brushing and combing, Mrs. Walker states that, if needed, “ablutions with lukewarm water, or soap and water” might also be employed to keep one’s tresses in tiptop shape.  In most circumstances, this was all that was required.  However, on occasion the Victorian lady might need to give her hair a really thorough wash.  For this, Walker recommends:

“…the yolks of a couple of eggs, beat till they form a cream, to be rubbed into the hair, and then washed out with tepid water, well brushed and wiped, as bestowing the most silky and beautiful appearance.”

Although favored by many fine ladies – including Empress Elisabeth of Austria who is known to have washed her hair with a mixture of raw eggs and fine cognac – egg yolk washes were not the only option for thoroughly cleansing ones hair.  In Beeton’s Book of Household Management (1861), Isabella Beeton offers a recipe for “A Good Wash for the Hair” made of a combination of “one pennyworth” of borax, a half pint of olive oil, and one pint of boiling water.  While Mrs. Walker provides detailed instructions on washing long tresses with a combination of warm water and perfumed toilet soap, writing:

“A basin of warm water, rendered frothy with a little toilet soap slightly perfumed, will answer the purpose.  It is necessary to remove carefully the tresses of the hair, and with a sponge, dipped in the soapy water, to wash it thoroughly all over.  The hair being perfectly cleansed, the head should be well dried with napkins, slightly warmed in winter, and then brushed several times.”

Perfumed Glycerine Soap, 19th Century advertisement.

Perfumed Glycerine Soap, 19th Century advertisement.

Nowadays washing your hair every day or every other day is often the norm for most people.  For the Victorian lady, the frequency of a thorough wash with egg yolks or soap and water was wholly dependent on the nature of her hair.  Mrs. Walker states:

“Supple moist oily hair may be washed every eight days with lukewarm water.  Light hair, which is seldom oily, and the fineness and softness of which obviates the use of pomades, rarely requires washing.  But a little honey dissolved in a very small quantity of spirit, scented with rosemary, &c. is an excellent substitute.”

For oily hair, there were alternatives to washing.  Before retiring to bed in the evening, a lady might powder her hair.  Mrs. Walker advises using a Swansdown puff to apply “Florence iris or orris root” or extremely fine carnation powder to the scalp and tresses.  The powder would act as an absorbent during the night and, in the morning, could be brushed out.

A Hairdresser Accidentally Severing a Woman's Locks with his Curling Tongs, 19th century. (Image via Wellcome Library)

A Hairdresser Accidentally Severing a Woman’s Locks with his Curling Tongs, 19th century.
(Image via Wellcome Library)

In her book Compacts and Cosmetics: Beauty from Victorian Times to the Present Day, author Madeleine Marsh explains that “luxuriant locks were integral to feminine charm and lack of make-up was compensated for by extravagant hair care.”  Based on the above descriptions of hair brushing and washing, it may seem as though there was nothing overly extravagant about haircare in the Victorian era.  However, crimping, curling, elaborate pinning, tight plaiting, and other fashionable 19th century means of styling one’s hair did take a toll.  As a result, ladies were compelled to turn to all sorts of potions and pomades to restore luster to their hair.

One of the most popular treatments of the era was Rowland’s Macassar Oil.  Advertised as a “delightfully fragrant and transparent preparation for the hair” and as an “invigorator and beautifier beyond all precedent,” Macassar oil was applied to the tresses by both men and women to restore gloss and sheen.  As with any preparation of this sort, it did have some visible effect, but the primary result of using Macassar oil was not the one the inventors intended.  As Marsh points out:

“What it certainly did leave was greasy marks on the furniture – hence the introduction of the antimacassar (a little cloth designed to protect the chair back).”

Rowlands Macassar Oil Advertisement, 1862.

Rowlands Macassar Oil Advertisement, 1862.

Rowland’s Macassar Oil was not the only 19th century hair treatment.  There was Ayer’s Hair Vigor, Edwards’ Harlene for the Hair, and Hall’s Vegetable Sicilian Hair Renewer to name a few.  These products promised everything, up to and including curing baldness and “restoring grey hair to its original color.”  Mrs. Walker was skeptical of these claims, wisely advising her readers:

“The hair sometimes turns partially grey before that age at which such a change may naturally be expected.  This is a calamity particularly disagreeable to females, because it makes them appear older than they really are; but no one, save quacks, impostors and charlatans, professes to have found any means of obviating it.”

This did not mean that Victorian ladies had no way of masking greyness.  There were hair dyes even then, though, as Marsh explains, dying one’s hair was still not considered quite proper or entirely safe.

Circassian Hair Dye Advertisement, 1843.

Circassian Hair Dye Advertisement, 1843.

As an aid to styling, pomade was often used.  Mrs. Walker recommends it for smoothing down plaits and for imparting a shine to both real hair and to the fake “tufts” which were frequently incorporated into Victorian hairstyles to add fullness.  Pomade was also used as a treatment to alleviate the extreme dryness which resulted from curling and crimping hair with hot irons.

A variety of pomade made with perfumed bear grease was popular until the final quarter of the century when, as Marsh reports, “vegetal lotions – made from coconut, palm and olive oils – had largely taken over.”  Until that time, there were a few other ways of making pomade that, thankfully, did not require the boiled fat of a Russian brown bear.  Isabella Beeton provides several recipes for pomade in her book of household management, including the following:

Beeton's Book of Household Management, 1861.

Beeton’s Book of Household Management, 1861.

With hair washed, brushed, oiled, and pomaded, all that was left was to twist, curl, plait, and pin the hair into one of the many intricate Victorian hairstyles of the day.  More on those fashionable coiffures in an upcoming post.  Until then, I hope the above has given you some insight into all that went in to brushing, washing, and maintaining the luster of 19th century tresses.

**Author’s Note: This article was originally published on the English Historical Fiction Authors’ Blog in December.


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Beeton, Isabella. Ed. Beeton’s Book of Household Management.  London: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1861.

Marsh, Madeleine.  Compacts and Cosmetics: Beauty from Victorian Times to the Present Day.  Barnsley: Remember When, 2009.

Walkers, Mrs. A.  Female Beauty, as Preserved and Improved by Regimen, Cleanliness and Dress.  New York: Scofield and Voorhies, 1840.


 

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

For more Romance, Literature, and History, follow me on:

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Wheatley v. Hollis: The Case of the Purloined Pet Donkey

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The Flower Seller by Jacques-Laurent Agasse, 1822.

The Flower Seller by Jacques-Laurent Agasse, 1822.

In England, sometime about 1843, a donkey was born at the farm of the Wheatley family in Shinfield, near Reading.  This donkey was so remarkably small that it was given as a pet to farmer Wheatley’s young daughter, Lydia.  The much cherished animal was christened “Tuppy” and, according to an 1856 edition of the Hereford Times, matured into a creature of “asinine beauty.”  When he grew large enough, he was trained to draw Miss Wheatley about the neighborhood in a little chaise.  An 1856 article in the North Devon Gazette reports that the sight of Miss Wheatley and her donkey chaise excited great admiration, attracting the “especial notice” of authoress Mary Russell Mitford and other literary types, one of whom used to borrow the chaise to drive about town.

Tuppy remained with Lydia Wheatley from the day he was foaled until 1851, the year of the Great Exhibition in London.  That August, while Miss Wheatley was away in London, farmer Wheatley made the unhappy discovery that his daughter’s donkey had been stolen.  Many years passed and, as the North Devon Gazette reports:

“No tidings of the donkey were ever received, and she had long since abandoned all hope of recovering it.” 

A New Friend by H.L., 1890.

A New Friend by H.L., 1890.

Five years later, Miss Wheatley was all grown up and living in London.  One day, in February of 1856, she was returning to her residence in Regent Street when she saw a costermonger in the road.  The man (later identified as Henry Hollis of Drury Lane) had “the identical long-lost animal” pulling his cart.  As an 1856 edition of the Dunstable Chronicle states:

“She knew it instantly, but controlled herself sufficiently to prevent suspicion, while contriving to get into conversation with the man about the donkey.  She said it was a very pretty animal, expressed a hope that he used it well, and fed it herself with a biscuit.”

Donkeys have notoriously long memories and one can only imagine how this little fellow must have felt at the miraculous appearance of his former mistress.  The North Devon Gazette reports that he “knew her directly.”  While the Hereford Times states that he “recognized her and evinced great delight.”

A Costermonger and his Donkey before Derby Day, Punch, 1841.

A Costermonger and his Donkey before Derby Day, Punch, 1841.

Miss Wheatley kept Mr. Hollis engaged in conversation until a policeman came into view.  When the policeman approached, she stated her case to him and, according to the North Devon Gazette, the policeman “took care that both the man and the donkey should be forthcoming.”  Later, at Bow Street, Miss Wheatley obtained a summons against Mr. Hollis.  As the article states:

“…[Miss] Wheatley obtained a summons against Henry Hollis, a costermonger in Charles-street, Drury-Lane, requiring him to show cause why he refused to deliver up a favourite donkey which she claimed as her property.” 

The case was adjourned so that both parties could gather their witnesses.  When it resumed, an attorney named Mr. Lewis appeared for the defendant.  Mr. Lewis made an initial objection, claiming that “a donkey was not chattel within the meaning of the act.”  This objection was overruled.  Mr. Lewis then attempted to discredit Miss Wheatley’s identification of the donkey.  As the North Devon Gazette relates:

“A very humorous cross-examination was raised by Mr. Lewis, who, in illustration of the difficulty of identity, stated that a woman swore to a wrong man as her husband in another police-court only last week.”

Donkeys and Chickens in the Barn by Eugène Joseph Verboeckhoven, 1863.

Miss Wheatley informed the court that she “knew her donkey too well” to be mistaken.  To support her assertion, she produced several witnesses, including her father and mother, a former school friend, and a farrier who had shod Tuppy when he was just a youngster.  According to the The North Devon Gazette:

“[The witnesses] gave ample evidence in confirmation of the complainant’s statement, and clearly identified ‘Tuppy’ (the donkey’s name) beyond doubt or cavil.  They also related the foregoing incidents in the animal’s earlier career, and his worship went out to have a personal inspection of the donkey which had been brought to the door of the court.”

Undeterred by this mounting evidence, Mr. Lewis called a farrier named Mr. Maude for the defense.  Mr. Maude testified that he had “known the donkey for some years.”  He also testified that the donkey was eight years old, to which Mr. Wheatley remarked that “no one could tell a donkey’s age after seven.”  The North Devon Gazette reports Mr. Maude’s response:

“Witness: That was true, but he shod it for a costermonger named Jones six years ago, when it was only two, and so small that you could carry it in your arms.  Jones (the man referred to) swore that he bought the donkey at Smithfield in 1850, and paid 15s. for it.  He sold it about four years back to a man named Wainwright, alias Poole, or Pooner, who sold it to the defendant.”

A Farrier Shoeing a Plough Horse by Edward Robert Smythe, 1899.

A Farrier Shoeing a Plough Horse by Edward Robert Smythe, 1899.

The judge in the case, one Mr. Jardine, disbelieved the evidence of the defendant.  He seriously doubted whether a costermonger would pay 15s. for “anything that would be of no service to him for 12 months” and stated that:

“…[Mr. Maude] must be a bold man indeed to swear to a donkey from merely having shod it a few times – probably without taking any particular notice of the animal at the time.”

The judge pronounced that the donkey had not been obtained honestly and “ordered it to be given up to Miss Wheatley immediately.”  As the Hereford Times reports:

“Tuppy was adjudged the property of Miss Wheatley, and duly delivered to her amidst the applause of an admiring crowd.”

Did Mr. Hollis know that the donkey that pulled his cart through London was, in fact, stolen property?  Or was he an innocent victim of someone else’s perfidy?  It is unclear from reports at the time.  However, the North Devon Gazette does state that Miss Wheatley wished to make Mr. Hollis some compensation for the loss of the donkey.  The court, on the other hand, declined to recommend compensation “after the kind of defense which had been set up.”

The Children of Theophilus Levett, Esquire by James Ward, 1811.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to learn more about donkeys or would like to adopt a donkey (or mini donkey!) of your own, the following links may be useful as resources:

Longhopes Donkey Shelter (United States)

The Donkey Sanctuary (United Kingdom)


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“A Pet Donkey.”  Dunstable Chronicle.  March 1, 1856.

“A Pet Donkey.”  North Devon Gazette.  March 4, 1856.

“The Romance of the Donkey.”  Hereford Times.  March 8, 1856.


 

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

For more Romance, Literature, and History, follow me on:

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Jane and the Waterloo Map: Guest Post by Stephanie Barron + Grand Giveaway!

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Jane and the Waterloo Map Banner

Today, I am very pleased to welcome award-winning author Stephanie Barron with a fabulous post on Jane Austen and Carlton House.  To celebrate the release of her new novel, Jane and the Waterloo Map, Stephanie is also hosting a Grand Giveaway.  Details after the post!

* * * *

To John Murray

23 Hans Place, Friday Nov: 3rd 1815

Sir

My Brother’s severe Illness has prevented his replying to Yours of Oct: 15, on the subject of the MS of Emma now in your hands—and as he is, though recovering, still in a state which we are fearful of harassing by Business, & I am at the same time desirous of coming to some decision on the affair in question, I must request the favour of you to call on me here, on any day after the present that may suit you best, at any hour in the Evening, or any in the Morning except from Eleven to One. –A short conversation may perhaps do more than much Writing.

My Brother begs his Compts & best Thanks for your polite attention in supplying him with a Copy of Waterloo.

I am Sir

Your Ob. Hum: Servt

Jane Austen

 With those few brisk lines, Jane Austen sat herself down at the bargaining table with her new publisher, John Murray.  Most famous as the man who brought Lord Byron and Walter Scott to the British public—the “Waterloo” Jane mentions was an epic poem Scott hastily composed in the weeks after the recent battle–Murray was willing to take a chance on Miss Austen’s fourth novel.  Her previous book, Mansfield Park, had been less well-received than either Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice, and Thomas Egerton, who had published all three of them, refused to bring out a second edition of Mansfield Park.  He declined Emma altogether.  In such circumstances, Murray—who’d admired Lizzy Bennet—thought he could scent a sweet deal.  He offered Jane £450 for Emma’s copyright, considerably more than the sum she’d received for P&P.  There was a hitch, however: Murray wanted the copyrights to Austen’s previous three novels thrown in as well.

Carlton House, Main Hall.

Carlton House, Main Hall.

With Henry laid low, Jane took matters into her own hands: she refused Murray’s offer and suggested instead that he publish Emma upon commission.  She would cover Murray’s printing costs, while he earned ten percent of the book’s profits.  He called upon her that week in Hans Place and agreed to her terms.

Jane and the Waterloo Map by Stephanie Barron

Jane and the Waterloo Map
by Stephanie Barron

It’s no accident that Jane Austen felt compelled to mask her forward behaviour with the fig leaf of Henry’s illness.  Singular enough as a lady novelist in 1815, she had committed the outrage of becoming a business woman as well, exhibiting a decisiveness and independence worthy of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.  Even the anxious duty of nursing her brother through a near-fatal fever could not entirely divert her from her work.  It was to introduce Emma Woodhouse to the Polite World that she had come to London in the first place.

Jane and the Waterloo Map, the thirteenth installment in my series of mystery novels featuring Jane Austen as detective, opens ten days after Jane wrote to Murray, when the combination of her sudden fame and Henry’s illness precipitated her into the Prince Regent’s circle at Carlton House.  Henry’s local Knightsbridge surgeon, Charles Haden, proved inadequate to curing his “low fever,” probably because Haden’s preferred solution was to bleed his patients.  When brother Edward Austen Knight worriedly arrived from Kent to hold vigil at Henry’s bedside, he summoned Matthew Baillie, the Court Physician, to Hans Place.  Baillie, who was a distinguished consulting physician at St. George’s Hospital, managed to mend Henry’s health over the course of a few visits—and became a little acquainted with Jane.  Possibly he boasted of meeting the celebrated author of Pride and Prejudice at Carlton House.  Within days, Jane was summoned to the royal palace by James Stanier Clarke, the Prince Regent’s chaplain, who “suggested” she might dedicate Emma to His Royal Highness.  Turns out, HRH was a fan.  A request, in this case, was an order.

Emma by Jane Austen, Dedication Page, 1816.

Emma by Jane Austen, Dedication Page, 1816.

It is impossible for any current writer to read Jane’s polite but distant letters to Clarke, or the stiff correctness of her subsequent dedication to the Regent, without an inner roar of laughter.  She cordially despised the Prince and there can be no one she would rather have dedicated Emma to less.  Her niece, Fanny Austen Knight, twitted her with attempting to drum up sales with such Royal Notice.  But to Carlton House on the thirteenth of November, 1815, Jane nonetheless went.

The remarkable place is long since gone.  It was demolished in 1826 for a double row of terraced houses that endure to this day.  But fleeting images of its rooms remain, peopled with ghostly Regency figures, in the colored prints of William Henry Pyne’s History of the Royal Residences, 1818-1819.  The sweeping main staircase, the novelty of a completely finished lower level with opulent receiving rooms and a library, the principal salons placed on the ground floor rather than the upper storey, and the classical simplicity of the entrance hall—so unlike the Prince Regent’s tastes in Brighton—set the bar for private London townhouses in a way that would not truly be equaled until Gilded Age New York some seventy years later.

Stairs at Carlton House.

Stairs at Carlton House.

What did Jane think of Carlton House?  Unfortunately, no letter survives that describes her visit, only a note of thanks to Clarke for the “flattering attentions I rec’d from you at Carlton House, Monday last.”  It is inconceivable that she did not send some impression of the place to her family at Chawton Cottage, to whom she wrote almost every day.  Perhaps this was one of the pieces of correspondence that Cassandra Austen destroyed after Jane’s death—possibly because Jane was less flattering to the Regent than posterity might wish.  Her next surviving letter to Cassandra is dated eleven days after the visit to Carlton House and refers mainly to a paper shortage in London that delayed Murray’s press.

It is gaps like these in Austen’s documented life, however, that animate my writing.  For nearly two decades I’ve borrowed Jane for an ongoing set of adventures that plunge her into murder and mayhem—combining the known elements of her days, drawn from her letters, with the imagined ones that might have filled various holes in the historical record.  In Jane and the Waterloo Map, for example, Jane is shown all over Carlton House, stumbling upon the Duke of Wellington in the Blue Velvet Room with Fanny Wedderburn Webster, his latest Flirt.  She discovers, too, the stricken body of a Hero of Waterloo in the Regent’s celebrated Library.  (Where there is a library, every detective novelist knows, there must be a body.)  Jane’s talents as a meddlesome female soon embroil her in military intrigues, obscure poisons, treasure maps and a whiff of romance, as John Murray painstakingly prints the first sheets of Emma.

Carlton House, Blue Velvet Room

Carlton House, Blue Velvet Room

It’s a fitting escapade for the dashing woman James Stanier Clarke may or may not have captured in this charming drawing—possibly Jane Austen as she looked when they met in November, 1815 (see: “James Stanier Clarke’s Portrait of Jane Austen,” by Joan Klingel Ray and Richard James Wheeler, in Persuasions, No. 27, Jane Austen Society of North America, pp. 112-118.)  No one will ever prove this is a sketch of Jane, of course, but I like to think it is—her remarkable hat and pelisse, the fur muff she probably borrowed from her late sister-in-law Eliza’s closet, all tributes to the fact that her stories had brought her into Fashion, as she descended upon the Prince Regent’s Household.  I like to think that Clarke colored her image so brightly because he, too, longed to fill in the gaps in what he knew of her.

Two hundred years later, she remains to my mind a creature only half-understood and hurriedly drawn—a life best seized through the imagination.

Possible portrait of Jane Austen by James Stanier Clare, 1815.

Possible portrait of Jane Austen by James Stanier Clare, 1815.


JANE AND THE WATERLOO MAP

Jane Austen turns sleuth in this delightful Regency-era mystery

November, 1815.  The Battle of Waterloo has come and gone, leaving the British economy in shreds; Henry Austen, high-flying banker, is about to declare bankruptcy—dragging several of his brothers down with him. The crisis destroys Henry’s health, and Jane flies to his London bedside, believing him to be dying.  While she’s there, the chaplain to His Royal Highness the Prince Regent invites Jane to tour Carlton House, the Prince’s fabulous London home.  The chaplain is a fan of Jane’s books, and during the tour he suggests she dedicate her next novel—Emma—to HRH, whom she despises.

However, before she can speak to HRH, Jane stumbles upon a body—sprawled on the carpet in the Regent’s library.  The dying man, Colonel MacFarland, was a cavalry hero and a friend of Wellington’s.  He utters a single failing phrase: “Waterloo map” . . . and Jane is on the hunt for a treasure of incalculable value and a killer of considerable cunning.


PURCHASE LINKS:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Book Depository | Indiebound | Goodreads | iTunes Soho Press


EARLY PRAISE:

“A well-crafted narrative with multiple subplots drives Barron’s splendid 13th Jane Austen mystery. Series fans will be happy to see more of Jane’s extended family and friends, and Austenites will enjoy the imaginative power with which Barron spins another riveting mystery around a writer generally assumed to have led a quiet and uneventful life.” — Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

“Writing in the form of Jane’s diaries, Barron has spun a credible tale from a true encounter, enhanced with meticulous research and use of period vocabulary.”
Booklist

“Barron, who’s picked up the pace since Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas, portrays an even more seasoned and unflinching heroine in the face of nasty death and her own peril.” — Kirkus Reviews

“Barron deftly imitates Austen’s voice, wit, and occasional melancholy while spinning a well-researched plot that will please historical mystery readers and Janeites everywhere. Jane Austen died two years after the events of Waterloo; one hopes that Barron conjures a few more adventures for her beloved protagonist before historical fact suspends her fiction.” — Library Journal 


Stephanie Barron. Photo credit: Marea Evans.

Stephanie Barron.
Photo: Marea Evans.

AUTHOR BIO: 

Stephanie Barron was born in Binghamton, New York, the last of six girls.  She attended Princeton and Stanford Universities, where she studied history, before going on to work as an intelligence analyst at the CIA.  She wrote her first book in 1992 and left the Agency a year later.  Since then, she has written fifteen books.  She lives and works in Denver, Colorado.  Learn more about Stephanie and her books at her website, visit her on Facebook and Goodreads.

 


GRAND GIVEAWAY DETAILS:

Jane and the Waterloo Map Blog Tour Prizes

Jane and the Waterloo Map Blog Tour Prizes

Win One of Three Fabulous Prizes

In celebration of the release of Jane and the Waterloo Map, Stephanie is offering a chance to win one of three prize packages filled with an amazing selection of Jane Austen-inspired gifts and books!

To enter the giveaway contest, simply leave a comment on any or all of the blog stops on Jane and the Waterloo Map Blog Tour starting February 02, 2016 through 11:59 pm PT, February 29, 2016.  Winners will be drawn at random from all of the comments and announced on Stephanie’s website on March 3, 2016.  Winners have until March 10, 2016 to claim their prize. Shipment is to US addresses. Good luck to all!

JANE AND THE WATERLOO MAP BLOG TOUR SCHEDULE: 

February 02              My Jane Austen Book Club (Guest Blog)

February 03              Laura’s Reviews (Excerpt)           

February 04              A Bookish Way of Life (Review)

February 05              The Calico Critic (Review)           

February 06              So Little Time…So Much to Read (Excerpt)                            

February 07              Reflections of a Book Addict (Spotlight)                                  

February 08              Mimi Matthews Blog (Guest Blog)                                  

February 09              Jane Austen’s World (Interview)                                                

February 10              Just Jane 1813 (Review)                                      

February 11              Confessions of a Book Addict (Excerpt)                                 

February 12              History of the 18th and 19th Centuries (Guest Blog)               

February 13              My Jane Austen Book Club (Interview)                        

February 14              Living Read Girl (Review)                        

February 14              Austenprose (Review)

February 15              Mystery Fanfare (Guest Blog)                             

February 16              Laura’s Reviews (Review)                                               

February 17              Jane Austen in Vermont (Excerpt)                                             

February 18              From Pemberley to Milton (Interview)                                       

February 19              More Agreeably Engaged (Review)

February 20              Babblings of a Bookworm (Review)                                         

February 21              A Covent Garden Gilflurt’s Guide to Life (Guest Blog)

February 22              Diary of an Eccentric (Review)

 


An Unlikely Friendship: The Cat and Mouse of Lord Lucan’s Bailiff

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Playing Cat and Mouse by John Henry Dolph (1835-1903).

In the early 19th century, at the Earl of Lucan’s residence at Laleham, there was a very singular cat.  She belonged to Lord Lucan’s bailiff, Mr. Smith, and had the “constant habit” of curling up on the rug before the parlor fire.  According to a story related in multiple 19th century British newspapers, as well as in author Edward Jesse’s 1834 book, Gleanings in Natural History, after the death of her recent litter of kittens, this particular cat struck up a very close friendship with a mouse.  As Jesse explains:

“One evening as the family were seated round the fire they observed a mouse make its way from the cupboard which was near the fire-place, and lay itself down on the stomach of the cat, as a kitten would do when she is going to suck.  Surprised at what they saw and afraid of disturbing the mouse, which appeared to be full grown, they did not immediately ascertain whether it was in the act of sucking or not.  After remaining with the cat a considerable length of time it returned to the cupboard.”

The family witnessed the mouse visit the cat in this manner on several other occasions and it was soon observed that not only did the cat appear to expect the mouse, but that the cat actually called to the mouse in the same “greeting purr” which she would have used to summon a wayward kitten.  As Jesse writes:

Harvest, Wood Mouse by A. Thorburn, 1920.

Harvest, Wood Mouse
by A. Thorburn, 1920.

“When the cat, after being absent, returned to the room, her greeting call was made, and the mouse came to her.”

Upon the mouse’s arrival, he would lay beside the cat and give “every appearance of being in the act of sucking.”  But despite its preoccupation, the mouse remained vigilant and, at any attempt the family made to capture it, the little creature swiftly retreated back to the safety of the cupboard.

Jesse states that “the attachment” between the cat and mouse “could not be mistaken.”  Unfortunately, though their unique relationship continued for some time, it was not destined to last.  He writes:

“The fate of the mouse, like that of most pets, was a melancholy one.  During the absence of its nurse, a strange cat came into the room.  The poor mouse, mistaking her for its old friend and protectress, ran out to meet her, and was immediately seized and slain before it could be rescued from her clutches.”

As one might expect, the family cat had a significant reaction to the loss of her little companion.  Jesse reports:

“The grief of the foster-mother was extreme.  On returning to the parlour she made her usual call, but no mouse came to meet her.  She was restless and uneasy, went mewing about the house, and shewed her distress in the most marked manner.”

The cat did not die of grief, thank goodness, but there is no more information about her and nothing to indicate that she ever befriended another mouse.  However, Jesse does state:

“What rendered the anecdote I have been relating the more extraordinary is the fact of the cat being an excellent mouser and that during the time she was shewing so much fondness for the mouse, she was preying upon others with the utmost avidity.”

Curiosity by Horatio Henry Couldery, 1893.

Curiosity by Horatio Henry Couldery, 1893.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like help a cat in need, either by providing a home or by donating your time or money, the following links may be useful as resources:

Alley Cat Rescue, Inc. (United States)

The Cats Protection League (United Kingdom)

If you would like to learn more about pet mice, the links below may be of use:

The American Fancy Rat & Mouse Association (United States)

The National Mouse Club (United Kingdom)


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“Animal Friendship.”  Devizes and Wiltshire Gazette.  May 29, 1845.

Jesse, Edward.  Gleanings in Natural History.  London: W. Nichol, 1834


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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Valentine’s Day in the 19th Century: Lost Connections & Lonely Hearts

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Valentine's Day Card, 1864.(Image via Victoria & Albert Museum)

Valentine’s Day Card, 1864.
(Image via Victoria & Albert Museum)

February 14th is Valentine’s Day.  To celebrate the holiday 19th century style, I’ve collected a few Valentine’s Day news items from Regency England, Victorian England, and even 1890s Texas.  Some remind me a bit of modern day “lost connections” or “lonely hearts” adverts (hence the title of this post), others are simply humorous historical Valentine’s Day messages or, predictably, not so humorous Victorian Valentine’s Day news.

The first item is from an 1819 edition of Saunder’s News-Letter and was posted by an anonymous gentleman – a self-described “man of the strictest honour” – seeking his missing Valentine.

Saunders's News-Letter, February, 20 1819.

Saunders’s News-Letter, February, 20 1819.

Valentine’s Day Card, 1830s.
(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

The next Valentine’s Day advertisement, printed in an 1868 edition of the Cork Examiner, strikes me as being quintessentially Victorian.  Note the mention of the Crystal Palace and lion feeding at Trafalgar Square!  The Cork Examiner seems to think this advert (previously published in an earlier edition) was merely someone being facetious.  What do you think?

Cork Examiner, April 13 1868.

Cork Examiner, April 13 1868.

Valentine Card, mid-19th Century.
(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

Not to be outdone for humor, an edition of the Laredo Times in Texas printed several personal messages for Valentine’s Day, 1897.  They range from the generic to the bizarre.  It’s nice to know that our late 19th century forebears could be as creative with goofy nicknames as some of us are today.

The Laredo Times, October 9, 1897.

The Laredo Times, October 9, 1897.

Victorian Valentine's Day Card.(Image via Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington)

Victorian Valentine’s Day Card.
(Image via Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington)

And here’s another humorous Valentine’s Day message from the 1897 Laredo Times:

The Laredo Times, October 9, 1897.

The Laredo Times, October 9, 1897.

Valentine's Day Card, 1860-1870.(Image via Victoria & Albert Museum)

Valentine’s Day Card, 1860-1870.
(Image via Victoria & Albert Museum)

Of course, it would not be a 19th century holiday without a grim Victorian tale.  For Valentine’s Day 1891, this was provided by the Daily Gazette for Middlesborough, which related the tale of a young lady (rather ironically named “Payne”) who drowned herself after her boyfriend had forgotten to give her a gift for Valentine’s Day.  It reads:

“On Saturday a young lady named Payne, chief of one of the departments of Mr. T. Beckett’s draper business at Peterborough, left the shop on some pretext, and a few minutes afterwards a messenger came in with a note from her saying that she had gone to drown herself.  A search party was at once instituted, and her body was found floating in the River Nene, life being extinct.  It is stated that she had some quarrel with her lover, and that not receiving a present on St. Valentine’s morning she so took it to heart that she resolved to commit suicide.”

Daily Gazette for Middlesborough, February 16, 1891.

Daily Gazette for Middlesborough, February 16, 1891.

Valentine's Day Card, 1860.(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

Valentine’s Day Card, 1860.
(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

I hope you’ve enjoyed this brief Valentine’s Day post.  I will be off for a while this month.  I am presently in the processing of editing my latest novel so that I can get it to my literary agent before March.  That, combined with other commitments, means that there is little time for writing substantial research posts.  I hope to be back on a regular posting schedule by next month.  Thanks everyone and Happy Valentine’s Day!


Works Referenced or Cited

Cork Examiner.  April 13, 1868.

The Laredo Times.  October 9, 1897.

“A Missing Valentine Causes Suicide.”  Daily Gazette for Middlesborough.  February 16, 1891.

Saunders’s News-Letter.  February 20, 1819.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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Isabella Beeton’s Book of Household Management: A Victorian Phenomenon

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Beeton’s Book of Household Management, Coloured Plate.

Published in 1861, Beeton’s Book of Household Management is perhaps one of the most famous non-fiction books to come out of the 19th century.  At over one thousand pages long, it was the first publication of its kind to address all aspects of household management, covering everything from cooking and cleaning to childrearing and animal husbandry.  It even includes a section on the law, providing the inquiring housewife with general information on leaseholds, the legal rights and obligations between husband and wife, and the questionable validity of an I.O.U.

Beeton's Book of Household Management Original Title Page, 1861. (Image via Wellcome Library.)

Beeton’s Book of Household Management Original Title Page, 1861.
(Image via Wellcome Library.)

In the first year alone, Beeton’s Book of Household Management sold more than 60,000 copies.  Over the next decade, it would sell 2 million more.  The book Voices of Victorian England, edited by John Wagner, explains the enormous popularity of Beeton’s Book of Household Management, stating:

“By the 1850s, middle-class wives were expected to frugally and efficiently run their husband’s households, and thus had to be skilled in such tasks as hiring, firing, and supervising servants; planning and cooking meals; dealing with tradesmen; and teaching, nursing, and disciplining children.  Because many girls were no longer automatically learning these skills from their mothers, there existed a need for a practical handbook on household management, which the Beetons recognized and sought to meet.”

Isabella Beeton was only twenty-five at the time she wrote Beeton’s Book of Household Management.  Married to publisher Samuel Beeton, she was a working journalist herself.  She began her career in 1857 by contributing three articles a month to The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, one of her husband’s most popular periodicals.  By 1860, she was one of the magazine’s editors, as well as its fashion correspondent.  Parts of Beeton’s Book of Household Management originally appeared in The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  Explaining her reasons for expanding those separately published columns into one, comprehensive guide, the Encyclopedia of British Writers quotes Beeton as saying:

“What moved me, in the first instance, to attempt a work like this, was the discomfort and suffering which I had seen brought upon men and women by household mismanagement.  I have always thought that there is no more fruitful source of family discontent than a housewife’s badly cooked dinners and untidy ways.”

Isabella Beeton, 1860.

Isabella Beeton, 1860.

Beeton’s Book of Household Management was not the first book of its kind.  In 1845, English cook Eliza Acton published Cookery for Private Families and in 1848 French chef Alexis Soyer published The Modern Housewife.  Beeton’s book, however, far eclipsed those of her predecessors.  Not only did it cover every aspect of household management, Beeton’s particular “tone and form of address” offered inspiration and assurance to her readers.  As the book Consuming Culture in the Long Nineteenth Century explains:

“Any woman who felt her position to be unimportant and useless could be persuaded by the strength of Mrs. Beeton’s rhetoric: the mistress is ‘the first and last, the Alpha and Omega in the government of her establishment’ and ‘it is by her conduct that its whole internal policy is regulated.’  In her opening sentence, Mrs. Beeton compares the mistress of the house to ‘a Commander of an Army’ who attains the ‘highest rank’ of the female character when she enters into knowledge of household duties.”

Beeton's Book of Household Management, Coloured Plate.

Beeton’s Book of Household Management, Coloured Plate.

It was not only the rhetoric that made Beeton’s book a Victorian phenomenon.  Her guide included innovations that changed the face of cookbooks for generations to come.  For example, Voices in Victorian England reports that Beeton was the first writer to place the list of ingredients at the start of the recipe.  She was also the first writer to supply recommended cooking times.  This was all part and parcel of Isabella Beeton’s genius for “compiling and organizing information.”  She was not an accomplished cook herself.  In fact, very few of the recipes in her book are her own.  Even so, she possessed a talent for making the recipes of others easier to follow and conveying ideas on every aspect of household management to a middle-class audience without challenging “the more conventional notion of bourgeois femininity.”

Upon its publication in 1861, Beeton’s Book of Household Management was met with instant acclaim.  A review in the November 9, 1861 edition of the Edinburgh Evening Courant closes by declaring:

“Mrs. Beeton has endeavored to adapt her book to nearly all circumstances and conditions of life.  She shows that, while luxurious repasts and sumptuous hospitalities rightly belong to the high and wealthy, there is no monopoly of good digestion or of appetite, and that enjoyment may be found in a ragout of yesterday’s cold meat, and even a relish imparted to our traditional ‘kailbrose.’  It is on the cook rather than on the materials, on the preparation rather than the cost, that a good dinner mainly depends; and hence the value of a book like this, which duly studied by mistress and cook may yield us a different and enjoyable dinner every day, whether our means be great or small, and whether one dish or twenty be set before us.”

Beeton's Book of Household Management, Coloured Plate.

Beeton’s Book of Household Management, Coloured Plate.

Recipes were, indeed, a large component of Beeton’s Book of Household Management.  Beeton provides instructions for the preparations of staples like meat, potatoes, and various puddings.  She also provides recipes for foods which are very much of the moment today, such as boiled sea kale.  In addition, Beeton advises on the best diet for livestock, the dangers of ‘rust’ in bacon and ‘rot’ in rabbits, and the perils of poisonous mushrooms.  In the final segment of her cookery section, Beeton even includes recipes for beverages, such as the following for Cowslip Wine:

Recipe for Cowslip Wine from Beeton's Book of Household Management, 1861.

Recipe for Cowslip Wine from Beeton’s Book of Household Management, 1861.

Perhaps the best bits of Beeton’s Book of Household Management, at least in my humble opinion, are those sections where she imparts advice to Victorian housewives.  For instance, in the first pages of the hefty tome, she writes:

“Early rising is one of the most Essential Qualities which enter into good Household Management, as it is not only the parent of health, but of innumerable other advantages.  Indeed, when a mistress is an early riser, it is almost certain that her house will be orderly and well-managed.  On the contrary, if She remain in bed till a late hour, then the domestics, who, as we have before observed, invariably partake somewhat of their mistress’s character, will surely become sluggards.”

And later, in her chapter on Domestic Servants, she addresses the lady’s maid, advising her on her duties to her mistress and providing helpful recipes to assist her in her work, such as the following recipe for shampoo:

Recipe for Hair Wash from Beeton's Book of Household Management, 1861.

Recipe for Hair Wash from Beeton’s Book of Household Management, 1861.

The chapter on Domestic Servants also provides guidelines for the hiring and firing of servants, the writing of a character reference, and the respective wages commonly paid for each position in the household.  For those of us who write novels set in the 19th century, this section of the book is invaluable.

Guidelines for Servant Wages from Beeton's Book of Household Management, 1861.

Guidelines for Servant Wages from Beeton’s Book of Household Management, 1861.

On February 6, 1865, less than four years after the publication of Beeton’s Book of Household Management, Isabella Beeton died from puerperal fever contracted during the birth of her fourth child.  She was only twenty-eight years old.  Samuel Beeton initially suppressed news of her death so that he could continue to publish under her now famous name.  This strategy was ultimately not a successful one.  Within only a few weeks, newspapers were printing reports of her death.  The following appeared in the February 18, 1865 edition of London’s Illustrated Times:

February 18, 1865 , Illustrated Times , London, England.

February 18, 1865 , Illustrated Times , London, England.

Beeton’s Book of Household Management has been in continuous print since it was first published in 1861.  Now popularly known as Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, it has remained a perpetual bestseller and can be purchased in its various incarnations from booksellers all over the world (*though being a purist, I advise the original edition which is currently free in the public domain).  If you are at all curious about Victorian life, I highly recommend you give it a look.  It is much, much more than a mere 19th century cookbook.

**Author’s Note: This article was originally published on the English Historical Fiction Authors’ Blog in November.


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Beeton, Isabella. Ed.  Beeton’s Book of Household Management.  London: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1861.

Beetham, Margaret. Ed.  Victorian Women’s Magazines: An Anthology.  Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001.

Hartley, Cathy.  A Historical Dictionary of British Women.  London: Routledge, 2013.

Krueger, Christine L. Ed.  Encyclopedia of British Writers, 19th and 20th Centuries.  New York: Facts on File, 2003.

Wagner, John A. Ed.  Voices of Victorian England: Contemporary Accounts of Daily Life.  Greenwood, 2014.

Wagner, Tamara S. Ed.  Consuming Culture in the Long Nineteenth Century: Narratives of Consumption, 1700-1900.  New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2010.  


© 2015 Mimi Matthews

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A 19th Century Regimental Chicken

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White Hen with Chickens by Anton Ignaz Hamilton, 18th century.

White Hen with Chickens by Anton Ignaz Hamilton, 18th century.

When one thinks of 19th century military mascots, a chicken is not the first animal that generally comes to mind.  However, a New York regiment during the American Civil War and a British regiment during the Second Anglo-Afghan War each kept a pet chicken within their ranks.  The Civil War chicken was a hen by the name of Biddy.  An 1863 edition of the Chester Chronicle quotes a portion of a letter about her from a Union soldier in General Joseph Hooker’s army, which reads:

“In one of the New York State Regiments here, there is a private soldier who owns a pet pullet, which has escaped, with its owner, all the perils of battle thus far, and which is quite an acquisition to the chicken fancier, who has carried her along with him wherever he has been since last summer.”  

Biddy was the lone chicken in the regiment, but she did not seem to mind her solitude.  She furnished her owner with one large egg each day and, according to the Chester Chronicle, she always seemed to have “a very good time by herself.”  Though an odd sort of pet, she was nonetheless a favorite amongst the soldiers.  As the article states:

“She is a fine specimen, and is quite a pet among the ‘boys,’ who take good care of her.”

Poultry in a Stable Interior by Carl Jutz, 1894.

Poultry in a Stable Interior by Carl Jutz, 1894.

Unlike Biddy – who was more of an unofficial mascot – the pet chicken in the 51st Regiment of Foot during the Second Anglo-Afghan War was regarded as a “regimental institution.”  She was even profiled in an issue of The Bugle (the regimental newspaper for the 51st).  This profile was reprinted in an 1879 article in the Whitby Gazette.  It begins by stating:

“There is now regularly borne in the strength of the regiment a most extraordinary pet.  We have heard of pet fleas, likewise of pet spiders and snakes, but never before of a pet chicken.”

This “regimental hen,” as she is referred to, had originally been the property of one “Paymaster Roberts.”  Like Biddy, she laid one egg daily.  Unfortunately, she was very particular about where she laid it.  As the article explains:

“[She] was wont daily to lay one egg, alas! for the ingratitude of henkind, in the Adjutant’s tent.  Nothing could prevent her; even several flagellations at the hands of a sturdy batman left her constancy unchanged.”

White Hen in Straw with 11 Chicks by Ben Austrian, 1912.

White Hen in Straw with 11 Chicks by Ben Austrian, 1912.

Unable to stop the hen from laying her eggs in the Adjutant’s tent, Captain Roberts made the wise decision to give the “productive fowl” to the Adjutant as a gift.  This solution worked out to the benefit of all.  As the article concludes:

“…she became a regular regimental institution, having made the journey from Ali Musjid without any mishap, and laying her one egg daily on the line march with the greatest regularity.”

Though a chicken may seem to be a purely practical animal for a 19th century soldier to take to war, it is clear from the reports on these two regimental chickens that they were more than mere laying hens.  They were valued pets and mascots.  Did they survive the wars?  The American Civil War ended in 1865.  The Second Anglo-Afghan War ended in 1880.  I would like to think that Biddy and the British “regimental hen” went home with their respective owners and lived out the rest of their days on a peaceful farm in the countryside.  Regrettably, I can find no evidence on the ultimate fate of either of them.

In the Chicken Yard by Marinus Adrianus Koekkoek, (1807–1868).

In the Chicken Yard by Marinus Adrianus Koekkoek, (1807–1868).

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to learn more about pet chickens, the following article from the Humane Society of the United States may be useful as resource:

Adopting and Caring for Backyard Chickens.


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“A Pet Chicken in Camp.”  Chester Chronicle.  June 27, 1863.

“A Regular Regimental Institution.”  Whitby Gazette.  August 16, 1879.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Skin Care

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Vanity by Gustave Léonard de Jonghe, 19th century.

In an age when respectable women generally did not wear make-up, the clarity of a lady’s complexion was considered to be one of the principal components of her beauty.  To that end, Victorian women employed a great many methods to keep their skin soft, smooth, and blemish free.  In today’s article, we look at a few of those methods, from the most basic soap and water washes to 19th century iodine facials, arsenic creams, and patent cosmetics that reached the heights of Victorian quackery.

To begin with, the Victorians believed a woman’s complexion was a direct result of her lifestyle and her state of mind.  Beauty manuals, lady’s magazines, and medical journals all emphasized the importance of healthy living and a cheerful attitude.  An 1849 issue of the Water Cure Journal declares:

“The best way of securing a good complexion is to lay in a stock of good health and good temper, and take care to keep up the supply…We know of no cosmetic equal to the sunny smile.  It gives the grace of beauty to the swarthy hue, and makes even freckles and pockmarks passable.”

Victorians also believed that, for women, excess of any kind – whether it be good or bad – was harmful to the skin.  Published in 1841, the Handbook of the Toilette states:

“Goodness of complexion, whether the skin be fair or brown, is incompatible with excess of bodily or mental labour, or excess of pleasure and dissipation.”

Dobbin's Medicated Toilet Soap Advertisement, 1869.

Dobbin’s Medicated Toilet Soap Advertisement, 1869.

This belief that a female’s good complexion required little more than a quiet life and a quiet mind coalesced rather conveniently with Victorian values.  Unfortunately, the result of this wrong-headed reasoning was that, when a woman presented with a skin condition, it was often believed to be caused by a debauched and dissolute lifestyle.  For example, in his 1841 book A Few Words upon Form and Features, author Arthur Freeling asserts that rosacea is a purely masculine disease, writing:

“Ladies seldom suffer from this frightful eruption, as it is usually caused by habits to which ladies are, we hope, never addicted — habitual potations of wine, spirits, beer! Faugh! the very enumeration of such potations in the same page that the sex is mentioned, is almost an insult to it.”

Though the importance of good health and a happy disposition was reiterated constantly, this did not mean that Victorian ladies had no other methods for improving or maintaining their complexions.  Women of the Victorian era had rituals and recipes for all of the skin issues we face today.

Cleansing

Victorian women were advised to wash their faces with soap and water using a sponge, washcloth, or soft facial brush.  Soap was believed to thoroughly cleanse the skin without irritation.  It came in a variety of formulations, including perfumed soaps, medicated soaps, and gentle soaps such as the soap produced by Pears.  As for alternative cleansing agents, such as cosmetic washes and powders, an article in the 1846 issue of the Eclectic Magazine states:

“Other means than soap for the purification of the skin are highly objectionable, such as the various wash powders: they are sluttish expedients, half doing their work, and leaving all the corners unswept.”

Pears Soap Advertisement, 1886.

This did not prevent facial waters and cosmetic washes from being widely used.  For example, a great many ladies cleansed their faces with rose water, of which the 1837 Book of Health and Beauty writes:

“Though rose water does not possess many virtues as a cosmetic, the ladies use a good deal of it, in consequence of its agreeable smell, and perhaps, also, on account of its name, consecrated to the Loves and the Graces.”

Moisturizing

Next to soap, cold cream was the most important beauty product in a Victorian lady’s arsenal.  Sometimes referred to as a “pomade for the complexion,” cold cream was used to soften and moisturize the skin.  It was applied after washing the face.  The Handbook of the Toilette advises:

“Every morning, the face and hands, and that part of the neck of ladies which is exposed to view, as also their arms, may likewise receive a portion of cold cream, to be well rubbed in with a towel.”

Ingredients in cold cream varied.  There were countless recipes available which called for everything from hog’s lard and white wax to spermaceti and mercury.  The cream, when mixed, was pure white and could be scented with (among other things) rose or orange flower water, oil of bergamot or lavender, or vanilla and ambergris.  The Book of Health and Beauty provides the basic cold cream recipe below:

Cold Cream Recipe, Book of Health and Beauty, 1837.

Cold Cream Recipe, Book of Health and Beauty, 1837.

Blemishes

Victorians believed that pimples were merely the body’s way of expelling “injurious matter” that would otherwise cause ill health.  To suppress these skin eruptions was considered to be dangerous.  In her 1840 book Female Beauty, as Preserved and Improved by Regimen, Cleanliness and Dress, author Mrs. Walker warns:

“The ordinary means which are employed to remove these specks, are remedies which, by their astringent action on the skin, drive back the injurious matter which nature more wisely endeavours to throw out.  The least dangerous consequence of this perversion of natural action, is a state of langour a hundred times worse than the superficial and trifling defects which females are so eager to avoid.” 

Hagan's Magnolia Balm advert, 1890.(Image via Wellcome Library)

Hagan’s Magnolia Balm advertisement, 1890.
(Image via Wellcome Library)

Blackheads, on the other hand, were directly linked to cosmetic paints, smoke, dirt, and dust, and “sleeping with the face under the counterpane.”  Mrs. Walker declares blackheads to be “as obstinate as they are offensive.”  She advises that:

“A sponge, or very soft brush, with a little soap, will, in general, by frequent and gentle rubbing, gradually remove them.  The face must be washed afterwards, and the operation repeated every morning.  If, in spite of this, the specks remain, the only means left is to extract them by pressing them with the two forefingers, which causes neither pain nor inflammation, and at most merely produces a trifling redness for ten minutes.”

Extraction was not as straightforward a process, however, as some Victorians believed that the gunk which came out was an actual worm.  The 1841 Handbook of the Toilette states:

“On the skin being pressed, the bits of coagulated lymph will come from it in a vermicular form.  They are vulgarly called ‘flesh-worms,’ many ignorant persons supposing them to be living creatures.”

Laird’s Bloom of Youth Advertisement, 1863.

Various cosmetic washes and spot treatments were available to cure blemishes.  However, Freeling warns against “nostrums such as Gowland’s Lotion,” claiming that “all repellent cosmetics are highly dangerous.”  To support his claim, he gives several examples of ladies who attempted to treat a pimple only to end up crippled or dead:

“Mrs. S , being much troubled with pimples, applied an alum poultice to her face, which was soon followed by a stroke of the palsy, and terminated in her death.  Mrs. L applied to her face, for pimples, a quack nostrum, supposed to be some preparation of lead.  Soon after, she was seized with epileptic fits, which ended in palsy, and caused her death.  Mr. Y applied a preparation of lead to his nose, to remove pimples, and it brought on palsy on one side of his face.  Miss W, an elegant young lady of about twenty years of age, applied a cosmetic lotion to her face, to remove the ‘small red pimple.’  This produced inflammation of the liver, which it required repeated bleeding, with medicine, to remove.  As soon as the inflammation was subdued, the pimples reappeared.”

These extreme warnings had no effect on the sales of Gowland’s Lotion.  Despite being poisonous, it remained one of the most popular cosmetic treatments in the Victorian era.  The following general recipe for Gowland’s Lotion below is from the Beeton’s Dictionary of Practical Recipes and Every-Day Information published in 1871:

“Ingredients: 1 ½ gr. of bichloride of mercury and 1 oz. of emulsion of bitter almonds.  Mix these thoroughly, and apply the lotion when required with a piece of soft sponge.  The bichloride of mercury must be used with care, as it is a poison.”

An example of a poison-free treatment for acne is provided by author Adelia Fletcher in her 1899 book The Woman Beautiful.  It reads as follows:

English Acne Lotion Recipe, The Woman Beautiful, 1897.

English Acne Lotion Recipe, The Woman Beautiful, 1897.

Sun Damage and Skin Whiteners

Aspinall's Neigeline Advert., 1894.

Aspinall’s Neigeline Advert., 1894.

Victorian ladies strived for a smooth, white complexion, unmarred by blemishes, freckles, or a suntan.  This meant protecting oneself against the elements with hats, veils, and parasols.  As Freeling states:

“Of all the effects that exposure of the skin to the air or sun produces, the most disagreeable is that called freckles or tan.”

If, despite one’s efforts at prevention, freckles or a tan still managed to make their appearance, there were various treatments available.  Gowland’s Lotion was almost always recommended.  As were lemon juice and strawberry water, which were believed to naturally lighten the skin.  There were recipes for spot treatments, with ingredients such as turpentine and “tincture of benzoin.”  There were also commercial skin whiteners like Beetham’s Glycerine and Cucumber and Aspinall’s Neigeline which, by the end of the century, promised to be “absolutely non-poisonous.”

Beetham's Glycerin and Cucumber advertisement, 1890.(Image via History World)

Beetham’s Glycerin and Cucumber advertisement, 1890.
(Image via History World)

For sunburn or “sun scorch,” Mrs. Walker advises washing the face and affected areas every evening with “new milk, cream, or skimmed milk.”  While Beeton’s Dictionary of Practical Recipes and Every-Day Information recommends an emulsion of almonds made as follows:

Almond Emulsion Recipe, Beeton's Dictionary, 1871

Almond Emulsion Recipe, Beeton’s Dictionary, 1871

Wrinkle Reducers

According to Mrs. Walker, wrinkles arose from “leanness.”  She states:

“We see young women whose faces are furrowed with wrinkles, while others more advanced in years, thanks to their plumpness which distends the skin, are free from these dreadful enemies.”

Her remedy?  To “endeavour to acquire plumpness.”  For some ladies this advice was not at all practical.  They resorted instead to creams and treatments, many of which were based on word of mouth.  In her 1858 book The Arts of Beauty; Or, Secrets of a Lady’s Toilet with Hints to Gentlemen on the Art of Fascinating, author (and famous 19th century beauty) Lola Montez reports:

“The celebrated Madam Vestris used to sleep every night with her face plastered up with a kind of paste to ward off the threatening wrinkles, and keep her charming complexion from fading.”

The recipe for this wrinkle reducing face plaster reads as follows:

Facial Massage, The Woman Beautiful, 1897.

The Woman Beautiful, 1897.

“The whites of four eggs boiled in rose-water, half an ounce of alum, half an ounce of oil of sweet almonds; beat the whole together till it assumes the consistence of a paste.”

Montez states that the above, when “spread upon a silk or muslin mask, and worn at night ” would not only prevent wrinkles, but also keep the complexion fair and stop loose muscles from sagging.

If a Victorian lady was too sensible to put alum on her face, she could always resort to facial massage as a means of combating wrinkles.  Adelia Fletcher’s 1899 book outlines a thorough facial massage regime, complete with illustrations, claiming:

“Massage will in time strengthen the muscles so that the lines will be effaced.”

Depilatories and Hair Removal

On occasion, a Victorian lady had to deal with unwanted facial hair.  Remedies for this troublesome problem ranged from the fairly benign (and probably useless) to the shockingly extreme.  At the safer end of the spectrum, the Book of Health and Beauty recommends using parsley water, acacia juice, nut oil, “the gum of ivy,” or “the juice of the milk-thistle.”  These remedies were thought to prevent hair growth.  If these milder methods did not work, one might resort to “muriatic acid,” diluted or in its concentrated form.

If the stubborn facial hair still persisted, a Victorian lady could depend on a “quick lime depilatory” to eradicate it completely.  Unfortunately, lime was highly corrosive to the skin and using it on the face was a risky business.  Despite this danger, recipes for lime depilatories abounded, some of which included arsenic and other lethal substances.  Beeton’s Dictionary of Practical Recipes and Every-Day Information provides the one below:

QuickLime Depilatory, Beeton's Dictionary, 1871.

Quicklime Depilatory, Beeton’s Dictionary, 1871.

Extreme Skin care Methods

One might argue that basic Victorian skin care was already extreme.  And considering that everyday recipes called for arsenic, mercury, and lime, you would not be wrong.  However, there were even more extreme methods of treating the skin.  One of these, described as a “rejuvenating treatment,” involved the use of iodine.  Adelia Fletcher explains:

“It is a peeling process of the most agonizing sort.  After the raw surface heals from four to eight days—the complexion is in some cases very fair and lovely, but as expressionless as a wax doll’s; and for months afterward the faintest breath of wind or a touch of the softest cloth in bathing the face causes the most exquisite torture.  In a few months after taking this treatment, the sensitive skin commences to show thousands of criss-cross lines,which gradually deepen, till it resembles the shriveled surface of prematurely plucked fruit.”

A Chemist Giving a Demonstration Involving Arsenic, coloured lithograph by H. Daumier, 1841. (Image via Wellcome Trust)

A Chemist Gives a Demonstration Involving Arsenic, lithograph by H. Daumier, 1841.
(Image via Wellcome Trust)

Victorians also used steam and electricity as a means of treating the skin.  Fletcher reports the benefits of electricity facials when properly administered by a “medical electrician”:

“It has the power of stimulating all functional energy, promoting cellular nutrition, quickening the circulation, and energizing nerves and muscles; and permanent cures of acne and other skin diseases have been effected by its scientific application.”

Victorian women desperate for youth and beauty were willing to try most anything.  Lola Montez relates stories of ladies who flocked to drink the water at “arsenic springs,” which “gave their skins a transparent whiteness.”  She also states:

“I knew many fashionable ladies in Paris who used to bind their faces, every night on going to bed, with thin slices of raw beef, which is said to keep the skin from wrinkles, while it gives a youthful freshness and brilliancy to the complexion.”

A Few Final Words…

The above summary of Victorian lady’s skin care is by no means exhaustive.  With the amount of information I found while researching 19th century beauty books, magazines, and medical journals, I could have easily written a ten article series.  If only I had the time!  There is so much more I would have included – popular potions such as Denmark Lotion and Pimpernel Water, recipes for masks, glycerinated lemon lotion, and face powder.  Regrettably, I must close here.  However, if you have any specific questions on 19th century skin care (that you are unable to find the answer to yourself), please feel free to get in touch via the Contact Form.  I may have the answers among my research notes.

**Author’s Note: The recipes in this article are provided for purely educational purposes.  I neither advise your nor encourage you to use any of these to treat your skin or for any other reason.


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Beeton, Samuel Orchart.  Beeton’s Dictionary of Practical Recipes and Every-Day Information.  London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler: 1871.

The Book of Health and Beauty.  London: Joseph Thomas, 1837.

“The Care of the Skin in its Relation to Personal Beauty.”  Western Druggist.  Vol. 15.  Chicago: G.P. Engelhard & Co., 1893.

“The Complexion.”  The Water Cure Journal.  Vol. 7-8.  New York: Fowlers and Wells, 1849.

Cooley, Arnold James.  Instructions and Cautions Respecting the Selection and Use of Perfumes, Cosmetics, and Other Toilet Articles.  Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co, 1873.

“Erasmus Wilson on the Skin.”  The Eclectic Magazine.  Vol. 7.  New York: Leavitt, Trow, & Co., 1846.

Fletcher, Ella Adelia.  The Woman Beautiful.  New York: W. M. Young & Co., 1899.

Freeling, Arthur.  Gracefulness: A Few Words upon Form and Features.  London: George Routledge, 1845.

The Handbook of the Toilette.  London: W. S. Orr and Co., 1841.

Marsh, Madeleine.  Compacts and Cosmetics: Beauty from Victorian Times to the Present Day.  Barnsley: Remember When, 2009.

Montez, Lola.  The Arts of Beauty; Or, Secrets of a Lady’s Toilet with Hints to Gentlemen on the Art of Fascinating.  New York: Dick & Fitzgerald, 1858.

People’s Medical Journal and Family Physician.  Vol. I.  London: George Vickers, 1850.

Walker, Mrs. A.  Female Beauty, as Preserved and Improved by Regimen, Cleanliness and Dress.  New York: Scofield and Voorhies, 1840.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Trouble with Bustles: Victorian Fashion in the 19th Century News

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Punch, 1885.

Punch, 1885.

Extreme fashions have always incited a fair amount of criticism and ridicule. During the 1870s and 1880s, this criticism was primarily reserved for the bustle.  Bustles were routinely satirized in magazines like Punch and featured as the subject of countless humorous—and not so humorous—newspaper articles.  Below are just a few of the many interesting bustle stories from the 19th century news, from an exploding bustle during a reading by author Charles Dickens to a bulk of bustles cast into the sea.

Charles Dickens and the Exploding Bustle

On an evening in September of 1888, famed Victorian author Charles Dickens was giving a reading at the First Congregational Church in the city of San Francisco.  Multiple British newspapers report the story of a fashionable “finely formed lady with patrician features and a dignified gait” who entered after the reading had already begun.  She was on the arm of her husband, a stern gentleman with a “military bearing.”  As an 1888 edition of the Aberdeen Evening Express relates:

“On reaching a seat a few yards from the platform she gave a swing to her dress as she attempted to sit down gracefully.  But her foot caught in the carpet, and she stumbled and fell heavily on the seat.  As she did so a muffled report was heard, and the lady was observed to collapse with a lurch.  Her face turned a deathly pale, and then a carmine hue, and she sprang to her feet in great confusion.”

Centaur and Bustle, Fliegende Blätter Magazine, 1880s

Centaur and Bustle, Fliegende Blätter Magazine, 1880s

Dickens stopped the reading at the sound of the explosion, but having ascertained that nothing was wrong, he continued.  Meanwhile, the knowing crowd—who had “divined the nature of the trouble”—commenced smiling and tittering.  The lady was mortified.  Her husband, however, was wholly unsympathetic to her distress.  He commanded her to resume her seat and “not to look and act so foolishly.”  As the article goes on to state:

“But the explosion of a patent bustle is no small matter to a lady, and although she at length consented to stay, she evidently felt ill at ease all the evening.  A large shawl was thrown over her shoulders to hide the blushes which even stole around the back of her neck.  It was an accident deserving of the most sympathetic consideration, but instead it received only ridicule.”

Punch, 1870.

Punch, 1870.

The lady with the exploding bustle would go on to sue her dressmaker.  The judge in the case was initially perplexed by such a lawsuit.  The Aberdeen Evening Express quotes him as saying:

“I have read of bustles being made of horsehair, muslin, newspapers, pillows, bird cages, and even quilts.  I have heard of alarm clocks striking the hour within the folds of a lady’s dress.  Smuggled cigars, jewellery [sic], and brandy have also been brought to light, but I never before heard of an air-tight bustle exploding in church and then being made the subject of a civil suit.”

The judge went on to state that, “not being married yet” himself, the case was “somewhat perplexing” to him.  He nevertheless endeavored to apply the law to the best of his ability.  He ruled in favor of the plaintiff, awarding her the sum of $11.50.

A Salvation Army Bustle

Some objections to the fashion in bustles had more to do with morality than simple good taste.  In early 1888, Captain Eric Von Alexson and Captain Polly Bran, both of the Salvation Army, were married in a grand ceremony in Little Falls, New York.  Unfortunately, wedded bliss did not last long.  Polly’s predilection for wearing a bustle landed the pair in hot water with their employers.  An 1888 edition of the Aberdeen Evening Express reports that Captain T. E. Moore of the Salvation Army wrote to Captain von Alexson, stating:

“I have been compelled to change my mind as to your going to Kansas in the Army of America.  I do not think your wife in at all a condition to lead others away from the world and sin, and must say I am astonished to think you could uphold an officer, though she be your wife, in dressing herself in the manner Mrs. Alexson did.  She was kindly reproved and shown the wrong, but persisted in wearing a bustle on her back that disgusted every decent person.  Until I see her in sincere godliness I cannot send her to another station.”

THE Crinoletta Disfigurans, An Old Parasite in a New Form, Punch, 1882.

The Crinoletta Disfigurans, An Old Parasite in a New Form, Punch, 1882.

A Bustle Burglary

There was more to 19th century bustle outrage than good old-fashioned morality.  As alluded to by the judge in the case of the exploding bustle, actual crimes were being committed with the aid of bustles.  In 1888, at the Birmingham Assizes, two young ladies were sentenced to twelve months imprisonment for a burglary involving their bustles.  An 1888 issue of the Sheffield Daily Telegraph reports:

Sheffield Daily Telegraph, August 2, 1888.

Sheffield Daily Telegraph, August 2, 1888.

Rabbits and Bustles

Grands Magasin du La Samaritaine Saison, 1886.

There are numerous reports of stolen goods being hidden within the bustles of Victorian era female criminals.  In the following story, however, the stolen goods in question were rather unique.  An 1887 edition of the Gloucestershire Echo reports:

“The three women, Mary Wynne, Ann Gullimore, and Mary Jones, who were last week arrested by the Denbighshire police carrying twenty rabbits round their waists in the shape of dress improvers, were on Saturday brought up at the Denbigh Borough Police-court.  It was alleged by the police that the women were carrying the booty for their husbands.  In defense, the women said they were gathering mushrooms and whilst doing so they found the rabbits, nets, &c.  The prisoners were remanded for a fortnight on a point of law, bail being accepted.”

A Ban on Bustles in the workplace

Many 19th century employers objected to bustles in the workplace.  In 1888, the manager of a factory in America went so far as to ban them altogether.  When asked to justify this “draconian law,” the manager provided a calculation which illustrated the amount of time lost each year as a result of ladies wearing bustles.  An 1888 edition of the Grantham Journal reports:

Grantham Journal, July 28, 1888.

Grantham Journal, July 28, 1888.

Bustles in the Sea

By the 1890s, the extreme bustle silhouette had fallen from favor.  As a result, some tradesmen were left with a large stock of these “obsolete feminine adornments.”  In 1893, a draper in Melbourne came up with an interesting solution to this dilemma.  An issue of the South Wales Daily News reports:

Grands Magasin du La Samaritaine Saison, 1886.

“The Melbourne drapers who have large stocks of saleable bustles on hand are now busy throwing these obsolete feminine adornments into the sea.  The only way to recover the import duty paid on them is to re-export, so the bustles are exported accordingly, and when the vessel gets outside the Heads they are heaved overboard.  Sometimes, within the vicinity of Queenscliff, the sea is dotted all over with bustles.”

The Melbourne draper’s decision to cast his bustles into the sea inspired a great many humorous articles in the 19th century news.  For example, an 1893 edition of the Sheffield Evening Telegraph, titled “Fashions for Mermaids,” suggests:

“Mermaids who have their abode in the sea round Melbourne are at present enabled to deck themselves out in the Parisian fashions of a bygone season.”

Pointing out that “fashions are necessarily limited in the grottos of the ocean,” the article goes on to state:

“…Parisian bustles will afford opportunities of a material addition to the stereotyped smile which is understood—from the descriptions of the few favoured with private views—to be the main attire of the sirens of the sea.  There is reasonable hope that by the distribution of the bustle we may learn more of the hitherto mysterious mermaids.”

Dimity Bustle, 1881.

Naturally, there is more to the Victorian era bustle than humorous anecdotes and satirical sketches.  Gowns of the 1870s and 1880s were actually quite beautiful.  I hope to give a little more insight into them—bustles and all—in the next installment of my series on 19th century gowns, which will cover the 1870s.  Until then, I hope you have enjoyed this brief sampling of bustles in the 19th century news.


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“Burglars and Bustles.”  Sheffield Daily Telegraph.  August 2, 1888.

“The Bustle Burst.”  Aberdeen Evening Express.  September 29, 1888.

“Bustles for the Mermaids.”  Aberdeen Evening Express.  June 19, 1893.

“Bustles in the Sea.”  South Wales Daily News.  June 17, 1893.

“Fashions for Mermaids.”  Sheffield Evening Telegraph.  June 17, 1893.

“The Loss in Bustles.”  Grantham Journal.  July 28, 1888.

“An Offensive Bustle.”  Aberdeen Evening Express.  February 21, 1888.

“Rabbits and Bustles.”  Gloucestershire Echo.  September 19, 1887.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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Animal Grief in the 19th Century

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Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1827.

Old Shepherd’s Chief Mourner by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1827.

During the 19th century, attributing human feelings to animals was generally considered to be more sentimentality than science.  Nevertheless, Regency and Victorian era reports abound of dogs who wasted away at their master’s graves, cats who refused to eat or drink upon the death of their mistress, and even a pet monkey who committed suicide.  Some of these stories were, indeed, mere sentimentalism.  Others were poignant accounts of the behavior of indisputably grief stricken animals.

Greyfriars Bobby, circa 1865.(Image via The National Galleries of Scotland)

Greyfriars Bobby, circa 1865.
(National Galleries of Scotland)

Some of the most well-known stories of animal grief in the 19th century involve dogs.  The most famous of these is, undoubtedly, the tale of Greyfriar’s Bobby.  Bobby was a terrier whose owner died and was subsequently buried in Greyfriar’s churchyard in Edinburgh.  In his 1887 book Dog Stories and Dog Lore, author Thomas Knox writes:

“Bobby was one of the mourners at the funeral and for nearly fourteen years he kept watch over his master’s grave.  Every night he lay there regardless of the weather; the sexton of the churchyard tried to persuade Bobby to leave the place and live with him but all to no purpose, as the dog would howl in the most dismal tones until allowed to return to the grave.  He was ultimately found dead one bitter morning in winter and was supposed to have perished of age and cold.”

Doubt has since been cast on the tale of Bobby’s unrelenting devotion to his master, but there are countless other similar tales involving 19th century dogs that grieved for their deceased owners.  An 1849 article in the Norfolk News relates the story of a spaniel whose mistress—the wife of a “coal-heaver”—had taken deathly ill.  The spaniel remained on his mistress’ bed, “occasionally emitting a melancholy howl,” until she passed away.  After her death, the spaniel’s grief “redoubled.”  The article reports:

“Taking by the coffin a similar position to that which he had occupied in the sick chamber, he refused to quit his post, and would have been starved if his meals had not been taken to him.”

On the day of the funeral, the spaniel followed along with the mourners to the graveyard, after which he was not seen again until well past midnight when he was discovered scratching at the door of his master’s house.  As the article states:

“On ingress being afforded, the faithful brute was found nearly covered with soil, and appeared greatly fatigued.  It was found next day that he had visited the grave, and displaced a considerable quantity of the earth in his attempts to reach the coffin.  He refuses food and is literally dying by inches.”

For the Last Time by Emily Mary Osborn, 1864.

For the Last Time by Emily Mary Osborn, 1864.

An 1858 edition of the Northern Whig also published a story of a dog who kept vigil at his master’s grave.  In this particular case, on the day of his master’s burial, the dog took up residence in an “aperture” near the grave that led to a gloomy little cavern wherein the dog would curl up, inconsolable, for days at a time.  A gentleman in a house across from the churchyard took pity on the poor creature and began to offer him food.  The dog accepted the food, but he could not be lured from his owner’s grave for long.  The article states:

“As soon as he had finished his hasty meal, he would gaze for a moment on his benefactor.  It was an expressive look, but one which could not be misunderstood.  It conveyed all the thanks that a broken heart could give.  He then entombed himself once more for three or four days, when he crawled out again with his eyes sunk and his coat disheveled.  Two years he remained faithful to the memory of the being he had lost, and then having been missing several days, he was found dead in his retreat.”

Old Woman by a Hearth by August Allebé, 1875.

Old Woman by a Hearth
by August Allebé, 1875.

Cats were not as popular as dogs in the 19th century, nor were they endowed with as many noble qualities.  Even so, Victorians could not deny that cats were often capable of a great bond with their master or mistress—and equally capable of grief at losing them.  An 1887 edition of the Leeds Times relates the tale of a lady and her beloved pet cat, stating:

“Upon her death the cat was removed from her room, but it made its way there the next morning, lamenting its dead mistress with piteous cries.  After her funeral it was found stretched dead upon her grave, having apparently died from excess of grief.”

The Leeds Times goes on to report the story of a cat who was “greatly attached” to a little boy.  When the boy was taken ill, the cat “attended him most devotedly.”  Later, when the boy died, the article states:

“The cat’s grief was pitiful to see.  After the child was interred the cat disappeared, and it was not until a fortnight afterwards that she returned, quite emaciated, but refused food and again escaped.  At length, impelled by hunger, she returned every day at dinner time, leaving directly after.  It was discovered that she passed all the rest of her time in the burying ground, close to the grave of her favourite; and from that time till the family removed to another place, five years afterwards, she never, except in the greatest severity of winter, passed a night anywhere but close to his grave.”

Reports of animal grief in the 19th century were not limited to tales of pets grieving over the death of a human master or mistress.  Many newspaper and magazine articles of the day reported stories of animals grieving deeply over the loss of an animal companion.  As an example of this, an 1845 edition of the Wiltshire Gazette published a story of two horses who had served together during the Peninsular War.  These horses had drawn the same gun and had been “inseparable companions through many battles.”  The article reports:

“One of them was at last killed; and after the engagement, the survivor was piqueted as usual, and his food brought to him.  He refused, however, to eat, and was constantly turning round his head to look for his companion, sometimes neighing as if to call him.  All the care that was bestowed upon him was to no avail.  He was surrounded by other horses, but he did not notice them; and he shortly afterwards died, not having once tasted food from the time his former associate was killed.”

Horse by James Ward, 1769-1859.

Horse by James Ward, 1769-1859.

Sometimes, at least according to the Victorians, an animal’s grief went beyond the passive refusal of food or shelter and advanced to the animal actively hastening his own demise.  Animal suicide, in fact.  In 1889, the Star published an account of a gentleman in Paris who owned a very well trained pet monkey.  During a bout of low spirits, the gentleman took his own life by shooting himself through the head.  As the article relates:

“The monkey was present at the death of his master, and probably took in every particular.  In any case, when a doctor was called in to see if life was extinct in the man, he was astonished to find himself in presence of a double suicide, the monkey’s body being stretched beside that of his master with the revolver clasped between its fingers…It is stated that the animal picked up the pistol after his master had blown out his brains, and imitated what he had just seen done, sending a bullet through his head precisely as the man had done.”

Today, the above incident sounds more like mere mimicry than an instance of what the Star calls “Suicide by Grief.”  But though the 1889 report of a monkey suicide may have had little to do with actual grief on the part of the monkey, it is important to note that 19th century tales of animal suicide were not uncommon.  In her 2013 book How Animals Grieve, anthropologist Barbara King quotes an article from an 1847 edition of Scientific American titled “Suicide by Gazelle.”  The article reads, in part:

“A female gazelle having suddenly died from something it had eaten, the male stood over the dead body of his mate, butting every one who attempted to touch it, then, suddenly making a spring, struck his head against a wall, and fell dead at the side of his companion.”

Much as in the case of the monkey, the gazelle suicide could easily be explained in a less sentimental way.  Nevertheless, the example helps to illustrate the 19th century tendency to explain animal behavior in terms of human emotion.  Does this mean that all reports of animal grief in the 19th century are nothing more than anthropomorphism?  That animals are not capable of mourning a lost loved one?  Not at all.  Modern scientists—including renowned animal behavior expert Professor Marc Bekoff—have proven that all animals have the capacity for grief.  As Bekoff writes in his 2007 book, The Emotional Lives of Animals:

“..careful scientific research is validating what we intuitively understand: that animals feel, and their emotions are as important to them as ours are to us.”

King echoes this statement in her own book, assuring us that “animals grieve when they have loved.”  And it certainly seems clear that in many reported cases of 19th century animal grief, the animals in question loved their companions very much and, when those companions were taken away, mourned them just as deeply.

Attachment by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1829. (Saint Louis Art Museum)

Attachment by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1829.
(Saint Louis Art Museum)

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to learn more about animal grief or animal emotions in general, I highly recommend the books below:

The Emotional Lives of Animals by Marc Bekoff

How Animals Grieve by Barbara King


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“Affections of Animals.”  Devizes and Wiltshire Gazette.  May 29, 1845.

Bekoff, Marc.  The Emotional Lives of Animals.  Novato: New World Library, 2007.

“A Dog Dying of Grief.”  Whitby Gazette.  March 27, 1875.

“A Dog’s Grief.”  Northern Whig.  December 28, 1858.

“Death of a Dog from Grief.”  Morning Post.  July 18, 1872.

“Faithful Cats.”  Leeds Times.  March 12, 1887.

“Instance of Canine Attachment.”  Norfolk News.  February 10, 1849.

King, Barbara.  How Animals Grieve.  Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013.

Knox, Thomas Wallace.  Dog Stories and Dog Lore.  New York: Cassell & Co., 1887.

“Suicide from Grief.”  The Star.  May 4, 1889.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Perfume

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Pot Pourri by Herbert James Draper, 1897.

Pot Pourri by Herbert James Draper, 1897.

A Victorian lady was not known for wearing an excess of scent.  Nevertheless, perfumes were as much a part of a Victorian woman’s beauty regime as hair and skin care.  These perfumes were generally simpler than the ones we know today and consisted, in large part, of florals and other botanicals, such as rose, violet, bergamot, lemon, and lavender.  They were rarely applied directly to the skin.  Instead, Victorian perfumes were used to scent handkerchiefs, gloves, and clothing, and even as a fragrant additive in cosmetic products like hair pomade or lip salve.  Some fragrances were 19th century mainstays.  Others were popular for a time and then fell out of favor.  This article (the fourth in my series of Victorian Lady’s Guides) serves as a brief primer on some of the most commonly used perfumes of the Victorian era.

Early Victorian

At the beginning of the Victorian era, the predominant scent was Eau de Cologne.  Consisting of a base of neroli oil (an oil derived from orange blossoms and flowers from the bitter orange tree), Eau de Cologne had risen to popularity during the 18th century.  In her 2015 book, How to Be a Victorian, author Ruth Goodman describes Eau de Cologne as “a sharp, clean scent that cut through other smells.”  Unlike true perfumes, it was diluted with distilled water—hence the name toilet water—and was sold as a relatively inexpensive scent for both Victorian men and Victorian women.

Eau de Cologne advertisement, 19th century.

Eau de Cologne advertisement, 19th century.

Natural scents like florals, herbals, and oils derived from the rinds of citrus fruits were also very popular—and would remain so throughout the era.  As an 1840 edition of the Saturday Magazine reports:

“Herbs, drugs, and flowers, are made to yield their aromatic odours for our use.  Among the former we may mention marjoram, sage, thyme, lavender, &c., while of drugs, frankincense, mace, cloves, benzoin, storax, and many others, are held in great esteem.  Orange-flowers, jonquils, jessamine, roses, violets, and other fragrant flowers, are also largely employed, and thus, by a judicious use of some of these various essences, we may impart to our dwellings or our dress, the delightful odours of our favourite flowers, at any period of the year.”

One of the most well known floral scents was the famous Otto of Roses.  Made from the petals of the “hundred-leaved rose”—or rosa centifolia—the Saturday Magazine calls Otto of Roses “the most costly of all the perfumes and the most powerful.”  Though its title as most expensive perfume would soon be eclipsed by the fashionably complex scents of the 1880s and 1890s, Otto of Roses would remain a favorite fragrance throughout the Victorian era and into the 20th century.

Mid-Victorian

By the middle of the Victorian era, bergamot and lemon oil had surpassed Eau de Cologne to become the most popular fragrance for women.  According to Goodman:

Lemon illustration from Birds and Nature, 1899.

Lemon illustration from Birds and Nature, 1899.

“Bergamot and lemon oil, sometimes employed separately but more often used in combination, was the signature smell of the middle years of the century.  Almost everything was scented with this mixture from hand creams and hair pomades to pincushions.”

Readily available at local apothecaries and chemists’ shops, bergamot and lemon oil was much more reasonably priced than Eau de Cologne had been.  As a result, Goodman explains:

“The fashionable scent of the mid-century was within the grasp of more people than eau de cologne had ever been.  Even a working-class home, as long as the adult male was in full-time employment, could boast a pot of lemon and bergamot in some form.”

Late Victorian

The advent of inexpensive synthetic fragrances resulted in perfumes being available to an even wider range of Victorian women.  Wishing to distance themselves from the perfumes used by the lower classes, wealthy ladies began to demand more complex, and as yet unsynthesized, perfumes.  This demand did not go unanswered.  By the 1890s, Goodman states that single scent perfumes had given way to fashionable perfumes made of “eight or twelve different extracts” and sold in “slim, beautifully decorative glass vials.”

Herman Loeb & Co Perfume Advert, 1900.

Herman Loeb & Co., Perfume Advertisement, 1900.

These expensive, late Victorian perfumes frequently contained spice oils and animal essences, like musk, ambergris, and civet.  Animal essences were heavier than botanical scents and their fragrance lasted far longer.  The Book of Perfumes describes musk as a secretion found in a “pocket, or pod, under the belly of the musk-deer.”  Civet was also an animal secretion.  As The Book of Perfumes states:

“Civet is the glandular secretion of the Vicerra civetta, an animal of the feline tribe, about three feet in length and one foot in height, which is found in Africa and India.  It is now chiefly imported from the Indian Archipelago; but, formerly, Dutch merchants kept some of these cats at Amsterdam in long wooden cages, and had the perfume scraped from them two or three times a week with a wooden spatula.”

Unlike musk and civet, which were secreted by land mammals, ambergris was found in the sea.  Initially the Victorians were puzzled by the exact origin of the waxy substance, but The Book of Perfumes reports:

“It is now ascertained beyond a doubt to be generated by the large-headed spermaceti whale (Physeter macrocephalus), and is the result of a diseased state of the animal, which either throws up the morbific substance, or dies of the malady, and is eaten up by other fishes.  In either case, the ambergris becomes loose, and is picked up floating on the sea, or is washed ashore.”

While wealthy Victorians ladies were wearing complex perfumes made of musk and spices, the rest of the Victorian female population was, according to Goodman, “awash in lavender oil.”  It was used to scent everything, from hair products and cosmetics to soaps and water, and became so popular that a new industry of lavender growers in England and France rose up to meet the demand.

Perfumers and chemists

Florida Water advertisement, 1881.

When it came to purchasing perfumes, Victorian women had a wide variety of choices.  In her 2014 book, Fragrance and Well-Being, author Jennifer Rhind states that, at the beginning of the Victorian era, there were approximately 40 perfumers working in London alone—the same amount as in Paris at that time.

Not only did these perfumers sell Eau de Cologne and other popular fragrances of the day, they frequently came up with their own perfumes as well.  For example, in 1861, the House of Guerlain created Eau de Cologne Imperiale for the Empress Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III.  In 1872, the London perfumer Penhaligon’s launched the fragrance Hammam Bouquet.  Fougere Royale was produced by Houbigant Parfums in 1882.  And in 1889, Coty created their famous Victorian perfume, Jicky.

Of course, no perfume article would be complete without mentioning Floris in Jermyn Street, London.  Founded in the 18th century, and still in business today, Floris is the oldest perfume house in the world.  In her 2001 book, For Appearance’ Sake, author Victoria Sherrow lists several Floris fragrances produced during the 19th century, including  Malmaison and Special No. 127.

For many Victorians, however, expensive products from fashionable perfumers were simply out of reach.  That did not mean that the poor and working classes had to forego their fragrances.  In fact, chemist’s shops and pharmacies did a robust business selling inexpensive perfumes, toilets waters, and other scented products to those of moderate means.  As an 1895 edition of the Bulletin of Pharmacy reports:

“The sale of perfumes in chemists’ shops is also a very large one, as the middle and poorer classes especially go in for cheap lines of perfumes which have lately been extensively imported from the Continent, particularly Germany.  The intrinsic value is small, and the principal attraction consists in the get-up of the bottle and label.  The sale of perfumes is evidently a very profitable transaction, if we may judge from the very large space devoted to these articles in the show-cases of most chemists.”

John Bell's Pharmacy, 19th Century.(Image via Wellcome Library)

John Bell’s Pharmacy, 19th Century.
(Image via Wellcome Library)

Florals, Herbals, and Citrus

Though the popularity of certain perfumes changed throughout the Victorian era, there were some botanical scents that never went out of style.  I’ve listed a few of these perennial favorites below along with brief descriptions.

Bergamot

Citrus bergamia by Franz Eugen Köhler, 1896.

A very popular scent during the middle of the Victorian era, bergamot was derived from the rind of the fruit of the Seville orange tree.  It was frequently combined with lemon oil.

Jasmine

Jasminum officinale, Curtis's Botanical Magazine, 1787.

Eugene Rimmel’s 1865 Book of Perfumes describes Jasmine as “one of the most agreeable and useful odours employed by perfumers.”  While an article in the 1876 edition of Gardener’s Monthly reports:

“The odor of this flower is delicate and sweet, and so peculiar that it is without comparison, and as such cannot be imitated.  For this reason the odor is very costly, — fifty dollars per fluid ounce.”

Lavender

Lavandula vera by Charles Flahault, 1906.

The Book of Perfumes classifies lavender as an aromatic herbal, describing the fragrance as “a nice, clean scent, and an old and deserving favourite.”  Lavender was hugely popular in the last decades of the Victorian era.  It was grown in both England and France—though The Book of Perfumes claims that English lavender, of the kind produced in Surrey and Hertfordshire, was far superior.

Orange-Blossom

Orange Blossoms by Mary Eaton, 1917.

The Saturday Magazine describes orange-blossom oil as “a very fine, delicate, and expensive perfume.”  The orange-blossoms used for perfumery were those of the bitter orange tree.  When distilled, these blossoms produced neroly.  Essential oils could also be obtained from the edible orange-tree, but The Book of Perfumes states that these oils were “very inferior” in quality.

Rose

The rose was known as the queen of flowers and its fragrance was often called the queen of perfumes.  An 1878 edition of Vick’s Monthly Magazine claims that the rose “gives the sweetest, the most lovely and loved perfume.”  While The Book of Perfumes states:

Rosa centifolia foliacea by Pierre-Joseph Redouté, 1823.

“We next come to the queen of flowers, the rose — the eternal theme of poets of all ages and of all nations, but which for the prosaical perfumer derives its principal charms from the delicious fragrance with which Nature has endowed it.  And well does the perfumer turn that sweetness to account; for he compels the lovely flower to yield its aroma to him in every shape, and he obtains from it an essential oil, a distilled water, a perfumed oil, and a pomade.  Even its withered leaves are rendered available to form the ground of sachet-powder, for they retain their scent for a considerable time.”

Tuberose

Polianthes tuberosa, Curtis's Botanical Magazine, 1816.

In 19th century publications, the tuberose is often paired with jasmine.  Both were heady, exotic scents, and as the Saturday Magazine explains:

“The oils of jasmine and tuberose are of so delicate a nature, as to be impaired by the most careful distillation.  The perfumes of these flowers are, therefore, obtained from them by steeping the blossoms in perfectly inodorous fixed oil, which becomes imbued with their fragrance, and from which the odour may be transferred to alcohol, so as to form a spirituous essence.”

Violet

Viola odorata by L. A. Meredith, 1836.

Gardener’s Monthly calls violet “one of the rarest odors in nature.”  While The Book of Perfumes states:

“It is a scent which pleases all, even the most delicate and nervous, and it is no wonder that it should be in such universal request.”

A FEW FINAL WORDS…

As always, I hope you’ve found the above information helpful.  If you would like to learn more about the history of Victorian era perfumes, I suggest you have a look through Eugene Rimmel’s 1865 Book of Perfumes.  For instant gratification, you might visit the websites of Floris and/or Penhaligon’s.  Both perfumers have been in business for well over 100 years.  At Penhaligon’s, you can even still purchase their 1872 scent Hammam Bouquet.

Floris

Penhaligon’s


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Dunham, Emma.  “Perfumes.”  Gardeners Monthly and Horticulturist.  Vol. XVIII.  Philadelphia: Charles H. Marot, 1876.

Goodman, Ruth.  How to Be a Victorian: A Dawn to Dusk Guide to Victorian Life.  New York: Liveright, 2015.

Groom, Nigel.  The New Perfume Handbook.  London: Blackie Academic and Professional, 1997.

The Ladies Pocket Book of Etiquette.  London: George Bell, 1840.

“Materials for the Toilette.”  The Saturday Magazine.  Vol. 15.  London: John William Parker, 1840.

“Perfume of the Rose.”  Vick’s Monthly Magazine.  Vol. 1.  Rochester: 1878.

Rhind, Jennifer Peace.  Fragrance and Well-Being.  Philadelphia: Singing Dragon, 2014.

Rimmel, Eugene.  The Book of Perfumes.  London: Chapman and Hall, 1865.

Sell, Charles.  Chemistry of Fragrances: From Perfumer to Consumer.  Royal Society of Chemistry, 2006.

Sherrow, Victoria.  For Appearance’ Sake: The Historical Encyclopedia of Good Looks, Beauty, and Grooming.  Westport: Oryx Press, 2001.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

For more Romance, Literature, and History, follow me on:

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Barnaby & Burgho: The Bloodhounds Hired to Hunt Jack the Ripper

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Rosemary and Duchess of Ripple (Burgho’s dam), The American Book of the Dog, 1891.

In October of 1888, a series of brutal murders in Whitechapel prompted the London Metropolitan Police to consider hiring Bloodhounds to hunt down the elusive killer we know today as Jack the Ripper.  Four murders had already taken place in a fairly short span of time.  Mary Ann Nichols was killed on August 31, Annie Chapman was killed on September 8, and in what has come to be known as the “double event,” the mutilated bodies of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were both found on September 30.  The public was panicked and the police were becoming desperate.  On October 4, 1888, they contacted Mr. Edwin Brough, a highly respected breeder of Bloodhounds in Wyndgate near Scarborough.  An October 10, 1888 edition of the Yorkshire Post and Leeds Intelligencer reports:

“On the 4th of October Mr. Brough was communicated with by the Metropolitan police as to the utility of employing bloodhounds to track criminals, and negotiations followed which resulted in that gentleman coming to London on Saturday evening, bringing with him two magnificent animals named Barnaby and Burgho.” 

Illustration of Barnaby and Burgho, Atchison Daily Globe, 1888.

Illustration of Barnaby and Burgho, Atchison Daily Globe, 1888.

Barnaby was a four-year-old black and tan Bloodhound by Nobleman out of Brevity.  He was primarily a show dog at the time and, two years prior at the Warwick Dog Show, had shared the “Castle Park Stakes for man hunt with single hounds.”  Burgho was a two-year-old black and tan Bloodhound by Maltravers out of Duchess of Ripple.  Unlike Barnaby, Burgho had not been shown to a great extent, but as the Yorkshire Post and Leeds Intelligencer states:

“Burgho, however, had been trained from a puppy to hunt the clean shoe, that is to say, follow the trail of a man whose shoes have not been prepared in any way by the application of blood or aniseed so as to leave a strongly marked trail.  Barnaby has been similarly taught, but his training was not commenced until he was twelve months old.”

Photo of Edwin Brough, Scarborough Faces, 1901.

Edwin Brough, Scarborough Faces, 1901.

On Monday October 8, 1888, at seven o’clock in the morning, Mr. Brough brought Barnaby and Burgho to Regent’s Park in London to perform the first of several trials for the police.  On that particular day, the ground was covered in frost.  Nevertheless, Barnaby and Burgho were able to successfully track, for nearly a mile, a young man who had been given fifteen minutes lead.  That evening, the two bloodhounds were taken to Hyde Park for another trial.  The October 10, 1888 edition of the Dundee Courier reports:

“It was, of course, dark, and the dogs were hunted in a leash, as would be the case if they were employed in Whitechapel.  They were again successful in performing their allotted task and at seven o’clock yesterday morning a trial took place before Sir Charles Warren.”

On the morning of October 9, 1888, Barnaby and Burgho performed a trial for Commissioner of Police Sir Charles Warren.  Six separate runs were made and, in two of them, Sir Charles himself played the part of the hunted man.  According to the Yorkshire Post and Leeds Intelligencer:

“In every instance the dogs hunted the persons, who were complete strangers to them, and occasionally the trail would be crossed.  When this happened the hounds were temporarily checked, but either one or the other would pick up the trail again.  In one of the longer courses the hounds were checked at half the distance; Burgho ran back, but Barnaby, moving a fresh cast forward, recovered the trail and ran the quarry home.  The hound did this entirely unaided by his master, who thought that he was on the wrong track, but left him to his own devices.  In consequence of the coldness of the scent yesterday morning the hounds worked very slowly, but they demonstrated the possibility of tracking complete strangers on whose trail they had been laid.”

Sir Charles appeared to be pleased with the results of the trials.  It was decided that Barnaby and Burgho would be kept at the ready so that if there were another murder they could be summoned instantly and “reach Whitechapel in less than an hour.”

Illustrated Police News, September 22, 1888.

The plan to use Bloodhounds to track the Whitechapel murderer was not without its detractors.  For example, an article in the October 8, 1888 edition of the St. James’s Gazette asserts that Bloodhounds were merely “fancy dogs,” not suitable to be used as detectives.  It reads, in part:

“As a man-hunter the bloodhound has not for generations been required in this country; nor is there much chance of his being used again, excepting altogether for mere sport and pastime.  At present, and until he obtains further practice in the art, there will be no difficulty in proving him a failure…”

While an article in the October 9, 1888 edition of the St. James’s Gazette declares that the “practical result” of the previous four days’ discussion of using Bloodhounds for tracking the Whitechapel murderer was “not very encouraging.”  As the article states:

“The hounds require to be trained, which very few of them are; and it is necessary, moreover, that the scent should be quite fresh.  Consequently there is not much chance of any bloodhound aiding to discover the Whitechapel murderer, unless he should commit another crime, and then the hounds would have to be laid upon the scent immediately.”

Sir Charles Warren, 1890s.

Sir Charles Warren, 1890s.

Adding to these worries, was a legitimate concern that Barnaby and Burgho would inadvertently cause an innocent man to be accused.  The St. James’s Gazette reports:

“It seems that the hounds would be quite likely to bring an innocent butterman to bay; to set an infuriated mob upon some purveyor of cats’-meat; to run down the policeman who had discovered a murder; or even to direct suspicion against Sir Charles Warren himself.  This would gratify some people, but it would hardly promote the ends of justice.”

The same article goes on to explain that it was not so much an error on the part of the dogs that worried everyone, but that some innocent person would “become infected” with the scent and:

“…be run down and pulled to pieces, not by the dogs but by the excited crowd of men and women who would be sure to join in the pursuit.  We would not give much for the life of a person who was reasonably suspected by an East-end crowd of being concerned in the Whitechapel murders.”

Unfortunately, Barnaby and Burgho would never get the chance to prove themselves.  After the trials in the park, Mr. Brough was compelled to return home to Wyndgate.  Meanwhile, Burgho was sent to Brighton to compete in a dog show.  Barnaby remained in London for a time in the care of Mr. Brough’s friend, Mr. Taunton.  At the end of October, the Leman Street Police Station sent a telegram to Mr. Taunton asking him to bring up Barnaby to help track a thief after a burglary.  Mr. Taunton complied.  When he later wrote to inform Mr. Brough of this incident, Mr. Brough was far from happy.  According to a November 13, 1888 edition of the Hull Daily Mail:

“…he wired insisting that the dog should be sent back at once, as the danger of its being poisoned if it were known that the police were trying to track burglars by its aid was very great.”

Burgundy Bloodhound, 1903. British Dogs, Their Points, Selection, and Show Preparation by W.D. Drury.

Burgundy Bloodhound, 1903.
British Dogs, Their Points, Selection, and Show Preparation by W.D. Drury.

Less than two weeks later, on November 9, 1888, Mary Jane Kelly was brutally murdered in her lodgings at 13 Miller’s Court.  Sir Charles had previously ordered that if and when another murder took place, the crime scene was not to be disturbed until the Bloodhounds had had a chance to pick up the scent.  Inspector Abberline ordered the area to be sealed off and policemen were posted outside of the room.  The 2005 book Ripper Notes: How the Newspapers Covered the Jack the Ripper Murders explains:

“For two hours the police waited outside the room, while the barricades were being thrown up at each end of Dorset Street, and the occupants of the lodging-houses compelled to keep to their rooms.  At the end of that time it was learned that the owner of the bloodhounds, fearful lest his dogs would be poisoned by the Ripper, had had them sent back to Scarborough.”

Though theories on the identity of Jack the Ripper abound, the Whitechapel murders were never officially solved.  If Barnaby and Burgho had been available as originally planned, might they have been able to track down the mysterious man who accompanied Mary Kelly to her lodgings that fateful morning in November?  Mr. Brough was doubtful.  In a 1901 interview, published in the book Scarborough Faces Past and Present, he is quoted as stating:

“Personally, I had not much faith in the experiment, for the hounds had to run on a cold pavement, and there was no certainty of being able to lay them on the line of the right man.  I took the dogs up as much to please the public as for any other reason.  Most people displayed entire ignorance in the matter.  They seemed to think that the police had only to take a bloodhound to the place where a murder had been committed, weeks or months before, and the animal would at once scent out the trail of the murderer in preference to thousands of other passers-by, and run the man down.”

Cover of Puck Magazine, September 21, 1889.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to learn more about Bloodhounds, the following links may be useful:

American Bloodhound Club (United States)

The Bloodhound Club (United Kingdom)


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“A Man-Hunt by Bloodhounds.”  St. James’s Gazette.  October 8, 1888.

“Another Clue.”  Hull Daily Mail.  November 13, 1888.

“Bloodhounds as Detectives.”  Dundee Courier.  October 10, 1888.

“Official Trial with Bloodhounds.”  Yorkshire Post and Leeds Intelligencer.  October 10, 1888.

Ripper Notes: How the Newspapers Covered the Jack the Ripper Murders.  Inklings Press, 2005.

“Sir Charles Warren and the Bloodhounds.”  Hull Daily Mail.  November 13, 1888.

Some Scarborough Faces Past and Present.  Scarborough: Scarborough Gazette, 1901.

St. James’s Gazette.  October 9, 1888.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hairdressing

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La Toilette by Eva Gonzalès, 1879.

In my previous post, A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hair Care, we discussed brushing, washing, oiling, and pomading the hair.  These steps were essential in a 19th century lady’s hair routine.  However, in the Victorian era, it was not enough to have clean, healthy, lustrous tresses.  Those tresses must be twisted, rolled, plaited, and pinned into suitably fashionable styles.  Dressing the hair in this manner was practically an art form and, as the styles were always evolving, it required a lady – or a lady’s maid – to pay constant attention to changing trends in fashionable coiffures, as illustrated and explained in any one of the numerous 19th century lady’s magazines.  In this post, we will address the basic tools of Victorian hairdressing, as well as take a brief look at popular styles throughout the Victorian era.

The Basics

In her 1840 book, Female Beauty, as Preserved and Improved by Regimen, Cleanliness and Dress, author Mrs. Walker describes the implements a lady will need for styling her hair.  In addition to a soft brush and combs with teeth of varying widths, she recommends hairpins, curling tongs, a selection of hair combs, pomade, and false hair.

Advertisement for False Hair, 1898.

Advertisement for False Hair, 1898.

False hair came in a variety of forms, including invisible tufts, comb tufts, plaits, ringlets, and pads.  Used to add height, thickness, or simply as fashionable adornment, false hair was meant to blend seamlessly with one’s own hair color.  This was often easier said than done.  For an exact match, many women made their own hairpieces.  In her book Compacts and Cosmetics: Beauty from Victorian Times to the Present Day, author Madeleine Marsh explains:

“Dressing table sets included a ‘hair tidy’ (a screw-top container with a hole in the lid) which was used as a receptacle for what must have been a considerable amount of hair from the brush.  This could then be combed out and transformed into additional hairpieces (familiarly known as ‘rats’) – cheaper and a much better colour match than buying in the false ringlets and pads necessary to create the more complicated Victorian and Edwardian hairstyles.”

To curl hair, Victorian women employed curling tongs.  These were heated directly in the fire and, as a result, it was difficult to control the temperature.  Hair was frequently scorched or burned off completely.  In the 1881 book, Sylvia’s Book of the Toilet: A Ladies’ Guide to Dress and Beauty, the author advises on the safest method for using curling tongs:

“The best mode of applying the curling tongs is as follows.  Fold the hair, having slightly damped it, over the frizzing or curling tongs, having previously carefully wrapped these round with a roll of thin brown paper.  Or, do the hair upon stout crimping pins, or braid it in and out of a loop of thick cord; fold a piece of thin paper over the crimp, and the pinching iron may be used in safety.”

Ivins' Patent Hair Crimper, Godey's Lady's Book, 1865.

Ivins’ Patent Hair Crimper, Godey’s Lady’s Book, 1865.

Though new hair products were always on the market, the basic hairdressing items listed above did not change much throughout the Victorian era.  Equipped with brush, combs, curling tongs, false hair, pins, and pomade and armed with a variety of trimmings – such as beads, ribbons, feathers, and fresh flowers – a lady could create almost any style from 1837 through 1901.

1830s and 1840s

During the late 1830s and into the 1840s, hair was usually parted in the center, pinned up or braided in the back, and then coiled or curled into ringlets on each side of the face.  Hair was worn close to the head and frequently smoothed down to completely cover the ears.  The styles during these years were plain and could be severe looking, but they were very much in keeping with the stark, Gothic gowns that were fashionable at the beginning of the Victorian era.

Lady's Magazine, 1837.

Lady’s Magazine, 1837.

The 1837 edition of the Lady’s Magazine describes three popular styles that year (with accompanying plate above):

“The style of coiffure of the first three heads is precisely the same, the first being ornamented with a bandeau of pearls — the second which gives the coiffure in front with flowers, and the third likewise with flowers, giving the back of the other two.  The hair for this coiffure is brought in smooth bands, as low as possible, at the sides of the face, where after forming a kind of chignon at each side, it is turned up again (see plate); the back hair is tied very low, and formed into a single coque or bow, surrounded by braids and circles of hair, an ornamented arrow runs through the whole; three full blown white roses are placed at each side of the face.”

1850s and 1860s

Moving into the 1850s and 1860s, hairstyles were much less severe.  Hair became fuller and more feminine.  It was plaited, twisted into large rolls, or swept back into a chignon or a hairnet.  Hairnets, including the popularly advertised “Invisible Hair-Net,” were made of fine silk that was virtually indistinguishable from one’s natural hair.

Godey’s Lady’s Book, March 1864.

The 1864 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book provides an illustration of two typical 1860s hairstyles (see above plate).  Called the “Clarissa coiffure” and the “Morny headdress,” Godey’s writes:

“The Clarissa coiffure.  The hair is rolled off the face in front, and the ends braided.  The back hair is arranged in a large bow, very low on the neck, and covered with a net.  The ornaments are peacock feathers.

“The Morny headdress.  The hair is rolled over a cushion in front, and arranged in a waterfall at the back, round which is twisted a heavy plait.  The comb is of black velvet and gilt.  The coiffure is compose of black barbe and lilies of the valley.”

1870s and 1880s

Hairstyles in the 1870s were longer and fuller, thus necessitating greater use of hairpieces.  The 1873 edition of Godey’s Lady’s Book includes an illustration of various coiffures, hairpieces, and decorative combs.  As you can see, hairpieces are pre-styled in rolls, plaits, or curls so that they can be easily pinned or combed into a lady’s existing coiffure where needed.

Godey's Lady's Book, 1873.

Godey’s Lady’s Book, 1873.

By the 1880s, hairstyles had grown higher.  The back and crown were often plaited, twisted, and coiled, sometimes into loops tied with ribbons.  The 1885 issue of the Domestic Monthly reports that “basket plaits” were also quite fashionable, as was the French twist.  The front of the hair was worn loosely waved or arranged into short curls or puffs.  It was also becoming popular to wear a fringe of hair (or bangs) cut across the forehead.  In Sylvia’s Book of the Toilet, the author addresses this somewhat controversial trend, writing:

“Some persons continue to consider it ‘fast’ to wear a fringe of hair on the forehead.  This is a mistake, for it has now become an almost universal custom to wear it, and what is general can never be ‘fast.’”

Basket Plaits, Domestic Monthly, 1885.

1890s through 1901

By the end of the Victorian era, hairstyles had reverted back to those intricate coiffures popular in the early 1830s.  An 1897 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports:

“The 1830 fashions in hair-dressing have been revived, and once more women will wear the elaborate puffs, curls, and crimps which were affected by the belles of that period.  This will necessitate the addition of false locks, and naturally the hair-dressers are encouraging the adoption of the extremely overloaded coiffure.  Tall combs, coronets, jeweled pins, and flowers will be added to the imposing structure, with besides plumes and aigrettes.”

The Weaker Sex by Charles Dana Gibson, 1900.

The Weaker Sex by Charles Dana Gibson, 1900.

These full, feminine styles, often appearing to be piled up on top of the head in voluptuous disarray, were typified by the hairstyle known as the “Gibson Girl.”  Inspired by the satirical cartoons of Charles Dana Gibson, the Gibson Girl hairstyle was all the rage during the 1890s and early 20th century.  In the above plate illustrated by Charles Gibson, you can see the classic Gibson Girl hairstyle.  The below portrait is of Gibson’s muse, Evelyn Nesbit, sporting a modified style with two ringlets draped artfully over one shoulder.

Portrait of Evelyn Nesbit, 1900.

Portrait of Evelyn Nesbit, 1900.

In Closing

It is impossible to cover every variety of Victorian hairstyle in a single article.  Nevertheless, I hope the above information and images have given you some insight into the hairstyles and hairdressing methods of ladies in the Victorian era.  And please remember: just because a hairstyle was described in a 19th century fashion magazine does not mean that the average Victorian woman wore her hair that way.  As in every era, there was a gulf between the fashions of the working class and those of the upper classes.  In addition, there were plenty of women (just as there are today) who kept the same hairstyle for decades.

**Author’s Note: This article was originally published on the English Historical Fiction Authors’ Blog in January.  It is the second in my series of Victorian Lady’s Guides.  You can click through to the other guides below. 

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hair Care

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Skin Care

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Perfume


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Blackwood’s Lady’s Magazine.  Vol. XV.  London: A. H. Blackwood, 1843.

“The Coiffure.”  The Domestic Monthly.  Vol. XXIII.  New York: Blake and Co., 1885.

Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.  Vol. I.  London: S. O. Beeton, 1866.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 16 – 17.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1838. 

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. XXXIV.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1847.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1864.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. CXXXV.  New York: Godey Co., 1897

Ladies’ Companion.  XXVIII.  London: Rogerson and Tuxford, 1865.

Lady’s Home Magazine.  Vol. XI.  Philadelphia: T. S. Arthur, 1858.  

Lady’s Magazine and Museum.  Vol. XI.  London: Dobbs & Co., 1837.

London Quarterly Review.  Vol. XXVII.  New York: Leonard Scott, 1846. 

Marsh, Madeleine.  Compacts and Cosmetics: Beauty from Victorian Times to the Present Day.  Barnsley: Remember When, 2009.

Sylvia’s Book of the Toilet: A Ladies’ Guide to Dress and Beauty with a Fund of Information of Importance to Gentlemen.  London: Ward, Lock, and Co., 1881.

Walker, Mrs. A.  Female Beauty, as Preserved and Improved by Regimen, Cleanliness and Dress.  New York: Scofield and Voorhies, 1840.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

For more Romance, Literature, and History, follow me on:

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The West End Rambles of London’s Piccadilly Goat

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Gathering Wildflowers by Émile Munier, 1888.

Sometimes called the poor man’s cow, goats in the 19th century were used for everything from pulling carts to providing milk.  Their popularity as pets, however, was often due as much to superstition as it was to economy.  For example, many believed that keeping a goat in the stable would protect horses from illness or injury.  In the late 19th century, Mr. Miller—the coachman who presided over the Piccadilly stables of Mr. Alfred de Rothschild—kept a goat for just that reason.

The goat was ten years old and, according to an article in the Newcastle Courant, had “no particular name.”  He had come to live at Mr. de Rothschild’s stable in Brick Street, Piccadilly when he was only a few months old and was quite a popular figure in the neighborhood.  He was regularly noticed by “prominent people” and even the Duke of Cambridge is reported to have stopped to “give him a friendly tap or word.”

Alfred de Rothschild by Leslie Ward, Vanity Fair, 1883

Alfred de Rothschild by Leslie Ward, Vanity Fair, 1883

It was the goat’s habit to go to the stable door each morning and check the weather.  As the Newcastle Courant reports:

“It is most amusing to see the goat come to the door at an early hour in the morning and take a careful survey in all directions; if the atmospherical and meteorological conditions do not suit its fancy it turns back and gives up outdoor exercise for the day.  Should the morning prove satisfactory, the goat will walk off, and perhaps not be seen again until nightfall.”

The goat’s weather predictions were well known in Piccadilly, many having observed that if he chose to leave the stable in the morning, the day was “sure to be a fine one.”  Or, as an 1894 edition of the Belfast News-Letter puts it:

“The Piccadilly goat was more to be relied upon as regards the weather than the best barometer.”

The goat’s rambles took him from Piccadilly to Oxford Street, Regent Street, and beyond.  He had many friends along the way who would coax him into their shops and offer him his favorite treats, including “cakes and sweetmeats.”  He even visited the private homes of the well-to-do.  As the Newcastle Courant states:

“The goat has his regular houses of call in the principal West End squares and knows exactly the time of day to call when the most toothsome morsels are to be had.  He is very particular in his tastes, and will accept nothing unless it be exactly what he likes.”

The goat’s favorite address was that of the Duke of Cambridge.  An article in an 1890 edition of the St. James’s Gazette reports:

“On the pavement in the front of the Duke of Cambridge’s house there may be seen at almost any hour of the day a very fine large grey he-goat, which, I am told, is the property and is attached to the stable of Mr. De Rothschild.  He is an immense favourite with the people, who allow him to lounge full length across the footway.”

Prince George, Duke of Cambridge
by Roger Fenton, 1855

According to the St. James’s Gazette, the goat—who is described as being “one of the finest of his kind”—was known to “tens of thousands” of Londoners.  He was so popular that, while he remained in front of the Duke of Cambridge’s house, the police protected his “ample beard” from the indignity of being pulled by mischief-makers.  As the article states:

“There he stands, or sits, and maintains a benevolent neutrality, in season and out of season, towards the thousands who make way for him or give him an admiring glance of regard.”

Despite the praise heaped upon him, the Piccadilly goat was not without his vices.  The “Metropolitan Gossip” section of the 1894 Belfast News-Letter reports that the goat, accustomed to receiving handouts from his many friends, did not take rejection kindly on those occasions he was refused his treats.  One elderly woman in the park peddling “apples and loley-pops” out of a stall was not as generous toward the goat as he had come to expect and, as the gossip column relates:

“One day the sight of the mounted policeman that precedes the Princess of Wales when she drives in the park passed down Piccadilly, and the old woman rose from her seat and rushed to the edge of the kerb [sic] to have a sight of Royalty.  The goat improved the opportunity to resent his grievances.  He walked gravely up to the stall, put his head under the board, and turned the whole stock-in-trade into the mud.  Then he scampered home as fast as his legs would carry him.”

In addition to occasional bouts of mischief and, what the Belfast News-Letter refers to as “tricks on some passer-by,” the goat’s vices included a particular fondness for tobacco.  But even in this his discerning taste was evident.  As the Newcastle Courant reports:

“…he will only accept a certain kind of light-coloured, mild-flavoured cigarette tobacco, to which he is rather partial.”

Piccadilly Circus with a view towards Leicester Square, 1896.

As of 1893, Mr. Miller had had charge of the De Rothschild’s stable in Piccadilly for twenty-five years.  During the whole of that time, he had always kept a goat in among the horses.  The Newcastle Courant states that Miller had great faith in the old superstition and:

“…to this alone he attributes the absence of all infectious disease from the stables.  A few months ago influenza was very common in the West End stables, but not a single case has been known at the residence of the goat.”

Sadly, the Piccadilly goat died in 1893.  According to the Belfast News-Letter:

“An old patron gave as the cause of death that his time had come, which no one could dispute.”

Not only did his death affect those who had met him personally as he strolled about the city, it also impacted the town residents who, every August, were accustomed to writing to their absent friends:

“I have no news.  I have not seen a face I knew since you left but the Piccadilly Goat.  We share the West End together.”

Goats by Eugene Joseph Verboeckhoven, 1840.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to learn more about goats or would like to adopt a pet goat of your own, the following links may be useful:

New Moon Farm Goat Rescue & Sanctuary (United States)

Buttercups Sanctuary for Goats (United Kingdom)

**Author’s Note: As luck would have it, I found this wonderful image of the Piccadilly Goat a day after this article was posted.  It is from 1892.

The Piccadilly Goat, Great Streets of the World, 1892.

The Piccadilly Goat, Great Streets of the World, 1892.


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Davis, Richard Harding.  The Great Streets of the World.  New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1892.

Hinson, Joy.  Goat.  London: Reaktion Books, 2014.

“Metropolitan Gossip.”  Belfast News-Letter.  August 28, 1894.

“A Piccadilly Pet Goat.”  Newcastle Courant.  June 4, 1892.

“The Piccadilly Goat.”  St. James’s Gazette.  September 1, 1890.

Tallman, Marjorie.  Dictionary of American Folklore.  New York: Open Road Media, 2015.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

For more Romance, Literature, and History, follow me on:

Facebook and Twitter


The 1870s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

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(Individual Images of Gowns via Met Museum)

The 1870s ushered in an era of sleek, sensuous gowns that accented every curve.  Gone were the enormous crinolines of the 1860s.  In their place were figure-hugging frocks with low-set trains that fanned out like a peacock’s tail.  This was the decade of tight lacing, tea gowns, and tassel-trimmed skirts in shimmering silk brocades.  This was also the decade that ushered in La Belle Époque in Europe and the Gilded Age in the United States.  

*Please note: These are primarily visual guides – fashion CliffsNotes, if you will.  For more in depth information, please consult the recommended links.  

1870

Beginning the decade, the general size of ladies’ gowns was smaller and simpler than in the previous years.  Trimmings, however, had grown more elaborate and, with the addition of tassels, fringe, buttons, bows, and lace, fashionable gowns were still quite expensive to have made.  Below is a fairly understated brown silk dinner dress.  Dresses made in two contrasting colors were incredibly popular.

1870 American Silk Dinner Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

An 1870 edition of the London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion describes three styles of dress that were at the height of fashion in January of 1870.

Fig. 1. — Promenade costume.  First skirt of green gros cashmere, ornamented with three volants, the top of which is retained with velvet of the same shade.  Second skirt of grey cashmere, relieved very high in front, and falls on the sides in two large points, opening entirely behind, and forming drapery.  Small paletot, cut straight.  The skirt and paletot are ornamented with green velvet and fringes.  Tyrolean hat in grey felt.

London and Paris Ladies' Magazine of Fashion, 1870.

Promenade Costume and Robes, London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion, 1870.

Fig. 2. — Robe of flame-coloured satin, very long skirt trimmed with a high volant in dents at the top, and surmounted by a large ruche to match, and a coquille of lace on each side; small tunic cut in a kind of volant, and very puffing behind; ruche and lace the same as on the corsage, which forms point in front and behind, and must be very high on the shoulders.

Fig. 3. — Under robe of white tulle, ornamented in front with a volant, with two rows of blue satin bias, and a trellis of satin in the top; large blue pattes, between which are bouillons of tulle, which seem to fasten the volant.  Tunic of very short blue satin in front, and behind entirely covering the white skirt, and terminating in a long train; trimmings of cut reverses all round, and pattes of white tulle to the skirt, small puff behind.  Décolleté bodice, square and trimmed with tulle.  Head-dress of myosotis and white roses.

Meanwhile, fashions in evening gowns, at least insofar as the fabric used, were relatively lenient.  In fact, according to the London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion:

“One has a perfect right to wear anything at a ball, from velvet to tulle, and which two materials are often blended.”

The below gown from 1870 is made of silk faille, silk velvet, and lace.

1870 Gown.(Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

1870 Gown.
(Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

1871

Moving into 1871, contrasting colors fell out of fashion.  Instead, two shades of the same color were used.  You can see an example of this in the beautiful 1871 silk wedding gown below.

1871 American Silk Wedding Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1871 American Silk Wedding Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

As the year progressed, there was a revival of the 18th century French polonaise.  Fashion Historian C. Willett Cunnington describes the style as consisting of:

“…a bodice and tunic in one, the tunic being looped up at the sides, short in front and much looped up behind into a puff.”

When made with certain materials, this style was popularly known as the “Dolly Varden,” after a character in Charles Dickens’ novel Barnaby Rudge.  However, Cunnington points out that this style was not worn by the “best people.”

Dolly Varden by William Powell Frith, 1842.

Dolly Varden by William Powell Frith, 1842.

For outdoor wear, jackets—or paletots—were all the rage.  There were three styles of fashionable jacket in 1871.  The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion describes them:

“…the first is the Cosaque, fitting tight to the figure, and having the front part of skirt plain and square in shape, while the back part is deeper, and is moderately bouffante in a great variety of forms.  The second style is the short square cut Paletot or Jacket, with openings in the middle of back and at the sides, extending nearly to the waist level.  The third style is of medium width, slightly defining the waist but without fitting at all tight: this style has the skirt a little longer, and is also left open at the bottom of back.” 

The London and Paris Ladies Magazine of Fashion, 1871.

Promenade Costumes, London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion, 1871.

Jackets could be made in black silk or “en suite” with the gown.  If made in black silk, the most fashionable trimmings were black lace and fringe.  You can see one example of this in the mauve and black promenade dress on the right.  The gown itself is made of mauve silk and was designed by Messrs. Swan & Edgar of Regent Street.  The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion describes the jacket as a:

“Tight-fitting Cosaque of black silk.  It forms at the back a square shaped basque, at the sides two points, and in front two deep square-shaped tabs, the whole edged by a flounce of black lace, headed by a bead trimming of passementerie, above which is a black moire ribbon, which is continued up the sides of the front opening.”

1872

Proceeding into 1872, many gowns were still made in two shades of the same color, while some fashionable ladies were once again venturing into contrasts.  As far as the colors themselves, Cunnington states that the general preference was for “soft and autumn tints” such as bronze, olive brown, and “greenish-grey.”  The below gown is one example of these colors used to beautiful effect.  I’ve included front and back images to give you a complete picture.

1872 French Silk Dress.( Image via Met Museum)

1872 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1872 French Silk Dress.( Image via Met Museum)

1872 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Skirts were heavily flounced and, for evening wear, gowns were cut low off the shoulders.  It was not uncommon for the bodice of an evening dress to be filled in with a lace fichu.  The below ball gown is an 1872 creation of Charles Frederick Worth, the English fashion designer who is credited with inventing haute couture.

1872 House of Worth Ball Gown.(Image via Met Museum)

1872 House of Worth Ball Gown.
(Image via Met Museum)

1872 House of Worth Ball Gown.(Image via Met Museum)

1872 House of Worth Ball Gown.
(Image via Met Museum)

1873

Advancing into 1873, gowns were cut closer to the figure and slimmer about the hips.  You can see this new silhouette clearly in the 1873 silk dinner dress below.

1873 French Silk Dinner Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1873 French Silk Dinner Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Despite the gradually changing silhouette of ladies’ gowns, the polonaise was still quite fashionable.  The silk gauze wedding gown below features an attached stylish polonaise overskirt trimmed with embroidered lace.  I’ve included front and back views.

1872-1874 Silk Gauze Wedding Dress with Polonaise.(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

1872-1874 Silk Gauze Wedding Dress with Polonaise.
(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

1872-1874 Silk Gauze Wedding Dress.(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

1872-1874 Silk Gauze Wedding Dress.
(Image via Victoria and Albert Museum)

Trimmings in 1873 became even more excessive.  Skirts were flounced, puffed, and pleated, with the flounces, puffs, and pleats often embellished with piping and trimmings of their own.

London and Paris Ladies Magazine, 1873.

Ball Gowns, London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion, 1873.

For evening wear, gowns were frequently trimmed with flowers.  The center image in the 1873 fashion plate at right shows a ball gown with a lower skirt of white muslin and blue silk and an upper skirt of blue silk which is caught up and fasted with bouquets of roses.  As the 1873 London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion states:

“The caught-up portions of upper skirt are fastened at the juncture of these points, by bouquets of roses having trails, and united by a garland.  The opening in front of the skirt is crossed by three garlands of leaves with buds.  The corsage is trimmed a bretelles, by similar garlands terminated at the back and front of waist by single roses, and on each shoulder is a rose, the space between the garlands being filled in both at back and in front, by four quillings of white muslin.”

Meanwhile, high contrast colors were once again the height of fashion.  The 1873 French silk afternoon dress below is a striking example of this recurring trend.

1873 French Silk Dress .(Image via Met Museum)

1873 French Silk Dress .
(Image via Met Museum)

1873 French Silk Dress . (Image via Met Museum)

1873 French Silk Dress .
(Image via Met Museum)

1874

By 1874, the close-fitting silhouette of the previous year was now the norm.  Gowns were made even tighter around the hips, the figure was well-defined, and, as Cunnington states:

“…in effect, the wearer no longer stands, as in the previous decade, in the centre of a circle but at the very front of an ellipse.”

1874 French Silk Dresss.(Image via Met Museum)

1874 French Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Meanwhile, the 1874 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports that, though Parisiennes preferred an overskirt, underskirt, and jacket, the Americans “still cling fondly to the polonaise.”  Godey’s states that both styles were “equally fashionable.”  The gown images below are front and side views of an 1874-75 American dress made of silk and cotton.

1874–75 American Silk and Cotton Dress/(Image via Met Museum)

1874–75 American Silk and Cotton Dress
(Image via Met Museum)

1874–75 American Silk and Cotton Dress/(Image via Met Museum)

1874–75 American Silk and Cotton Dress
(Image via Met Museum)

As another example, here is an 1874 gown by Charles Frederick Worth.  It is made of purple silk faille and is trimmed with silk lace, silk fringe, and velvet bows.

1874 House of Worth Silk Gown.
(Image via Kyoto Costume Institute)

1875

As the decade progressed, lady’s gowns fit even more closely in the front.  Skirts were tied back and, according to Cunnington, the shape of the train was popularly known as a “mermaid’s tail.”  Many objected to what was considered an indecent, overly sensualized style of dress, some comparing it to a woman appearing in public in her undergarments.  The below image of an 1875 afternoon dress is one example of the fashionable, feminine shape of the middle of the decade.

1875 House of Worth Silk Afternoon Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1875 House of Worth Silk Afternoon Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1875 House of Worth Silk Afternoon Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1875 House of Worth Silk Afternoon Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

For day wear, the jacket bodice was still very much in style.  Sleeves were close-fitting and often trimmed with frills of lace at the wrist.  Skirts always had trains.  Below is an 1875 day dress made of olive green silk with a trained underskirt of chartreuse satin.  It is trimmed with maroon velvet.

1875 French Silk Day Dress.( Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

1875 French Silk Day Dress.
(Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

At the close of 1875, Godey’s Lady’s Book reports that the “faded colors, so long preferred” had fallen out of fashion.  In their place were bright blues, greens, and pinks.  For evening wear, colors were especially vibrant.  A perfect example of this is the 1875 ball gown below made of rich red silk.

1875 British Silk Ball Gown.(Image via Met Museum)

1875 British Silk Ball Gown.
(Image via Met Museum)

1875 British Silk Ball Gown.
(Image via Met Museum)

1876

Entering 1876, skirts and sleeves were narrow and bodices were tighter than ever.

1876 Red Silk Dress. (Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

1876 Red Silk Dress.
(Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

By the middle of the decade, pockets had become a feature of many fashionable gowns.  The 1876 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports that some of these pockets were so large that they occupied the entire length of the skirt “from belt to hem.”

Walking Dresses, Godey’s Lady’s Book, 1876.

Gowns in solid or contrasting colors were still very popular.  Checked patterns, tartans, and grey and blue plaid gingham were also quite fashionable.  The Godey’s image at right shows two walking dresses that illustrate the bright shades and color combinations of the season.  Godey’s describes the two gowns as follows:

“Fig. 1.— Walking dress of pale green silk.  The upper part cut as a polonaise, the skirt kilted upon it under the sash: the sleeves and trimming are of black silk.  Black chip bonnet, trimmed with green silk and black feather.

Fig. 2.— Walking dress of purple silk and plaid grenadine.  The underskirt is of the purple silk, trimmed with a knife plaiting and puff.  The over- skirt and basque are of the grenadine of a lighter shade, trimmed with a knife plaiting of silk; silk sleeves.  Lilac chip bonnet, trimmed with silk and leathers.”

Bodices with lace-trimmed necklines were very much in favor, as were stand up collars.  Skirts were ruffled, flounced, or pleated.  The over skirt or sash was often draped tight across the hips and secured with buttons or bows.  You can see an example of this style in the image of an 1876-1877 silk gown below.

1876-77 American Silk Dress.( Image via Met Museum)

1876-77 American Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1876-77 American Silk Dress.( Image via Met Museum)

1876-77 American Silk Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1877

Moving into 1877, women’s gowns were even more narrow than they had been the previous year.  Bodices were long and tight, often extending down over the hips.  The 1877-1878 silk and linen reception dress below gives a general idea of how form-fitting dresses were as the decade progressed.  Note the shades of the fabric.  According to Cunnington, bronze and blue were particularly fashionable colors that year.

1877-78 Silk and Linen Reception Dress.(Image via Cincinnati Art Museum)

1877-78 Silk and Linen Reception Dress.
(Image via Cincinnati Art Museum)

Most of the fullness in dresses was reserved for the train and, as the 1877 edition of the London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion reports:

“…the fullness does not now start from the waist, but commences just below the level of the basque of corsage, and then spreads gradually out, taking in many cases a form which somewhat resembles a fan or a peacock’s tail.”

The 1877 House of Worth silk dinner dress below is a perfect example of a form-fitting gown with a low-set fan or peacock shaped train.

1877 French Silk House of Worth Dinner Dress. (Image via Met Museum)

1877 House of Worth Dinner Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1877 French Silk House of Worth Dinner Dress. (Image via Met Museum)

1877 House of Worth Dinner Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

Skirts were often draped or folded into points or pleats.  Upper-skirts were secured with buttons or bows.  You can see examples of both in the below image of three travelling costumes which the London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion describes as being very fashionable at the close of the season.  The description for the travelling dress on the far right reads as follows:

London and Paris Ladies Magazine of Fashion, 1877.

Travelling Costumes, London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion, 1877.

“Fig. 3. — Dress a deux jupes of silk and serge, of the color called Lie de vin.  The under-skirt is of the silk, which is of a darker shade than the serge, it is trimmed at the bottom by a fluted flounce, headed by a draped band of the serge.  The upper-skirt and corsage are cut in in one a la Princesse, the front closes obliquely from left to right, and forms a long Polonaise edged by fringe; the sides being caught up and fastened by bows of silk to those of the back portion, which is cut short and forms a deep square basque also edged by fringe, with a band of silk: the back of under-skirt is partially covered by draped pieces of serge, the back edges of which are finished by fringe and by buttons; the extremities of these pieces are drawn together in folds, causing them to form points, fastened by groups of silk bows, from which points they gradually widen out and disappear under the upper skirt. The top of corsage is trimmed by a silk collar, square at back and in front, where the neck is slightly open : the sleeves have cuffs of the silk.  Black straw Hat, with scarlet and black trimmings.”

London and Paris Ladies Magazine of Fashion, 1877.

Princesse Dress and Robe, London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion, 1877.

London and Paris Ladies Magazine of Fashion, 1877.

Ball and Dinner Costumes, London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion, 1877.

 

1878

By 1878, Godey’s Lady’s Book was reporting that on some gowns the overskirt or polonaise was so long that “sham” underskirts were being used.  Godey’s states:

“These sham skirts were formerly objected to, as they were apt to be displayed when the overskirt was lifted or blown about.  Now the polonaise or over-dress is made to cling so closely that it is never lifted, and the expense and weight of heavy woollen stuffs beneath it are dispensed with.”

The below plaid silk dress from 1878 is one example of the fashionable silhouette that year.  Note the hint of fringed underskirt beneath.

1878 Young Woman's Plaid Silk Dress.(Image via LACMA)

1878 Young Woman’s Plaid Silk Dress.
(Image via LACMA)

Godey’s goes on to report on the popularity of “short round skirts,” stating:

“They are cut quite narrow, and are short enough to escape the ground behind, thus relieving the wearer of the burden of lifting a long walking skirt out of the mud or dust.”

Godey's Lady's Book, 1878.

Godey’s Lady’s Book, 1878.

At right is a fashion plate depicting a cashmere walking dress and a silk visiting dress.  Godey’s describes them as follows:

“Fig. 4. — Walking dress of slate colored cashmere, the skirt is kilt plaited in the back, cross-wise plants in the front.  Plaited waist, small cape, list of felt, trimmed with velvet and feather.

“Fig. 5. — Visiting dress of blue bourrotte and silk.  The dress is of the bourrette, with silk train, loops, cuffs on sleeves, and trimming on front of waist.  Blue velvet bonnet, trimmed with satin and leathers.”

At the close of 1878, Godey’s Lady’s Book reports that “satin and brocade” were the materials most used for making “handsome dresses that will be worn in the winter.”  The below 1878 day dress by Charles Frederick Worth is made of black silk faille and brocaded floral silk.

1878 Charles Frederick Work Day Dress.(Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

1878 House of Worth Day Dress.
(Image via Philadelphia Museum of Art)

1879

At the close of the decade, gowns remained tight and narrow.  Trimmings were elaborate and, according to Cunnington, consisted of:

“…every textile hitherto in vogue for furniture coverings or curtains…”

The gown below is a perfect example of this trend.  Made of silk, it is heavily trimmed with tassels and fringe.

1879-1880 French Silk Dress.Image via Met Museum.

1879-1880 French Silk Dress.
Image via Met Museum.

1879-1880 French Silk Dress.Image via Met Museum.

1879-1880 French Silk Dress.
Image via Met Museum.

Tea gowns were very popular at the end of the decade.  First appearing on the fashion scene in 1877, they were initially criticized for being too much like ladies’ dressing gowns.  By 1879, however, tea gowns were much more acceptable, especially when they were made to resemble the tight-fitting dresses that were so much in fashion.

Lewisham Tea Gown, London and Paris Ladies' Magazine of Fashion, 1879.

Lewisham Tea Gown, London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion, 1879.

The center figure in the fashion plate at right shows a lady wearing the “Lewisham tea gown.”  The 1879 edition of the London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion describes it as one of the most stylish tea gowns that season.  The description reads:

Fig. 2.— The Lewisham Tea Gown of sky blue silk, trimmed with insertion and lace, and having a plastron of cream Pompadour satin.  The dress is Princesse shape in front, cut square, and trimmed by a crepe lisse frill, with roses on the left side; the back is made very wide, and gathered up in the back, the rest forms a pouff and a train.  Will take 14 yds. silk; 1 ½ yds. satin; 4 yds. insertion; 8 yds. lace; 24 buttons.”

Though gowns remained slim-fitting, fashionable dresses were beginning to emphasize the curve of a woman’s hips.  To that end, on some gowns, panniers were employed.  Sleeves remained tight-fitting, as did bodices.  You can get an idea of the emerging silhouette from the 1879 gown below.

1879 French Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1879 French Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1879 French Dress.(Image via Met Museum)

1879 French Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

In Closing…

I hope you have found the above overview to be helpful in navigating your way through the form-fitting gowns of the 1870s.  Again, I remind you that this is just a brief, primarily visual, guide.  If you would like to know more about the changes in fashion during the 1870s, I encourage you to consult a reliable reference book.  The following links may provide a starting point:

Nineteenth Century Fashion in Detail by Lucy Johnston

Fashion: The Definitive History of Costume and Style by DK Publishing

English Women’s Clothing in the Nineteenth Century by C. Willett Cunnington

For a refresher on the decades we have already covered, the previous articles in my series on 19th century gowns are available here:

The Evolution of the 19th Century Gown: A Visual Guide

The 1820s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

The 1830s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

The 1840s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

The 1850s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade

The 1860s in Fashionable Gowns: A Visual Guide to the Decade


Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Cunnington, C. Willett.  English Women’s Clothing in the Nineteenth Century.  London: Faber and Faber Ltd., 1939.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 88.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1874.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 90 and 91.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1875.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 93.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1876.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 96.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1878.

The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion.  Vol. XLIII.  London: Kent & Co, 1870.

The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion.  Vol. XLIV.  London: Kent & Co, 1871.

The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion.  Vol. XLV.  London: Kent & Co, 1872.

The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion.  Vol. XLVI.  London: Kent & Co, 1873.

The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion.  Vol. I.  London: Kent & Co, 1877.

The London and Paris Ladies’ Magazine of Fashion.  Vol. LII.  London: Kent & Co, 1879.


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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From Chancery Court to Mansfield Park: A One Year Anniversary Digest

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Young Lady in a Boat by James Tissot, 1870.

Young Lady in a Boat by James Tissot, 1870.

Last March, a questionnaire from my literary agent about my social media presence prompted me to finally join Facebook and Twitter.  The very next day on March 23, 2015, I started this blog.  Initially, I wasn’t sure which direction I would go in, however, in real life I’m a crackerjack researcher and—according to my last boss—I write exceptionally compelling briefs.  Since my latest book hadn’t sold yet and I had no blurbs or buy links to post, I decided to focus my skills on the subjects I love best: 19th century Romance, Literature, and History.

As of today, MimiMatthews.com has had over 196,000 hits.  It has been featured as a WordPress Editor’s Pick and my articles have been linked on the websites of academic institutions, animal organizations, and many others.  I have even seen my articles cited in undergraduate papers and assigned to students as additional reading!

I have no idea what the one year mark of a successful blog looks like, but I feel incredibly fortunate to have received such a great response.  I am especially thankful to all of you who comment regularly.  Even when I love an article, writing a comment is often a chore.  The fact that you take time to leave your thoughts on my posts means a great deal to me and I try very hard to respond to every comment.

There is no new article today, though I will have a fresh Animals in Literature and History post for you on Friday.  In the meantime, here are five of my favorite articles from my first full month of blogging way back in April of 2015!

Well, that about wraps it up for this anniversary post.  Thank you all again for reading, sharing, and commenting on my articles.  Here’s to the next year researching and writing on 19th century Romance, Literature, and History!


© 2016 Mimi Matthews

For more Romance, Literature, and History, follow me on:

Facebook and Twitter


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