“In Germany the children believe that the Easter hare places eggs and other presents in the baskets they leave outside the nursery on the eve of Easter.”  The Cornishman, 1892.

Easter Card circa 1908.
(Image via New York Public Library)

Though the origin of Easter eggs and Easter bunnies can be traced back to ancient times, the Victorians did not begin to celebrate Easter in the way that we know now until the late 19^th century.  It was then that Easter bunnies became fashionable.  Before the 1880s, however, it was in Germany—not in England or the United States—that children believed in the “Easter hare.”  As American author Linda Beard states in her 1893 book How to Amuse Yourself and Others:

“In Germany, too, we should find that children believe as sincerely in the Easter hare as they do in Santa Claus in our country; and the saying, that ‘the hares lay the Easter eggs,’ is never doubted by the little ones.”

Belief in the Easter bunny may have been a little slow in getting started in the United States and England, but by the 1890s, Beard reports that it was not uncommon to see an image of a “hare wheeling his barrowful of eggs” displayed in the confectioners’ window.  Easter eggs were dyed and decorated, and according to an April 1893 edition of the Tamworth Herald:

“…if you tell the nursery folk that an Easter-bunny brings the eggs and hides them in the garden or the nursery, where they may be hunted, you surround them with an air of special grace and favour.”

Easter Card, 19th Century.
(Image via Santa Clara County Library)

Newspapers of the late 19^th century featured advertisements for decorative Easter cards and Easter eggs made of every material one can imagine.  As the Tamworth Herald reports:

“There are eggs of polished and of inlaid wood; there is our old friend the satin-egg, hand-painted (would that it were not!), and embellished with cheap tinsel and cheaper lace; there is the egg of china and of glass, and, of course, there is the egg made of sugar or of chocolate which looks as if it might be good to eat.”

Easter Bunny Postcard circa 1915.

Perhaps the most unique variety of fashionable Easter egg in 1893 was the one made of plain, hinged wood that, when opened, revealed an interior bursting with rosebuds, violets, and other spring flowers.

For those of simpler taste—or more moderate means—plain eggs boiled and dyed were the most popular Easter eggs of all.  Onion peel added to boiling water would dye an egg terracotta brown.  A spoonful of aniline dye would tint an egg “a fashionable, but unbeautiful” magenta.  And if one wanted to dye their Easter eggs a “lovely ebony-black,” the Tamworth Herald advises boiling them in a mixture of young rye and water.

By 1897, commercial Easter egg dyes were also available.  In fact, Donnell Manufacturing, a St. Louis based company, was the first to capitalize on the German myth of the Easter hare by using colored lithographs of four white rabbits and eight colored Easter eggs to advertise their White Rabbit Easter Egg Dye—which included directions in both German and English.  Their idea caught on like wildfire and it wasn’t long before imitators sprang up throughout the country.

The Rabbit Woman,
St. Nicholas Magazine, 1899.

Savvy marketing, like that employed by Donnell Manufacturing, was not the only influence on the rise in popularity of the Easter bunny.  By the end of the century, many German immigrants had brought the tale of the Easter hare along with them to their new homelands.  For example, an 1899 American magazine reports the story of Frau Zehner who was known as the “Rabbit Woman” of New York.  Zehner was a German born street peddler who made a tidy profit each Easter by selling “little bunnies” in every imaginable color.

By the turn of the century, confectioners were making chocolate bunnies and Easter cards were featuring rabbits on their covers.  Soon, images of rabbits at Easter were almost as common as images of Easter eggs themselves.

Today, the Easter bunny is an inextricable part of the Easter festivities in England and America.  In many ways, he is as much a holiday icon as Santa Claus.  Obviously he is not real, but as March 27 is Easter Sunday, I hope you do not mind that I have included him as part of my Animals in Literature and History series.  To those who celebrate it, I wish you all a very Happy Easter weekend with your family and friends, both human and animal.  As for myself, I will be spending Easter with my own family, complete with Easter eggs and Easter bunnies (of the chocolate variety!).

Easter Card circa 1909.
( Image via New York Public Library)

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you are interested in helping a rabbit in need or would like to adopt a rabbit of your own, the following links may provide a starting point:

House Rabbit Society (United States)

Fat Fluffs Rabbit Rescue (United Kingdom)

*Author’s Note: Sunday is Easter and in some places this means baby bunnies, chicks, ducklings, and kittens will be sold or given away as Easter presents.  Baby animals are very cute and I understand the temptation to put one in a child’s Easter basket, however, I hope that before you do so you will first consider the long-term commitment to the baby animal’s health and welfare.  

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“About Easter Eggs.”  The Tamworth Herald.  April 8, 1893.

Beard, Linda.  How to Amuse Yourself and Others.  New York: Scribner & Sons, 1893.

“The Hare and Easter.”  American Notes and Queries.  Volume 5.  Philadelphia: Westminster Publishing, 1890.

“Occasional Notes.”  The Cornishman.  June 30, 1892.

Williams, George.  “The Rabbit Woman.”  St. Nicholas Illustrated Magazine.  Vol. 26.  New York: MacMillan and Co., 1899.

“Special Notice to the Trade.”  National Druggist.  Vol. 27.  St. Louis: Druggist Publishing, 1897.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Japanese Parisian by Alfred Stevens, 1872.

During the mid-19th century, Japan opened trade with the West for the first time in more than 200 years.  The influx of Japanese imports that followed inspired an intense fascination with Japanese art and culture.  This fascination manifested itself in the paintings of Victorian era artists like Alfred Stevens, Vincent van Gogh, James McNeill Whistler, and Claude Monet.  It also had a profound influence on Victorian fashion.  As the 2015 book of Clothing and Fashion states:

“The obsession with Japonism in fashion hastened permanent departure from the cumbersome Victorian layers and maximalist aesthetic, anticipating the minimalism of 20th-century modernism.”

1870 Silk Taffeta Tea Gown made from Kimono Fabric.
(Image via Museum at FIT)

By the 1870s, the French term Japonisme (also known as Japonism) had been coined to describe the influence of Japanese aesthetics on 19th and early 20th century art and apparel in Europe and America.  One of the biggest influences—at least as far as Victorian women’s fashion was concerned—was the Japanese kimono.  19th century fashion magazines and society journals extolled its graceful lines and exotic, Eastern elegance.  As an 1892 edition of Table Talk declares:

“Every fashionable hostess who will pour tea through the spring’s sunny afternoons, will ache to possess a kimono after she has once noticed its graceful proportions setting off the figure of one of her sisters.” 

1870s Gown made from Kimono Fabric.
(Image via Kyoto Costume Institute)

Soon, kimono fabric and fabric with Japanese motifs, such as birds, fans, flowers, and fish, was being used to make dressing gowns and tea-gowns.  Table Talk even went so far as to state:

“The interest recently taken in the costumes and social customs of our Oriental sisters is genuine; and, with various modifications, of course, it is by no means improbable that our own and neighboring social circles may very soon be copying the Japanese modes with the same enthusiasm that for years has induced them to borrow ideas from the Parisian modistes and the London tailor establishments.”

Kimono Dressing Gown, 1885.
(Image via FIDM Museum)

By the close of the century, the popularity of the Japanese kimono had only increased.  Though the sight of a Victorian woman wearing a kimono was still far from common, amongst the most fashionable society ladies, gowns made with kimono fabric or embellished with Japanese motifs remained all the rage.  As one example, an 1898 issue of London’s The Sketch reports on a “smart” dinner party given by a society hostess in New York where all of the women in attendance wore Japanese kimonos.

Accompanying the article in The Sketch was the following humorous poem.  I have included it in its entirety:

Good-bye to the time when the maid of our clime

Went over to France for the fashion,

And copied each craze (as the men did the plays—

Though wat‘ring Parisian passion).

But now she is fanned in Chrysanthemum Land,

By taking its fashions on loan, O!

And changing her taste for the waist that is laced,

My lady adopts the kimono.

 

At first the Savoy gave her joy in the toy

When she ventured to see ‘The Mikado,’

And straight did succumb to the charm of Yum-Yum—

Though to copy her seemed like bravado.

But losing all fears with the flight of the years,

She does up her hair in a cone, O!

And now she can’t stop, for she thinks she must flop

In the folds of a flowing kimono.

 

And if she’d begin to exhibit the pin

Which bonnets the sensible Jappy,

Instead of that vat of a matinée-hat,

I think I’d be perfectly happy.

For this aping Japan is a plan which a man

Must regard as pro publico bono

So I welcome the aid of the Japanese maid

In bringing the dragoned kimono.

 

For the only drawbacks to this beautiful sack’s

Replacing the corset and kirtle,

Is not in its hues, for our maidens can use

The shade of the delicate myrtle;

But our tongue makes it hard for the bard to discard

A rhyme which is compound in tone, O!

And thus it’s a task for a jingler to ask

The Muses to rhyme to kimono.

Portrait of a Woman by Alfred Stevens, 1880.

The fashion for all things Japanese continued on into the 20^th century and beyond.  However, as much as Japonisme is evident in the fashions of later decades (with the Roaring Twenties being of particular note), I still find the Victorian era fascination with art and apparel from the exotic, mysterious East to be the most interesting period of all.

*Author’s Note: I apologize to anyone who found the above poem offensive.  Unfortunately, when quoting history, one often has to take the bad with the good. 

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Blanco, José.  Clothing and Fashion: American Fashion from Head to Toe.  Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 2015.

Forney, Tillie May.  “Fashionable Luncheon & Tea Toilets.”  Table Talk.  Vol. 8.  Philadelphia: Table Talk Publishing, 1893.

Miller, Scott.  Historical Dictionary of Modern Japanese Literature and Theater.  Plymouth: Scarecrow Press, 2009.

The Sketch: A Journal of Art and Actuality.  Vol. 21.  London: Ingram Brothers, 1898.

Yokoyama, Toshio.  Japan in the Victorian Mind: A Study of Stereotyped Images of a Nation, 1850-80.  London: The Macmillan Press, 1987.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Go-As-You-Please Race, as seen through a Magnifying Glass.
St. Nicholas Magazine, 1886.

During the 19^th century, the flea circus was a popular sideshow attraction.  Often billed as the “smallest circus in the world,” it took place in a ring the size of a common dinner plate and consisted of fleas performing various circus stunts, such as juggling and tightrope walking.  Circus fleas were alleged to be of remarkable intelligence.  In fact, many a Victorian era magazine and newspaper article marveled over the discovery that fleas were susceptible to education and kind treatment.  But not every flea was smart enough to join the circus.  As an 1886 article by C. F. Holder explains:

“Some are exceedingly apt scholars, while others never can learn, and so it is that great numbers of fleas are experimented with before a troupe is accepted.”

Circus Flea Training

After selecting the most intelligent fleas, the proprietor of the flea circus—who was often also the trainer—subjected the fleas to a period of rigorous training.  The first step in this regime was to harness the flea by attaching a thin piece of gold wire or cord round its midsection.  In a 1911 article on flea circuses, author Willard Howe states:

“A delicate operation in flea training is to put on the gold wire collar—to make it sufficiently secure and yet not to choke the insect.”

Professor Nokes Putting a Gold Collar on a Flea.
Motography Magazine, 1911.

Once the flea was secured in its harness, the next stage of training could begin.  This phase of training generally focused on jumping.  Excessive jumping was undesirable in a circus flea for several reasons, not the least of which was that an unruly flea might leap straight out of the ring, thus prematurely ending the show.  Most 19^th century flea trainers used the same method to curb a flea’s desire to jump.  As Holder relates:

 “…the student flea is first placed in a glass phial, and encouraged to jump as much as possible.  Every leap here made brings the polished head of the flea against the glass, hurling the insect back, and throwing it this way and that, until, after a long and sorry experience, and perhaps many head-aches, it makes up its mind never to unfold its legs suddenly again.”

With this lesson learned, the flea was ready to join the troupe.  From then on, Holder reports that the flea was “harnessed and trained” daily until it was finally ready to perform in the ring.

The Performance

Typically, the audience at a flea circus consisted of one human being with a magnifying glass.  When they approached, the proprietor placed the circus ring on a table in front of them.  The ring was bordered by a series of small boxes, which Holder describes as:

“…the houses of the performers, and the stables for their carriages.”

At a word from the proprietor, the tiny door of the first box would spring open and “a number of fleas would file out.”  Meanwhile, the proprietor stood at the ready, “armed with a pair of pincers,” in case any of his performers should misbehave.  In the flea circus described by Holder, after the fleas had made a “dignified” circuit around the ring, they retired back to their box.  It was then that the “performance proper” commenced.  The first attraction was a flea race.  As Holder relates:

“Five fleas, each adorned with a different color, stepped from another house and after running about here and there, and being admonished by the director, ranged themselves in a line, and at the word ‘go!’ started on a rush around the circle; running into each other, rolling over and over, and making frantic leaps over one another.”

When two disobedient fleas leapt past the “winning-post,” the race was deemed over.  The proprietor promptly collected the fleas with his pincers and placed them in “solitary confinement in a glass phial.”  This punishment was believed to remind them not to jump.  But there were other, harsher punishments for unruly fleas.  In his 1911 article, Howe describes the punishment methods employed by American flea trainer Prof. R. A. Nokes.  When confronted with misbehavior, Nokes was known to hang or suspend the recalcitrant flea by a wire!

The Dance.
St. Nicholas Magazine, 1886.

After the rather chaotic flea race was concluded, the proprietor announced a flea dance.  The tiny door of a third house opened and, according to Holder, out poured “the most ludicrous band of performers ever witnessed.”  The fleas were clothed in dresses made of colored tissue paper of purple, gold, and red.  They began dancing in a style described as “a mixture of the Highland-fling” and the “sailor’s hornpipe.”  Holder states:

“The little creatures bobbed up and down, now on one claw, now on all six, hopping, leaping, bowing, and scraping, moving forward and back, bumping into one another, now up, now down, until they seemed utterly exhausted, and several that had fallen down, and were kept by their voluminous skirts from getting up, had to be carried off by the aid of the ever-ready pincers.”

A hurdle race followed in which the proprietor of the flea circus arranged hurdles made with thin, silver wire which the circus fleas were meant to leap over.  Unfortunately, this particular race was won by a flea that crawled under the wire as a result of being either “very lazy or very cunning.”

The Hurdle-Race.
St. Nicholas Magazine, 1886.

The next act featured a “clown flea” garbed in a “white clown’s cap.”  A moment later, a large number of fleas were released into the ring, harnessed with “gold wire trappings” to the vehicles from the flea stables.  There was a “tally-ho coach” that was smaller than a pea, an “Eskimo sled” less than a quarter inch long, and a “trotting sulky” that appeared to be made out of hair or bristles of some sort.  Holder reports:

“The tally-ho team of four frantic fleas, evidently fiery steeds, was harnessed to the coach, and on the top were placed four phlegmatic fleas that had probably been booked as outsiders, while the insides were two others fleas, which, we are sorry to say, were obliged to get in through the window, and acted very much as if they wished to get out again.  The other vehicles were each provided with a steed and rider, and then all were drawn up in a row.  At the word of command, off they started pell-mell!”

What followed was another episode of flea chaos.  The tally-ho leaders “jumped their traces” and ran over the flea clown.  The Eskimo sled “threw its driver.”  And the flea pulling the sulky leapt into the air, its sulky flying behind it.  For several moments, there was “a dreadful panic,” but the canny proprietor, with the aid of his pincers, soon had the fleas back in order.  The track was rearranged and a race around the ring was commenced.  According to Holder:

“In two minutes the circuit was completed, the tally-ho coming in ahead, without, however, its outside passengers, who were thrown off as the coach was rounding the curve, and at once crawled into the nearest place of refuge.”

Signor Pulex Irritanci on the Tight-Rope.
St. Nicholas Magazine, 1886.

The last, and most anticipated, act of the flea circus featured “Signor Pulex Irritanci,” a flea touted as a “world renowned tight-rope performer.”  The proprietor placed two fine pins on the stage four inches apart, connecting them with a silver wire.  With much fanfare, Signor Irritanci was brought out in a cut glass bottle, his only ornament a “little jacket of tissue-paper.”  As Holder describes:

“When fished out and placed upon the pin-head, he boldly started out upon the wire over which his little clawed toes seemed to fit.  In the middle, and over the terrific abyss, he balanced up and down for a second, stood upon his longest legs, and then moved on, crossing in safety, and thus ending the circus, at least for that occasion.”

Circus Flea Psychology

Many Victorians believed that circus fleas had personalities that mirrored those of human beings.  This is most evident in historical descriptions of smart fleas that could be taught and naughty fleas that needed to be punished in order to learn their lessons.  These sorts of beliefs were not uncommon.  Those in the 19^th century frequently interpreted the behavior of animals in terms of human thought and emotion.  That Victorians should apply this same rationale to insects is humorous, but not surprising.

Could fleas really be trained to perform circus tricks?  Personally, I tend to doubt it.  I suspect that most of the entertainment value of the 19^th century flea circus accrued from the novelty of seeing insects in costumes, pulling carriages, or racing each other.  In addition, more recent reports have suggested that the variety of flea used in Victorian flea circuses was likely the “mole flea,” a less energetic variety of insect.  According to the Handbook of Agricultural Entomology, this type of flea was harnessed and then, when the show was about to start, stimulated into movement with a heat lamp.

A Few Final Words…

The first flea circus on record was opened in 1812 by Heinrich Degeller in Stuttgart.  From then until the 1930s, flea circuses remained a popular sideshow attraction.  Most continued to employ live fleas, but as time wore on—and hygiene methods improved—there were not as many “flea performers” available.  Eventually, some flea circuses began to use other methods, such as electricity or magnets, to move the little vehicles about the ring.  This is the main reason that so many today believe that 19^th century flea circuses were nothing but a hoax.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  Just to clarify, this article is NOT an April Fool’s Day joke.  There really were flea circuses in the Victorian era.  They even performed for the Queen!  Alas, I have no rescue links for insects, but if you would like to learn more about fleas in general, the following websites might be helpful:

Entomological Society of America (United States)

Royal Entomological Society (United Kingdom)

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Banham, Martin.  The Cambridge Guide to Theatre.  Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.

Blume, Leslie.  Let’s Bring Back.  San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2010.

Holder, C. F.  “The Smallest Circus in the World.”  St. Nicolas Illustrated Magazine.  Vol. XIII.  New York: Century Co., 1886.

Howe, Willard.  “Trained Fleas—A New Picture Subject.”  Motography.  Vol. 5. Issue 6.  Chicago: Electricity Magazine Corporation, 1911.

“Intelligent Fleas.”  Daily Gazette for Middlesbrough .  May 8, 1890.

Van Emden, Helmut.  Handbook of Agricultural Entomology.  Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Convalescence by Gustave Léonard de Jonghe, (1829-1893).

Under the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861, any pregnant woman who acted with intent to “procure her own miscarriage” was guilty of a felony and could, if convicted, be sentenced to “penal servitude for life.”  This same law that punished women who attempted to rid themselves of an unwanted pregnancy also punished the nurses and midwives who were frequently engaged to assist them.  In most cases, it was impossible to enforce the law.  However, when a woman died as a result of complications following an abortion, the person who had performed the procedure could be charged with murder and even sentenced to death.

But though a midwife who had performed an “illegal operation” resulting in her patient’s death could technically be found guilty of willful murder, the most common verdict was one of manslaughter, resulting in a sentence of anywhere from a few months to several decades of penal servitude.

A Midwife Going to a Labour
by Thomas Rowlandson, 1811.
(Wellcome Library CC By 4.0)

For example, in 1887, a midwife and lady’s nurse named Elizabeth Potts was charged with causing the death of “Paddington shop-girl” Elizabeth Culling, on whom she had performed an “illegal operation.”  Miss Potts was subsequently found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to fifteen years penal servitude.  While in 1891, a nurse by the name of Dorothy Davis was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to twenty years penal servitude as a result of performing an “illegal operation” on Annie Simpson, who later died as a result of the procedure.

Some judges disliked going through the motions of what they termed “sham” murder trials.  An April 1897 edition of the Lancashire Evening Post reports on the critical remarks of Justice Wills at the Manchester Assizes in relation to the murder charge levied again midwife Sarah Jane Cook.  As the article states:

“Technically, if death results from an illegal operation, it was murder on the part of the person who performed it.  But it was extremely unsatisfactory to his Lordship to have to try a charge of murder, with all the solemnity attending it, and with the painful solemnity of passing sentence of death in case of conviction, when everybody knew the whole thing was a sham, because it was as certain as he occupied a seat on that bench that no such consequence would follow in this case.”

Other judges had no issue with presiding over the murder trials of midwives—and no difficulty passing down death sentences that would later be reduced to terms of imprisonment.  In February of 1899, a sixty-seven year old nurse by the name of Jane White was indicted for the murder of Alice Birmingham.  Miss White had allegedly performed an “illegal operation” on Miss Birmingham which resulted in her death.  In addition, certain instruments had been found in Miss White’s coal cellar which led the prosecution to argue that Miss White had been “guilty of illegal acts” towards other women as well.  The jury deliberated for some time before finding Miss White guilty of all charges.  The judge sentenced her to death.

Obstetrical Instrument Set, England, 1851-1900.
(Wellcome Library CC BY 4.0)

As illustrated in the case of Miss White, mere possession of “certain instruments” was a crime in itself under the law.  However, there were other ways that midwives could assist in helping women procure an abortion.  Victorian midwives commonly offered a variety of oral abortifacients.  These preparations were advertised in local papers, usually under the guise of treatments for vague sounding “feminine ailments.”  One advertisement in the 1898 edition of the Leeds Times refers to a “certain mixture for obstructions and irregularities” sold by a midwife named Mrs. Dameran.  The advertisement even contains testimonials of women who have used this mixture in the past, with one stating:

“Madam, I am glad to be able to report that the last two doses have had the desire [sic] effect.  I shall recommend your remedy to all my married friends.  I think it is excellent, and should I be in difficulty again myself, should at once apply to you.”

Though the sale of abortifacients was against the law, there was little that could be done to enforce it.  For one thing, these sorts of advertisements were sufficiently ambiguous, with most appearing to be offering treatments for menstrual cramps or other feminine maladies.  For another, the substances—such as lead plasters and juniper oil—were often quite harmless in and of themselves.  Still, everyone knew what the midwives were selling in these adverts and, in some cases, the ladies who purchased the concoctions advertised found themselves vulnerable to more than criminal prosecution.

Abortifacient Advertisement, Leeds Times, April 9, 1898.

In her book A Visitor’s Guide to Victorian England, author Michelle Higgs relates an 1898 blackmail case involving women who purchased abortifacients via a newspaper advertisement:

“In 1898, a sensational blackmail case revealed that the Chrimes brothers from London had extorted money from female customers who had bought their (supposed) abortifacient pills.  They sent letters which threatened to tell the authorities that the women had committed an act punishable by penal servitude, unless they paid £2 2s (two guineas).  Twelve thousand women were contacted, indicating how widespread the practice was, and within three or four days, £800 had been paid to them.”

These advertisements, which not only offered “feminine mixtures,” but sometimes also offered the services of the midwife herself, came under intense criticism whenever a woman died as a result of attempting to procure an abortion.  An October edition of the Dundee Post reports on a coroner’s jury at Westminster which returned a verdict of willful murder against a German midwife named Ernestine Katz.  Katz was alleged to have caused the death of a servant girl named Kate Kennedy.  As the article states:

“The evidence went to show that deceased, seeing an advertisement in a newspaper, went to the accused’s house, where an illegal operation was performed.  Blood poisoning followed, and Kennedy died in St. George’s Hospital.  The jury added that newspapers should observe more caution in the insertion of such advertisements.”

Midwife Advertisement, Dover Express and East Kent Intelligencer, May 3, 1862.

For Victorian women who were poor and desperate—whether they needed help with delivering a child or with procuring an abortion—the services of a midwife were invaluable.  For many doctors, however, midwives were seen as a threat.  The medical profession was a crowded one and the services of midwives were not only less expensive and more readily available, but they were often more tempting, as midwives frequently offered what historian Lionel Rose refers to as “supplementary services.”

Doctors of that era were almost uniformly against abortion.  In fact, medical opinion played a significant role in influencing the severity of Sections 58 and 59 of the Offenses Against the Person Act of 1861.  But their position on abortion had as much to do with self-interest as it did with concern for unborn children.  As author John Keown states in his 2002 book Abortion, Doctors, and the Law:

“There is substantial evidence that medical men were concerned not only for the welfare of the potential victims of abortion but also to further the process of establishing and consolidating their status as a profession.”

Decreasing the number of practicing midwives played no small part in this consolidation of the medical profession.  Around the same time that the 1861 Offenses Against the Person Act came into being, doctors began to press for midwives to be registered and “compulsorily qualified.”  As Rose explains:

“…a higher caliber, and therefore scarcer breed of midwives, subordinated to doctors, would be less of an economic threat…”

The Obstetric MD, Coloured Lithograph, British College of Health, 1852.
(Wellcome Library CC BY 4.0)

The registration requirement for midwives was finally realized in the 1902 Midwives Act.  The law now required that all new midwives had to be “qualified.”  As for the “unqualified” women—many of whom had decades of experience—Rose states that they were only allowed to continue practicing until 1910.

The various medical and legal mechanisms of the Victorian era had little effect on the number of “illegal operations” performed by nurses and midwives.  According to Rose, abortion in England continued to be “very widely practiced,” with many women not even realizing that it was illegal.  As a result, midwives—and occasionally even doctors—were routinely arrested, charged, and harshly sentenced under the terms of the Offenses Against the Person Act of 1861.  If you would like to read the Act in its entirety, you can do so HERE.

*Author’s Note: The Offenses Against the Person Act of 1861 was the first abortion statute in England that dealt with the liability of the woman on whom the procedure was performed.

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“An Illegal Operation: Sentence of Death.”  South Wales Daily News.  February 10, 1899.

“Charged with Causing a Servant’s Death.”  Dundee Evening Post.  October 31, 1900.

Higgs, Michelle.  A Visitor’s Guide to Victorian England.  Barnsley: Pen and Sword, 2014.

“Justice Wills on Sham Murder Trials.”  Lancashire Evening Post.  April 27, 1897.

Keown, John.  Abortion, Doctors and the Law: Some Aspects of the Legal Regulation of Abortion in England from 1803 to 1982.  Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

Rose, Lionel.  Massacre of the Innocents: Infanticide in Great Britain 1800-1939.  New York: Routledge, 2015.

“Twenty Years Penal Servitude.”  Dundee Courier.  November 13, 1891.

“The Unlawful Operation Case: Heavy Sentence.”  Gloucester Citizen.  April 30, 1887.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Piano Lesson by Henriëtte Ronner-Knip, 1897.

One does not have to be a fan of classical music to be familiar with the works of French composers Claude Debussy and Maurice Ravel.  The two rivals were part of the Impressionism movement in classical music, a movement inspired by Impressionist painters like Monet, Manet, and Renoir and poets such as Verlaine and Baudelaire.  They were also renowned cat lovers who famously allowed their feline muses to prowl at liberty amongst their papers while composing such masterpieces as Clair de Lune and Boléro. 

Maurice Ravel with his Siamese cat, Mouni, at Belvedere, 1929.

Joseph Maurice Ravel was born on March 7, 1875.  He spent much of his life in Paris where he lived in a villa with his mother and his pets.  He is often described as an “extraordinary” cat lover.  It is not clear how many cats he owned at one time, however, in his 2008 book The Classical Music Experience, author Julius Jacobson writes:

“Apparently, he went a bit overboard with the cats, allowing them to invade his worktable, speaking to them in cat language, playing with them ceaselessly, and filling letters to his friends with their details.”

Ravel had a particular fondness for Siamese cats and in her 1995 book The Gift of Music, author Jane Smith reports that, upon first moving to his villa, Belvedere, Ravel “shared his quarters” with a Siamese cat family.  Smith states:

“He not only understood cats—he could speak their language.”

Maurice Ravel on the Piano, 1912.

Born on August 22, 1862, Claude Debussy was over a decade older than Maurice Ravel.  Unlike his younger rival, he preferred long-haired Angora cats to sleek Siamese.  In fact, according to biographer Victor Seroff:

“Debussy’s cats were always Angora and always were called the same name, which they inherited from each other.”

Claude Debussy, 1900.

Like Ravel, Debussy allowed his cats to meander through his workspace.  As Seroff writes:

“[Debussy’s cats] tiptoed, as usual, through a mass of papers on Debussy’s desk, while he was working.”

Another biographer, Eric Jensen, states that Debussy’s two cats were granted “unusual favors,” including:

“…being permitted to lounge solemnly on the desk and if they so wished, to sow disorder among the pencils.”

Debussy’s human relationships were often complicated and tumultuous.  Though he married twice and fathered a child, Smith states that:

“He cared little for people, preferring cats to human beings.”

Claude Debussy at the Piano in front of composer Ernest Chausson, 1893.

Debussy died on March 25, 1918 at the age of fifty-five.  Ravel died on December 28, 1937 at the age of sixty-two.  I can find no definitive evidence that their cats inspired their work.  Still, I cannot help but wonder what role those cats might have played in the creation of such masterpieces as Clair de Lune and Boléro?  Were they merely the pets of two of the greatest composers of all time?  Or did they act the part of muse?  As someone who does her best writing with a cat curled up beside her and a dog at her feet, I am inclined to believe the latter.  What do you think?

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to 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

Apel, Willi.  Harvard Dictionary of Music.  Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969.

Goulding, Phil G.  Classical Music: The 50 Greatest Composers and Their 1,000 Greatest Works.  New York: Ballantine Books, 1995.

Jacobson, Julius H.  The Classical Music Experience.  Naperville: Sourcebooks, 2008.

Jensen, Eric Frederick.  Debussy.  New York: Oxford University Press, 2014.

Seroff, Victor.  Debussy; Musician of France.  New York: G. P. Putnam, 1956.

Smith, Jane Stuart.  The Gift of Music: Great Composers and Their Influence.  Illinois: Crossway Books, 1995.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Arranged Marriage by Vasili Pukirev, 1861.

While researching for another article, I happened upon an 1840s book which espouses harsh—and quite unintentionally hilarious—views on age disparities in marriage.  This book, titled The Midwife’s Guide, is actually a Victorian edition of the 17^th century sex and midwifery manual known as Aristotle’s Masterpiece.  Written by an unknown author purporting to be Aristotle, it was the most widely read sex manual in 19^th century England.  Only a fraction of the text is devoted to May-December marriages, but those brief pages leave one in no doubt of how the author feels about matches of unequal years.  He begins by writing:

“When greedy parents, for the sake of riches, will match a daughter that is scarcely seventeen, to an old miser that is above threescore; can anyone imagine that such a conjunction can ever yield satisfaction, where the inclinations are as opposite as the months of June and January.”

According to the author, an age gap this large can bring nothing but misery.  As he explains:

“This makes the woman (who still wants a husband, for the old miser is scarce the shadow of one) either to wish, or, may be, to contrive his death, to whom her parents thus, against her will, have yoked her; or else, to satisfy her natural inclinations, she throws herself into the arms of unlawful love: which might both have been prevented, had the greedy inconsiderate parents provided her with a suitable match.”

The author goes on to give a lengthy example of a wealthy old widower who, upon attempting to arrange the marriage of his heir, was so bewitched by his future daughter-in-law that he offered for her himself.  The young woman’s greedy father subsequently forced her to marry the “old gentleman” against her will.  Unsurprisingly, the young woman was unhappy in the match and, in short order, found “a young gentleman of 22 years of age, whom she liked much better than her husband.”  It was then that the young woman began to contemplate getting rid of her elderly spouse.  As the author relates:

“Then she became impatient for her husband’s death, and now thought every day an age to live with him, and therefore sought opportunity to cut off that thread of life which she was of opinion nature lengthened out too long…”

Dotage by Thomas Rowlandson, 1756-1827.
(Wellcome Library, CC by 4.0)

With the help of her servants, the young woman strangled her husband in his bed.  She then removed to London where she lived happily for two years until “justice overtook her.”  She and her servants were arrested, tried, and ultimately executed for their crimes, prompting the author to moralize that the whole episode was:

“…a sad example of the dismal consequences of doting love, and of unequal matches; for had this lady not been forced, through the desire of lucre in her parents, to marry the old knight, but had been married to the son, as was first intended, the old gentleman might have prevented an untimely death, and the young lady lived with innocence and honour.”

Despite his repeated emphasis on murderous, cheating spouses, the author acknowledges that unequal matches do not always lead to adultery and murder.  Instead, he argues that it is more likely that the unfortunate young bride “curbs all her natural inclinations” and:

“…is contented with the performance of her husband (how weak soever it may be, and cold and frigid) and does preserve her chastity so pure and immaculate as not to let one wandering thought corrupt it…”

But even when the young wife’s conduct is beyond reproach, the author asserts that the elderly husband will still grow suspicious.  This suspicion arises not from the wife’s behavior, but from the husband’s own deficiencies.  As the author explains:

“…the husband, conscious of the abatement of his youthful vigour, and his own weak imbecile performances of the conjugal rites, suspects his virtuous lady, and watches over her with Argus’s eyes, making himself and her unhappy by his senseless jealousy…”

A Dream, The Normalogue, 1914.

The author states that a young wife murdering her old husband and an old husband consumed with paranoia over being cuckolded by a young wife are but two of the many dire consequences of “old men’s dotage and unequal matches.”  However, rather than continuing to enumerate the evils of old men marrying young women, he proceeds to address the reverse situation, writing:

“But let us turn the tables now, and see if it be better on the other side, when a young spark of 22 marries a grandam of 70 years, with a wrinkled face.  This, I am sure, is most unnatural.  Here can be no increase, unless of gold, which oftentimes the old bag (for who can call her better, that marries a young boy to satisfy her lecherous itch, when she is just tumbling into the grave,) conveys away, before marriage, to her own relations, and leaves the expectant cox comb nothing but repentance for his portion.”

The author goes on to paint a grim picture of the young husband who is, for all intents and purposes, enslaved by his wealthy, elderly wife.  In most cases, he writes, the wife will allow him nothing more than “pocket expenses,” but for that small sum, the young husband is “bound to do the basest drudgery.”  In the rare event the wife is generous with her money, the author warns:

“But if he meet with money (which was the only motive of the match, her gold being the greatest cordial at the wedding feast,) he may likely squander it profusely away in rioting amongst his whores, hoping, ere long, his antiquated wife will take a voyage to another world, and leave him to his liberty…”

The Successful Fortune Hunter
by Thomas Rowlandson, 1802.

While the young husband is rioting with whores and wishing his wife’s death, the elderly wife is beginning to nurture uncharitable thoughts of her own.  As the author reports:

“…whilst old grandam, finding her money wasted, and herself despised, is filled with those resentments that jealousy, envy, and neglected love produce; wishing and hoping each day to see him in his grave, though she has almost both feet in her own.  Thus, each day, they wish for each other’s death, which, if it come not quickly, they often help to hasten.”

Based on these portions of the manual, marriage seems an unpleasant—and rather dangerous—business.  In fact, having read such dire predictions, the 19th century man or woman contemplating matrimony would be fully justified in giving up on the institution altogether.  The author, however, hastens to emphasize that the examples he has given are merely the “excrescences of marriage” and “not a fault of marriage itself.”  He closes the section on unequal marriage by writing:

“For, let it be what God at first ordained, a nuptial of two hearts as well as hands, whom equal years and mutual love has first united before the person joins their hands, and such will tell you, that mortals can enjoy no greater happiness on this side heaven.”

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

The Midwife’s Guide.  New York: Published for the Trade, 1845.

Victorian Britain.  New York: Routledge, 2011.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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A Winter’s Walk by James Tissot, 1878.

In the late 18^th century, the British Parliament passed a law condemning make-up.  It stated, in part, that “women found guilty of seducing men into matrimony by a cosmetic means could be tried for witchcraft.” (Kozlowski, 17)  Attitudes toward cosmetics in the 19^th century were not much better.  Queen Victoria herself denounced make-up as being “impolite” and mid-century magazines like the Saturday Evening Review declared that cosmetics were “insincere” and “a form of lying.” (Pallingston, 13) Even more damning, to most Victorians, make-up was considered the province of only two classes of women: actresses and prostitutes.

Did this mean that no one but prostitutes and actresses colored their lips and cheeks?  Not at all.  In fact, most beauty books from the 19^th century contained at least one recipe for red lip rouge or red salve which a lady could use to add a bit of subtle color to her complexion.  These were natural recipes, with the red coloring generally derived from either the cochineal insect or the alkanet root.  In his 1846 book An Easy Introduction to Chemistry, author George Sparkes describes the cochineal as follows:

“This is a dried insect, which, when powdered, yields a brilliant colour both to water and to alcohol.  It is the basis of carmine…” (132)

Conversely, alkanet root yielded no color to water, but as Sparkes explains, it tinged “wax and oils” a deep red. (132)  The waxy base for rouge and salve, in its plain form, was white and could be used to heal chapped or cracked lips.  When cochineal or alkanet root was added, the shades of red varied from scarlet and crimson to the “coralline” shade that Meg March famously uses to redden her lips in the following scene from Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women:

“They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense would have added ‘a soupcon of rouge’, if Meg had not rebelled.” (Chapter Nine)

Red lip rouge and lip salve were fairly easy for a lady—or her maid—to make up at home.  The 1892 book Perfumes and their Preparation includes the following basic recipe for red lip salve made with alkanet root.

Perfumes and their Preparations, 1892.

As an alternative, an 1884 red lip salve recipe in The Encyclopedia of Practical Receipts calls for “balsam of Peru” and oil of cloves. (124)  While the below 1881 recipes for red lip rouge and red lip salve from Old Doctor Carlin’s Recipes (483) require such ingredients as rice flour and oil of lavender.  Note that the red lip salve is colored with alkanet root, while the lip rouge is colored with carmine derived from the cochineal insect.

Old Doctor Carlin’s Recipes, 1888.

Despite the prevalence of recipes for red lip rouge and red lip salve, cosmetics in the 19^th century were never entirely respectable.  Natural beauty remained the ideal for the better part of the Victorian era.  By the end of the century, however, attitudes toward cosmetics were gradually beginning to change.  This was largely as a result of actresses, like Sarah Bernhardt, who routinely wore makeup in public.  As author Madeleine Marsh explains in her book Compacts and Cosmetics:

“In the ‘naughty nineties,’ a decade that kicked off with cancan girls revealing their all at the newly opened Moulin Rouge in Paris and in which theatre and music hall became more popular than ever before, performers were certainly influential in promoting a more open use of beauty products.” (37)

By the early 20^th century, cosmetics were well on their way to becoming a mainstream commodity  The first tube lipstick was invented in 1915 and by the 20s, 30s, and 40s, a powdered face, blackened eyelashes, and crimson lips were not only acceptable, they were fashionable.

As for the Victorians, despite their reputation for abstaining from make-up, it was not at all uncommon—or indecent—for a lady to apply a light dusting of powder to her nose or a touch of salve to her lips.  If done with a light enough hand, these simple cosmetics served to enhance a woman’s natural beauty, all while remaining invisible to the naked eye.  Was this deception?  Dishonesty?  Or some form of 19th century feminine false advertising?  As always, I will let you be the judge.

Portrait of Aline Mason in Blue by Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta, 1841-1920.

**Author’s Note: This article is the first in what I hope will be a short series on Victorian Cosmetics.  If you would like a refresher on other Victorian beauty topics, such as hair care, skin care, and perfume, I refer you to my Victorian Lady’s Guide series.  You can click through via the links below. 

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hair Care

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hairdressing

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Skin Care

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Perfume

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Alcott, Louisa May.  Little Women.  n.p.  1868.  Project Gutenberg. Web. 12 Apr 2016.

Askinson, George William.  Perfumes and Their Preparation.  London: N. W. Henley, 1892.

Carlin, William.  Old Doctor Carlin’s Recipes.  Boston: Locke Publishing, 1881.

Dick, William Brisbane. The Encyclopedia of Practical Receipts. New York: Dick & Fitzgerald, 1884.

Kozlowski, Karen.  Read My Lips: A Cultural History of Lipstick.  San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1998.

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

Pallingston, Jessica.  Lipstick: A Celebration of the World’s Favorite Cosmetic.  New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999.

Sparkes, George.  An Easy Introduction to Chemistry.  London: Wittaker & Co., 1846.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Edinburgh and London Royal Mail by John Frederick Herring, 1838.

One night in 1894, while on the mail route from Ramsgate to Dover, the driver of a mail cart was attacked by two armed men.  According to the Leeds Times, he was “cut about the head and face” and then struck in the back of the head with a “heavy implement.”  He was later found unconscious on a roadway near Sandwich.  What the thieves intended to steal from the mail cart is unclear, for they were ultimately thwarted in their goal.  Having seen them attack his master, the mail horse bolted away with the mail before the two villains could catch him.

The horse was apparently familiar with the mail route and, despite having no human to guide him, he galloped straight for the next mail stop at Sandwich and delivered the mail on his own.  He was so efficient in his endeavor that having arrived at Sandwich, an 1894 edition of the Dundee Evening Telegraph states that not a single piece of mail was reported to be missing.

The driver later recovered and “proceeded on his journey.”  The newspapers do not  explicitly say so, but I expect that he reconnected with his horse at Sandwich.  As for the horse, though reports do refer to him as an “intelligent horse” who saved the mail bags, there is no more information about him.

The Last of the Mail Coaches at Newcastle upon Tyne by James Pollard, 1848.

Loose horses, when frightened, will often head straight home to the safety of their stable—no matter how intricate the journey or how burdensome their cargo.  For example, an 1882 edition of the Thetford & Watton Times and People’s Weekly Journal reports on a farmer who was driving a cart of sheep into town.  When he climbed down to latch a gate, his horse bolted away with the cart and the sheep.  As the article states:

“Although there were two or three turns in the road, it passed them all safely, and turned into the gateway of its home without doing the least damage to itself or cart.”

Granted, the mail horse did not live in Sandwich, but it was a regular stop on his route and a place with which he was familiar.  I am in no doubt of the intelligence of horses, but rather than believe (as the newspapers allude) that the mail horse’s work ethic and intelligence inspired him to continue on with the mail delivery, I would argue that he merely galloped to the closest place of safety.  What do you think?

North Country Mails at the Peacock, Islington by James Pollard, 1821.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you are interested in helping a horse in need, I encourage you to utilize the following links as resources:

Equine Rescue League (United States)

RSCPA Horses and Ponies Rehoming and Adoption (United Kingdom)

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

“Intelligent Horse Saves the Mail Bags.”  Dundee Evening Telegraph.  September 14, 1894.

“The Mails Saved by Bolting Horse.”  Leeds Times.  September 15, 1894.

Thetford & Watton Times and People’s Weekly Journal.  March 18, 1882.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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Una and the Lion by Briton Rivière, 1840-1920.

There was no official Earth Day in the 19^th century, but scholars, essayists, and theologians often pondered the solemn duty that man owed to the natural world.  Admittedly, these ponderings were not generally focused on environmental issues such as the effects of greenhouse gases.  Instead, those in the 19^th century—and Victorians especially—focused on conservation and man’s treatment of animals.

The 19^th century was a turning point in terms of how Western society viewed the treatment of animals.  In 1800, the first anti-cruelty bill was introduced into Parliament.  Only a few short decades later, in 1824, Richard Martin—along with a group of twenty other animal welfare advocates—founded the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.  Addressing the objects of the society, an 1829 publication by what was then the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals states:

“The evils this Society hopes to lessen contain no fiction, nor is it morbid sensibility that obscures its view; but they are facts too clear which speak, and plead in a tongue well understood by all who can grieve for the distress of others—by all who can blush for the disgrace of mankind—by all who hold sacred the great trusts of God.”

Black Beauty, First Edition, 1877.

Throughout the century, books on animal welfare were being published, including the novel Black Beauty by Anna Sewell which came to print in 1877.  Told from the horse’s point of view, Black Beauty reveals the many everyday cruelties to carriage horses in Victorian England.  Many of those cruelties, such as the bearing rein, were motivated by fashion.  Sewell’s commentary on these cruelties holds up a mirror to animal welfare concerns of the Victorian era.  As she has a character state in one scene:

“We have no right to distress any of God’s creatures without a very good reason; we call them dumb animals, and so they are, for they cannot tell us how they feel, but they do not suffer less because they have no words.”

As the century came to a close, organizations were being formed to combat vivisection and other scientific cruelties against animals.  Meanwhile, bird feeding and bird watching became popular pastimes and people began to look with disfavor on the use of plumes in fashionable hats.  The Plumage League—now the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds—was founded in 1889.  And, in the United States, the Audubon Society was formed in 1904.

We have a long way to go in terms of our treatment of animals.  Shelters are filled with unwanted pets, habitats are being decimated, and endangered species are being hunted for sport.  Many believe that it is foolish to act on behalf of animals when there is so much needless suffering and cruelty in the human world.  I strongly disagree.  The plight of humans and animals is inextricably intertwined.  We share the earth together.

Peaceable Kingdom by Edward Hicks, 1834.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you are interested in helping an animal in need, I encourage you to utilize the following links as resources:

The Humane Society of the United States (United States)

Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (United Kingdom)

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Forensic Science Advances and Their Application in the Judiciary System.  London: CRC Press, 2011.

McCormick, John.  Reclaiming Paradise: The Global Environmental Movement.  Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1889.

Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.  Objects and Address of the Society.  London: William Molineux, 1829.

Sewell, Anna.  Black Beauty.  n.p. 1877.  Project Gutenberg.  Web.  22 Apr 2016.

Shevelow, Kathryn.  For the Love of Animals: The Rise of the Animal Protection Movement.  New York: Henry Holt, 2008.

Wagner, John A.  Voices of Victorian England.  Oxford: ABC Clio, 2014.

 © 2016 Mimi Matthews

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“All defects are in the nature of ugliness, but certain ones are more degrading than others; and of these obesity, which is a deformity, is signally ignoble.”
The Woman Beautiful, 1899.

Unknown Painting by Ivan Makarov, 1870.

During the early and mid-Victorian era, a great many health and beauty books echoed the popular 19^th century sentiment that plumpness equaled good health.  It was leanness, not heaviness, to which beauty experts directed the majority of their criticism.  For example, in his 1870 book Personal Beauty: How to Cultivate and Preserve it in Accordance with the Laws of Health, author Daniel Brinton states that a “scrawny bony figure” is “intolerable to gods and men.”  According to Brinton, the only occasion on which excessive leanness had ever been beneficial to a lady was in an encounter with a cannibal.  As he explains:

“The only lady who we ever heard derived advantage from such an appearance was Madame Ida Pfeiffer.  She relates that somewhere in her African travels the natives had a mind to kill and eat her, but she looked so unpalatably lean and tough that the temptation was not strong enough, and thus her life was saved.”

Lorings Advert, 1896.

This did not mean that there were no diets or patent nostrums for reducing weight.  Quite the contrary.  For the morbidly obese, Brinton himself lays out an entire regime based on the popular 19th century belief that fat was “only water” and could be driven out of the system by perspiration.

But though Brinton and other health and beauty authors of the Victorian era generally took a sympathetic tone toward the very overweight, by the end of the century a new trend was on the rise.  No longer was roundness or plumpness seen as being wholly synonymous with health and beauty.  Instead, many Victorians began to view excess weight as a sign that a woman was inconsiderate, stupid, lazy, and—in some cases—even promiscuous or insane.

In his 1897 book, The Female Offender, author Cesare Lombroso makes the connection between obesity and prostitution.  Using extraordinarily detailed graphs and tables, he compares the weights and measurements of overweight prostitutes with those of slimmer, “moral” women.  He concludes that obesity is directly linked to promiscuity and uncivilized behavior, writing:

“This greater weight among prostitutes is confirmed by the notorious fact of the obesity of those who grow old in their vile trade, and who gradually become positive monsters of adipose tissue.”

Taking his research a step further, Lombroso looks at the weights and measurements of women who have been committed to insane asylums, writing:

“In conclusion, I would remark that in prisons and asylums for the insane, the female lunatics are far more often exaggeratedly fat than the men.”

Weight Chart, The Female Offender, 1897.

This belief that obesity was linked to sexuality, promiscuity, and mental derangement was only one facet of what—for lack of a better word—I will call Victorian fat shaming.  More common still was the view that the overweight were selfish or inconsiderate in some way.  A particularly harsh example of this comes from the 1899 book The Woman Beautiful, in which author Adelia Fletcher excoriates overweight women for their selfishness, writing:

“Wherever the fat woman finds herself in a crowd—and where can she avoid it in the metropolis?—she is in effect an intruder.  For, she occupies twice the space to which she is entitled, and inflicts upon her companions, through every one of her excessive pounds, just so much additional fatigue and discomfort.  Too often, this so redundant flesh seems to serve as a. bullet-proof armor, repelling all consciousness of the rights of others.  The woman who makes a god of her stomach is incorrigible, and I fear no word of mine will avail to induce her to reform.  She is the innately selfish woman who makes her very existence an offense.”

Woman weighing 265 kg, 1881.
(Wellcome Library, CC by 4.0)

At one point in her lengthy attack against overweight women, Fletcher acknowledges that “corpulency” is a disease.  However, this does not stop her from attributing excess weight to a woman’s “indolence of mind” and categorizing overeaters as a lower order of beast.

The Victorian idea that obesity was incompatible with intelligence and mental acuity was a common one.  As a 1900 edition of the Dietetic and Hygienic Gazette reports:

“Obesity always carries with it physical and often mental weakness…”

This stereotype was frequently enforced by overweight characters in popular plays and novels who were portrayed as dimwitted and lazy.  An 1893 edition of Charles Dickens’ weekly literary magazine All the Year Round addresses this, stating:

“People have rather an erroneous idea, probably gathered from Dickens’s Fat Boy in ‘Pickwick,’ that corpulent people have none of the finer feelings and are of a lethargic and dull comprehension.  This is altogether a mistake, as many a poor corpulent lady can tell you.  When she ascends a crowded omnibus on a hot summer’s day every one of the indignant glances levelled at her by her more fortunate sisters are as so many little dagger thrusts of mortification, though her ruddy complexion and defiant stentorian breathing may seem to belie the truth of these words.”

The Tree of Intemperance, 1872.
(Wellcome Library, CC by 4.0)

The increased attacks against obesity in the late Victorian era were just one part of an overall “clean living movement.”  Temperance reformers levied similar charges against those who used alcohol and tobacco.  According to the 2012 book Alcohol, Tobacco, and Obesity, just as temperance reformers viewed alcohol as “the root of social, moral, and physical decay” and linked tobacco to “the corruption of innocence,” so too was obesity given a moral dimension.  As the book explains:

“Clearly, although the strength of these three reform movements and the personnel involved differed across issues, temporal periods, and locales, they were part of a larger Protestant-infused ‘clean living’ movement that ascribed moral value to self-restraint and self-regulation, and condemned ‘pathological’ excess.”

Perhaps it seems odd that there was so much anti-fat sentiment during an era when the queen herself was overweight.  Then again, throughout history, extreme weights on either end of the spectrum have always been a subject for criticism and ridicule.  This is nothing particularly new; however, using a woman’s weight as a barometer of her intelligence, her character, her sexuality, and even her sanity is something quintessentially Victorian.  I’d like to say that we know better now, but even with modern science and education, these negative stereotypes cast a very long shadow.

**Author’s Note: It’s been brought to my attention that some have taken this article as either 1) an endorsement of obesity; or 2) criticism of obesity.  In fact, this is simply a history article which details and cites some entertaining/offensive/outlandish Victorian beliefs about women and their weight.  These views interested me in an academic sense–especially in terms of 19th century gender politics–and when something interests me enough to research, I usually share my findings here.  That’s all there is to it.

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Alcohol, Tobacco, and Obesity: Morality, Mortality and the New Public Health.  New York: Routledge, 2011.

Banting, William.  Letter on Corpulence: Addressed to the Public.  Volume 13.  London: Harrison, 1864.

Brinton, Daniel Garrison.  Personal Beauty: How to Cultivate and Preserve it in Accordance with the Laws of Health.  Springfield: W. J. Holland, 1870.

“Fashion and Stout Ladies.”  All the Year Round.  Vol. X.  London, 1893.

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

“The Great Danger in Pushing Muscle Power to an Extreme.”  The Dietetic and Hygienic Gazette. Vol. XVI.  New York, 1900.

Lombroso, Cesare.  The Female Offender.  New York: D. Appleton, 1897.

Silver, Anna Krugovoy.  Victorian Literature and the Anorexic Body.  Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

 © 2016 Mimi Matthews

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Portrait of Queen Alexandra, when Princess of Wales, with Facey by Luke Fildes, 1893.

Alexandra of Denmark married Queen Victoria’s son and heir, Albert Edward, on March 10, 1863.  She was a noted dog lover marrying into a family of noted dog lovers.  The resulting menagerie of canines which she accumulated as Princess of Wales was a diverse collection which rivalled even that of her royal mother-in-law.  There were Basset Hounds, Wolfhounds, Dachshunds, Collies, Samoyeds, Fox Terriers, Pugs, Pekingese, and Japanese Spaniels – to name just a few.  They were housed in luxurious kennels at Sandringham House, the Prince and Princess’s home in Norfolk.

In 1901, Sarah Tooley, a writer at the Lady’s Realm magazine, was granted a tour.  By this time, Queen Victoria was dead.  The Prince of Wales had ascended the throne as King Edward VII and Alexandra was now the Queen Consort.  That June, having received permission from the new Queen to come and meet her pets, Tooley drove to the part of the Sandringham estate on which the kennels and pheasantry were located.  There, she was met by Mr. Jackson, the head-keeper at Sandringham, and conducted on a tour which took two separate visits to complete.

Sandringham, Norfolk, 1879.
(County Seats of the Noblemen and Gentlemen of Great Britain and Ireland by Francis Morris)

The kennels at Sandringham House were under the supervision of a man named Mr. C. Brundson who, according to Tooley, had been the Queen’s kennelman for fifteen years.  He managed more than fifty dogs and kept the kennels in “a great state of perfection.”  As Tooley describes:

“Each kennel has an inner compartment as a bedroom, fitted with an iron bedstead and straw mattress.  They are well ventilated, with good sanitary arrangements, and are whitewashed once a year.  Leading from the bedroom is an open ‘sitting-room,’ supplied with straw and a constant supply of fresh water.  Iron gates enclose each kennel from the central yard.  Good grass runs are adjacent to the kennels.”

Upon first entering the kennels, Tooley met a “handsome Siberian sledge-dog” who was lodged with his friend, “a little fox-terrier.”  From there, she saw:

“…two rough-coated collies and a lovely white Samoyed sledge-dog hailing from the Arctic regions.”

The Queen and Alix.
(The Lady’s Realm, 1901)

She was next introduced to two “famous” collies named Sandringham Nicety and Newmarket Tip, after which she stopped to admire “three lovely deerhound puppies.”  Following that, Tooley met a St. Bernard with “a lovely face and head,” a wolfhound “sent from Russia by the Dowager-Empress,” and—in the very next kennel—Alix the “Russian dog,” the most famous of the Queen’s pets at Sandringham.  As Tooley explains:

“‘Alix’ came to Sandringham six years ago, and is quite a champion prize-winner, there being a hundred first and special, seven champions, and six premiers to his credit.  He has been painted by Miss Maud Earl, several times photographed with the Queen, and is the most widely known of the Sandringham pets.  He is a tall, graceful dog with a white coat and a small head.  He is friendly to strangers and has a high-bred and gracious manner.  The Queen is very proud of his achievements, and constantly enters him in competitions.”

Alix, The Queen’s Champion Prize-Winner.
( The Lady’s Realm, 1901)

Leaving Alix’s kennel, Tooley was then shown a litter of Clumber Spaniel puppies and a number of Dachshunds and “Spitz dogs” of which she states “the Queen is very fond.”  Her attention was next diverted by a large group of Basset Hounds, among which were prizewinners Saraceneska (aka Nesca), Vivian, Lockey, Sandringham Babel, and Sandringham Bobs.  Next, there was a bloodhound, three “saucy fox-terriers,” a black poodle named Gyp belonging to Princess Victoria, and a Schipperke who had been “sent to Queen Alexandra by the King of the Belgians.”

The final dogs on view were the King’s French Bulldogs, a Fox Terrier named Swift, a “little black pug,” and the Prince of Wale’s dog, Heather, who—according to Tooley:

“…looked as though he did not approve of Colonial visits.”

The Dog Hospital at Sandringham.
(The Lady’s Realm, 1901)

Tooley was next shown to the dog hospital which she describes as:

“…a pleasant room, light and airy, with invalid kennels round one side; but happily there was only one patient, and he did not look very ill.”

In addition to a dog hospital, the kennels at Sandringham had an attached kitchen and larder.  The larder contained “sacks of biscuits” and “the best Scotch oatmeal.”  While in the kitchen—which was decorated with the portraits of past canine residents—fresh meals were prepared daily.  On her tour, Tooley reports seeing:

“…two capacious coppers, in which oatmeal mash and broth made from bullocks’ and sheep’s heads were boiling, ready for dinner at four o’clock.”

Borzois at Sandringham Kennels, 1906.
(The Dog Book)

Whenever she was at home, Queen Alexandra made a “systematic tour” of the Sandringham kennels at least once each week accompanied by Mr. Brundson.  She always wore a “large white apron” and carried baskets filled with cut up bread to hand out as treats.  As Tooley describes:

“The Queen opens the door of each kennel herself, and its occupants come rushing out at the sound of her voice; indeed, the previous barking has shown that they know who is approaching even before she speaks.  The scene is one of tremendous animation when all the dogs have been liberated, and deerhounds, wolfhounds, terriers, Newfoundlands, Spitz’s, Bassets, and collies come jumping and barking around.”

Alexandra of Denmark, Princess of Wales, with her dogs at Sandringham, 1898.
(Photo by T. Fall, Baker Street.)

Though the Queen was devoted to all her dogs, there were a few that she considered her “personal pets.”  These pets were generally “small fancy dogs” that the queen could carry under one of her arms.  At the time of the article, Queen Alexandra’s personal pets included two Japanese spaniels named Billy and Punchy.  Tooley reports:

The Princess of Wales, later Queen Alexandra, with a small dog, 1890s.
( Royal Collection Trust)

“[They] travel with her wherever she goes, sleep on silken cushions in her dressing-room, and one or other of them is invariably carried under her arm when she walks.”

Prior to Billy and Punchy, a small, brown and white spaniel named Facey was the Queen’s constant companion and favorite.  Artist Luke Fildes painted the two of them together when Alexandra was still the Princess of Wales.  This painting (seen at the top of the article) was greatly copied and, according to Tooley, could be seen in many of the homes around Sandringham, as well as “hanging in hospitals and institutions visited by the Queen.”

Dogs in residence at Sandringham could comfortably live out the entirety of their lives in the kennels.  As Tooley reports:

“Old favourites live out their lives in peace, and when they die are buried in a little graveyard set apart near the kennels, and a tombstone is erected to their memory.”

Queen Alexandra herself died on November 20, 1925 at the respectable age of 80.  To this day, she is remembered for her great love of animals.

Alexandra of Denmark with her Pekingese, 1923.

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you are interested in adopting a dog or helping a dog in need, I encourage you to utilize the following links as resources:

The Humane Society of the United States (USA)

Battersea Dogs & Cats Home (UK)

**Authors Note: The article I have referenced from the Lady’s Realm magazine is not limited to Queen Alexandra’s dogs.  It also includes detailed descriptions of all of the other animals residing in the stables, pheasantry, dove house, and kennels at Sandringham House.  I encourage you all to read the article in its entirety.

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Dutt, William Alfred.  The King’s homeland: Sandringham and north-west Norfolk.  London: Adam and Charles Black, 1904.

Lehman, Eugene.  Lives of England’s Reigning and Consort Queens.  Bloomington: AuthorHouse, 2011.

Tooley, Sarah A.  “Queen Alexandra’s Pets.”  The Lady’s Realm.  Vol. XI.  1901-1902.

 © 2016 Mimi Matthews

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“The close of the London and Parisian Season has now arrived, and the Fashionable World has sought the invigorating breezes of the Seaside…”
The Ladies’ Monthly Magazine, 1869.

On the Shores of Bognor Regis by A. M. Rossi, 1887.

During the 19^th century, there was no such thing as a holiday from fashion.  Seaside resorts in England—whether in Brighton, Bournemouth, or Burnham-on-Sea—were as much a place to flaunt one’s style as London itself during the season.  An 1869 issue of the Ladies’ Monthly Magazine even goes so far as to declare:

“…splendid as they have been in the season just ended, dresses to be worn at the Seaside, and at the mansions of our Aristocracy, often surpass those that have been worn in London or Paris, during the height of the Season.”

1827 Seaside Costume, Ackermann’s Fashion Plate.

In the Regency era and into the 1820s and 1830s, seaside dresses were often quite similar to walking dresses.  They were made in light fabrics, such as cambric or muslin, and worn with pelisses made of light-colored cambric, jacconet muslin, or silk.  Straw hats, leghorn bonnets, and veils that covered part or the whole of the face were also quite popular at the seaside, as were parasols for shielding a lady’s complexion from the summer sun.

Much as in the preceding decades, the silhouette of seaside dresses in the early Victorian era stayed relatively close to that of walking dresses.  It was not until the 1860s that a definitive “seaside costume” began to emerge.  According to fashion historian C. Willett Cunnington, a seaside costume was differentiated from other garments by:

“…its material (piqué) and comparative ease; e.g., a deep jacket and plain piqué skirt, and sash with ribbon ends, worn with a puffed chemisette and high piqué collar, and cravat (of silk, one inch wide, edged with black lace); while the Garibaldi jacket can be worn over a muslin dress on such occasions.  The zouave jacket, worn over a chemisette, with a light skirt, is also appropriate.”

In the below image, you can see a cotton seaside dress from the 1860s.  Note that though the shape of the skirt and jacket remain in line with that of the popular, large-skirted fashions of the 1850s and 1860s, the cut is looser and the gown is fairly plain.

1860s American Cotton Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

The 1862 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book reports that “quilting dresses” were very much in style for the seaside that season.  These dresses were either plain white, striped, or “sprinkled over with field flowers.”  Cotton piqués were also extremely fashionable resort wear, especially in buff, mauve, white, and “tea-colored.”  These dresses were often comprised of a skirt and a jacket and were trimmed with red, white, or black braiding.  A lovely example of this can be seen in the seaside dress worn by the seated lady at far left in the Godey’s fashion plate below.  It is described as follows:

“Suitable for the sea-side.  White piqué dress, bound and trimmed with black braid and buttons.  The skirt is plain, and the body resembles a riding jacket, having revers and pockets, and the sleeves being finished with gauntlet cuffs.  Headdress of black velvet ribbon.”

Fashions for July 1862, Godey’s Lady’s Book.

Here is another example of the popular style of 1860s white cotton seaside dress trimmed or embroidered with a darker color.  This seaside ensemble is comprised of a skirt, bodice, and jacket made of cotton.  The flat-crowned straw hat in this image is from the 1870s and is trimmed with seashells.

1864-1867 Seaside Ensemble.
(Image via LACMA)

1864-1867 Seaside Ensemble.
(Image via LACMA)

By the late 1860s, the silhouette of ladies’ gowns was beginning to change.  Fabric that had once been draped over enormous wire crinolines was now being drawn to the back and draped over a bustle.  Seaside costumes were not immune to this metamorphosis.  Still, seaside gowns managed to remain distinguishable from morning gowns, walking gowns, and other dresses mainly by virtue of the fabric used—cotton piqués, cashmere, or wool—and the simplicity of their trimmings.

Below is a late 1860s seaside ensemble made of wool.  Note that despite the gradual change in shape from the large-skirted seaside gowns of the early 1860s, this gown still appears relatively loose-fitting.

1864-1868 American Wool Seaside Ensemble.
(Image via Met Museum)

1864-1868 American Wool Seaside Ensemble.
(Image via Met Museum)

As the 1860s came to a close, some seaside costumes depicted in fashion magazines  were brighter and a bit more elaborate.  This is well illustrated in the 1869 fashion plate at below right which shows a seaside costume made of white and blue cashmere with a blue cashmere underskirt.   The Ladies Monthly Magazine describes it as follows:

Seaside Costume with Capeline, Ladies Monthly Magazine, 1869.

“Fig. 1. — Dress à trois jupes. The under skirt is of blue Cashmere, and is cut just to reach the ground.  It is entirely without trimming.  The second skirt is of white Cashmere.  It is trimmed at the bottom, by four bands of black velvet ribbon.  The third or upper skirt is also of white Cashmere, and is edged by a single band of the velvet ribbon.  It is cut up at the back (the sides of opening being similarly edged), and is caught up en bouffant both at back and at each side, and is fastened by bows of black velvet ribbon, those at the sides slightly raise the second skirt also.  The Corsage and sleeves, which are large and open, are trimmed to correspond, and the ceinture is also of black velvet ribbon.”

Though fashion magazines depicted seaside costumes in bright, contrast colors, seaside dresses of white or tea-colored cotton with black embroidery remained very popular throughout the decade and well into the next.  Below is a lovely example from 1869.  This two-piece seaside ensemble from The Bartos Collection (who have kindly given me permission to use the following images) is made of corded cotton that has been embroidered in black and trimmed in silk fringe.

1868 Embroidered Seaside Bustle Dress.
(Image via The Bartos Collection)

1868 Embroidered Seaside Bustle Dress.
(Image via The Bartos Collection)

1868 Fabric Close-Up Embroidered Seaside Bustle Dress.
(Image via The Bartos Collection)

Seaside costumes of the 1870s remained fairly similar in shape to the walking dresses worn during the season.  In prints, fabrics, and trimmings, however, seaside fashion was sometimes whimsical.  For example, the below gown, from an 1870 issue of the Milliner and Dressmaker and Warehouseman’s Gazette, depicts a seaside dress made of silk covered with “sprays of poppies and ears of corn.”  The lady is also wearing a hat trimmed with “wheat-ears.”  The full description reads:

“Dress of white foulard silk, covered with sprays of poppies and ears of corn.  The train-skirt has a gathered flounce, headed by a high marquise ruche, edged by maize-coloured silk.  A tunic bodice, with revers in front of the bodice and skirt, bordered by a pleating of maize silk.  A double row of silk forms the sash.  Sleeves with revers, trimmed with a pleating of maize silk.  Rice-straw hat raised at the back, trimmed with a bow of red ribbon, a tuft of feathers and wheat-ears.”

Seaside Costume, Milliner and Dressmaker and Warehouseman’s Gazette, 1870.

The Miller and Dressmaker and Warehouseman’s Gazette also features the below gown of white spotted foulard trimmed in cerise.  This seaside costume is not as whimsical as the costume above, but with it’s Louis XV waistcoat and jaunty straw hat adorned with ears of corn, it is a striking ensemble which appears worlds different than the plain cotton piqué one usually sees in seaside costumes of the 1860s and early 1870s.  The description reads:

“Sea-side Costume of white foulard, spotted with black.  The skirt trimmed at the edge with a deep flounce, with a double heading composed of two cordings of cerise foulard, separated by three rows of black velvet.  Bodice without sleeves, open in front en coeur, and showing a Louis XV waistooat.  This bodice has long basques forming a tight-fitting casaque; the trimming is of black velvet with a heading of cerise foulard, and forms a puff at the back.  Chemisette with collar of cambric, with Valenciennes jabot, with sleeves to correspond.  Hat of English straw; the brim raised on one side with, crepe de chine scarf, and spray of wild flowers, and ears of corn arranged as an aigrette.”

Seaside Costume, Milliner and Dressmaker and Warehouseman’s Gazette, 1870.

As mentioned above, not all 1870s seaside dresses were brightly colored or made of whimsically patterned silk.  In fact, many seaside costumes continued to be made in some version of light colored cotton or wool that was trimmed, embroidered, or printed in black.  Below is an 1870 seaside ensemble made of printed cotton.  It consists of an overdress and a petticoat.

1870 Printed Cotton Seaside Ensemble.
(Image via LACMA)

The skirts of seaside dresses were usually shorter—with a hemline at or above the ankle—for ease of movement.  The below image of an 1872 seaside dress shows the length of the hemline in comparison to the mannequin’s boots quite clearly.  Notice the style and color of this particular seaside ensemble.  According to the Victoria and Albert Museum, the  style of this gown was inspired by the colors and stripes in a British sailor’s uniform.  Sailor inspired seaside dresses would become very popular toward the end of the century.

1872 British Cotton Seaside Costume.
(Victoria and Albert Museum)

In 1877, some seaside dresses were beginning to be made with a fabric called “seaside barège.”  According to a Godey’s Lady’s Book, this soft, white wool fabric resembled flannel, but was of less weight and “cool as muslin.”  As Godey’s states:

“[This fabric promises] to be very extensively used for country toilets, especially at the seaside, where the moisture takes the starch out of cottons and linen. “

The availability of more “beach friendly” fabrics did not affect the popularity of cotton, which continued to be used for seaside costumes throughout the 19th century.  For example, the 1878-1880 seaside dress below is made of cotton sateen printed with pink roses and cupids.  The narrow skirt and bodice of this dress is very much in keeping with the fashionable silhouette of the 1880s.

1878-1880 Printed Cotton Seaside Dress.
(Image via Bowes Museum)

1878-1880 Printed Cotton Seaside Dress.
(Image via Bowes Museum)

1878-1880 Fabric Close-Up of Printed Cotton Sateen Seaside Dress .
(Image via Bowes Museum)

By the end of the 1880s, seaside costumes were even tighter and narrower than ever.  An 1888 edition of the Woman’s World Magazine describes them as “sheath-like seaside costumes that cling to the figure” like an “outer skin.”  These tight-fitting seaside dresses gave way to the popular middy blouses (blouses with a sailor collar) and flared skirts of the 1890s.  Below is an 1895 cotton piqué seaside dress comprised of a middy blouse and skirt.

1895 Cotton Piqué Seaside Dress.
(Image via Museum at FIT)

The close of the Victorian era saw record numbers of people spending their holidays at the beach.  Not only the fashionable upper classes, but the working classes, too.  In fact, according to a 1900 issue of the Speaker:

“We believe it would be found on a careful estimate that there are more people in the seaside holiday places of southern England than in all the other seaside places of the world put together.”

With so many people drawn to the seaside each year, it is no wonder that ladies in the Regency and Victorian eras took such an interest in seaside fashions.  I hope the above information and images have given you some little idea of what these ladies might choose to wear on their seaside holidays.  If you would like to learn more about a specific year in 19th century fashion, my decade-by-decade guides are available here:

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

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

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Belle Assemblée: Or, Court and Fashionable Magazine.  London: J. Bell, 1824.

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

Delineator.  Vol. LVIII.  London: Butterick Publishing Co., 1901.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 65.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1862.

Godey’s Lady’s Book.  Vol. 94.  Philadelphia: Louis A. Godey, 1877.

Ladies’ Monthly Magazine: The World of Fashion.  London: Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1869.

“London by the Sea.”  The Speaker.  Vol. 20.  London: Mather & Crowther, 1899.

Milliner and Dressmaker and Warehouseman’s Gazette.  London: Adolphe Goubaud, 1870.

“Our Costumier.”  Once a Month. Vol. IV.  London: Griffith, Farran, & Co., 1886.

Woman’s World.  Volumes 1-2.  London: Cassell & Company, 1888.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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First Born by Gustave Leonard de Jonghe, 1863.

During the 19^th century, there were many sources of information on motherhood and maternity.  Some new mothers relied on the instructions of their nurse, midwife, or physician.  While others used the example set by their own mother as a guide for their conduct.  For all the questions remaining, there were motherhood and maternity manuals produced by hospitals, religious organizations, and advice experts.  These guides advised on everything from conception and pregnancy to nursery decoration, childrearing, and teenage rebellion.  

Maternity Fashion

When it came to clothing, Victorian maternity manuals advised that the expectant mother let comfort be her guide.  However, as a rule, tight corsets were discouraged, as were any form-fitting garments which might impede either the pregnant woman’s circulation or the growth of the fetus.  In fact, as Dr. John West explains in his 1887 book Maidenhood and Motherhood:

“The French term enceinte was originally applied to pregnant women from a habit of laying aside the belt or girdle which they were otherwise accustomed to wear; hence, the term enceinte means to be unbound, and has come to be applied to women in ante-confinement motherhood”

Not only were tight clothes a danger to a lady’s health, they were also seen as not particularly modest for a woman in the more visible stages of pregnancy.  According to West:

“While there is no demand that the mother make an undue advertisement of her state, which would be as immodest as the attempts at its concealment, it is eminently desirable that her dress, especially about those parts of her body which are the regions of procreative life, be worn quite loosely.”

1882 Silk Maternity Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

1882 Silk Maternity Dress.
(Image via Met Museum)

A Delivery Room Coiffure

In her 1896 book Preparation for Motherhood, author Elizabeth Scovil advises on the proper hairstyle for the delivery room.  This is not as frivolous as it sounds.  Many Victorian ladies had very long hair and if left unbraided during their confinement, it could become so inextricably knotted that the strands of hair would have to be “drawn out of a knot by picking up each one separately with a needle.”  As Scovil explains:

“Hair forty inches long that had been untouched by comb or brush for three weeks, had been disentangled, but it is a task that equals one of the labors of Hercules.”

To prevent this catastrophe, Scovil advises that during the first signs of labor, the expectant mother’s hair should be styled into braids.  She writes:

“The hair should be parted in the middle at the back, firmly braided in two tails and tied so it will not come unloosed.  It is then no great matter if it cannot be brushed or combed for several days.  It will be found smooth and untangled when it is unplaited.”

The First Nine Days

Having given birth, the new mother was changed into a fresh nightgown and, if chilled, she was given something warm to drink.  After attending to her basic needs for warmth and comfort, it was important that the new mother be left alone.  Scovil states:

“After all that the newly made mother has under gone, she needs perfect quiet for several hours before she is permitted to see anyone.  A five minutes interview with her husband is all that should be granted.”

Even if the new mother insisted that she was well enough to see her friends and family, it was critical that she not be allowed any company until she had had adequate rest and sleep.  According to Scovil:

“Excitement is dangerous and no visitors must be permitted to enter the room, nor should conversation be allowed, even if she wishes to talk.  Neglect of this precaution may cause serious disaster, even when all seems to be going on well.”

The Young Mother by Gustave Léonard de Jonghe, late 19th century.

It was not only excess company that posed a danger to the new mother, but excess light.  Scovil advised that the mother’s room be “partially darkened” during the day and that, during the night, it be lit only with a shaded gas lamp.  Even worse—at least, for those of us who are inveterate readers—Scovil declares:

“Even if she feels well she should not read until after the third day.  Rest of mind and body is all important.”

There was no absolute rule about how long the new mother must remain confined to her bed.  However, West acknowledges the old, “oft repeated” dictum that:

“She must not get up until the ninth day.”

Though West states that this is a safe rule in “normal child-bed convalescence,” he points out that the amount of time spent in bed after giving birth can range anywhere from five to fifteen days, depending on the circumstances.

The Young Mother by Charles West Cope, 1845.
(Image via Valerie McGlinchey CC BY 2.0)

Baby’s First Months

Babies were generally viewed as clean slates or empty vessels, their little infant hearts ready to “receive impressions” from the moment of their birth.  As such, it was critical that they not experience the evils of the world, lest those evils have a lasting negative effect.  In the 1831 Mother’s Book, author Lydia Child explains:

“It is important that children, even when babes, should never be spectators of anger, or any real passion.  They come to us from heaven, with their little souls full of innocence and peace; and, as far as possible, a mother’s influence should not interfere with the influence of angels.”

For the mother, this meant that she must “govern her own feelings” and make sure that, when dealing with her infant, her “heart and conscience” remained pure.  As Child states:

“…what does the innocent being before you know of care and trouble?  And why should you distract his pure nature by the evils you have received from a vexatious world?  It does you no good, and it injures him.”

Mother and Her Children by Alfred Stevens, 1883.

If at all possible, Child advises that the new mother should “take the entire care of her own child.”  Though servants might be called to assist her or to watch the infant while she is resting, the new baby should “as much as possible, feel its mother’s guardianship.”  Child recommends:

“If in the same room, a smile or a look of fondness, should now and then be bestowed upon him; and if in an adjoining room, some of the endearing appellations to which he has been accustomed, should once in a while meet his ear.  The knowledge that his natural protector and best friend is near, will give him a feeling of safety and protection, alike conducive to his happiness and beneficial to his temper.”

Infant Education

It was never too soon for the 19^th century mother to begin teaching her baby.  This did not necessarily mean reading and writing (though many mothers were encouraged to read to their new babies or to recite the alphabet).  Instead, motherhood experts recommended inspiring a baby’s natural curiosity.  As Child explains:

“Attention should be early aroused by presenting attractive objects — things of bright and beautiful colors, but not glaring — and sounds pleasant and soft to the ear.  When you have succeeded in attracting a babe’s attention to any object, it is well to let him examine it just as long as he chooses.  Every time he turns it over, drops it, and takes it up again, he adds something to the little stock of his scanty experience.”

Though exposing the new baby to attractive objects and pleasant sounds was important, Child declares that there is nothing so critical to the development of the newborn as a mother’s love.  She writes:

“Gentleness, patience, and love, are almost everything in education; especially to those helpless little creatures, who have just entered into a world where everything is new and strange to them.”

The Shattuck Family, with Grandmother, Mother & Baby William by Aaron Draper Shattuck, 1865.
(Image via Brooklyn Museum)

In Closing…

Motherhood and maternity manuals of the 19^th century contain far more advice than what I have included in this article.  If you would like to read specific information on pregnancy, childbirth, and childrearing in the 19th century, I urge you to have a look at any one of the books referenced in my works cited list.  Until next time, I wish you all a Happy Mother’s Day!

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Child, Lydia Maria.  The Mother’s Book.  Boston: Carter, Hendee, and Babcock, 1831.

Scovil, Elizabeth Robinson.  Preparation for Motherhood.  Philadelphia: H. Altemus, 1896.

West, John.  Maidenhood and Motherhood; or the Phases of a Woman’s Life.  Chicago: Law, King, & Law, 1887.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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Peacock and Peacock Butterfly by Archibald Thorburn, 1917.

In his 1836 book On the Mental Illumination and Moral Improvement of Mankind, Reverend Thomas Dick calls the peacock “the most beautiful bird in the world.”  There are few that would dispute this description; however, throughout history, there has always been more to the peacock than its dazzling plumage.  At various times and in various cultures, it has served as a symbol of good and evil, death and resurrection, and of sinful pride and overweening vanity.  And much like its avian brethren, the crow and the raven, the peacock has figured heavily in folktales and fables, as well as in countless superstitions that still exist today.

First originating in India, peacocks can trace their history back to biblical times.  They are mentioned in the Bible as being part of the treasure taken to the court of King Solomon.  They are also associated with Alexander the Great.  In his 1812 book The History of Animals, author Noah Webster writes:

“As early as the days of Solomon, these elegant fowls were imported into Palestine.  When Alexander was in India, he found them in vast numbers on the banks of the river Hyarotis, and was so struck with their beauty, that he forbid any person to kill or disturb them.”

Blue Peacock by Pieter Pietersz. Barbiers, (1759 – 1842).

Some folktales assert that peacocks were actually in the Garden of Eden—and not in a good way.  In the 1838 Young Naturalist’s Book of Birds, author Percy St. John relates the Arab belief that peacocks were a “bird of ill omen.”  There are two reasons for this, the first of which, as he explains, was that the peacock had been the cause of the “entrance of the devil into paradise” leading to the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden.  The second reason was that it was believed that “the devil watered the vine” with the blood of the peacock as well as with that of the ape, the lion, and the hog.  Which is why, as St. John writes:

“…a wine-bibber is at first elated and struts like a peacock; then begins to dance, play, and make grimaces like an ape;  he then rages like a lion; and, lastly, lays down on any dunghill like a hog.”

Pavo Cristatus by J. Smit after Joseph Wolf, 1872.

Peacocks were an important symbol in Roman times, most commonly representing funerals, death, and resurrection.  In the Encyclopedia of Superstition, author Richard Webster explains:

“This came about when people noticed that peacocks’ feathers did not fade or lose their shiny lustre.  This was seen as a sign of immortality or resurrection.”

Because of this belief, Webster states that early Christians “decorated the walls of the catacombs” with pictures of peacocks and peacock feathers to “illustrate their faith in resurrection.”  This link with resurrection was carried over into artwork of the period which often depicted peacocks in relation to the Eucharist and the Annunciation.  According to author Christine Jackson in her 2006 book Peacock:

“In typical scenes of art of the period, the peacock was closely linked to the Eucharist by two birds flanking the cup holding the wine…[Paintings of the Annunciation] included a peacock to signify Christ’s eventual rising from the dead.  In scenes of the Nativity of Christ, peacocks were painted near the figure of the child to symbolize the Resurrection.”

The Annunciation, with Saint Emidius by Carlo Crivelli, 1486.
(National Gallery, London)

This was all very different from early folktales which portrayed peacocks as being responsible for the fall of man.  In fact, rather than depicting them as the devil’s assistants, Jackson reports that in art of this period:

“Owing to their ability to destroy serpents, peacocks were also depicted flanking the Tree of Knowledge.”

In Greek Mythology, the peacock was believed to have sprung from the blood of Argos Panoptes, the hundred-eyed giant.  Later accounts state that it was Hera who, upon the death of Argos, placed his eyes in the peacock’s tail herself or—alternately—turned Argos into a peacock.  Because of this connection, the Routledge Handbook of Greek Mythology explains that the peacock was the “special bird of Hera.”

Juno by Joseph Paelinck, 1832.
(Museum of Fine Arts, Ghent)

In addition to being seen as symbols of immortality and resurrection, peacocks figured into more mundane superstitions as well.  Jackson reports that, according to the 15^th century Swiss physician Paracelsus:

“…if a Peacock cries more than usuall, or out of his time, it foretels the death of some in that family to whom it doth belong.”

But peacocks did more than foretell death.  Their cry was believed to predict the coming of wet weather, while their presence—or that of their feathers—inside a house might well lead the unmarried ladies in residence to end up old maids.  Peacock feathers were also believed to bring bad luck in a theater, either by initiating disaster among the props and the actors, or by causing the play to fail.

Perhaps what Peacocks are best known for, in terms of historical association, is their long connection with the sins of pride and vanity.  This arises not only from their great beauty, but also from their tendency to strut when displaying their magnificent plumage.  In Renaissance art, for example, the peacock can often be found representing the sin of Pride in depictions of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Pride, The Seven Deadly Sins, Pieter Brueghel the Elder, 1557.

The Victorians continued this association, with many 19^th century publications reiterating that the peacock had nothing at all to recommend it but its spectacular beauty.  In the History of Animals, Noah Webster calls the peacock’s voice “loud and unharmonious,” quoting the Italian saying that the peacock “has the voice of a devil, but the plumage of an angel.”  Reverend Dick echoes this sentiment in his book, describing the peacock’s cry as “harsh and disgusting.”  But it was not only the peacock’s voice that was objectionable.  The peacock’s unpleasant personality was also the subject of criticism.  Reverend Dick writes:

“It is so wicked that it will scarcely live with any other bird, except the pigeon; and it tears and spoils every thing it gets a hold of with its bill.”

This variety of skin-deep beauty coupled with excess pride, made the peacock a perfect 19^th century moral teaching tool, especially for young people.  As Reverend Dick tells his readers:

“Little boys and girls, be not like the peacock, proud and vain, on account of your beauty and your fine clothes; humility and goodness are always to be preferred to beauty.”

The Preening Peacock by Jehan Georges Vibert, (1840-1902).

By the 19^th century, peacocks served mainly as fashionable lawn ornaments at fine country houses.  St. John refers to them as “the royal section of the feathered race.”  While the 1844 book of Zoological Sketches calls the peacock “more ornamental than useful,” stating:

“…his form is so elegant, and his plumage so fine, that he is generally kept with great care in the grounds of his owners in the country, for the sake of his beauty; and there he may often be seen, walking with firm and slow steps along the gravel walks, or perched upon some parapet, or on the branch of a lofty tree, while he holds up his head and spreads his richly-coloured train, as if waiting to be admired.”

Though peacocks could frequently be seen in the country, in 19^th century London they were still relatively uncommon.  So uncommon, in fact, that according to St. John, the peacock was “allowed a place” in London’s Zoological Gardens.  It was kept amongst the “foreign birds,” where:

“…but for the wires and cages, one might almost imagine it still in a forest glade, on the romantic banks of the Jumna.”

Peacock in a n Alchemical Flask, 16th century.
(Image via Wellcome Library CC By 4.0)

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  I don’t have any specific rescue links for peahens or peacocks, but if you would like to help an animal in need, I encourage you to utilize the following links as resources:

The Avian Welfare Coalition (USA)

The Humane Society of the United States (USA)

Battersea Dogs & Cats Home (UK)

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Dick, Thomas.  On the Mental Illumination and Moral Improvement of Mankind.  Philadelphia: Key & Biddle, 1836.

Hard, Robin.  The Routledge Handbook of Greek Mythology.  London: Routledge, 2004.

Jackson, Christine E.  Peacock.  London: Reaktion Books, 2006.

St. John, Percy Bolingbroke.  The Young Naturalist’s Book of Birds: Anecdotes of the Feathered Creation.  London: Joseph Rickerby, 1838.

Webster, Noah.  The History of Animals.  New Haven: Howe & Deforest, 1812.

Webster, Richard.  The Encyclopedia of Superstitions.  Woodbury: Llewellyn Publications, 2012.

Zoological Sketches.  London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1844

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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Woman’s Mission: Companion of Manhood by George Elgar Hicks, 1863.
(Tate Museum)

During the Victorian era, masturbation—also known as self-pollution, self-abuse, or onanism—was believed to be both a moral and a physical evil.  Medical manuals of the era address it in the most severe terms, blaming male masturbation, and the resulting depletion of the body’s vital humors, for every imaginable illness, from blindness, impotence, and epilepsy to chronic fatigue, mental derangement, and even premature death.  Many of these beliefs can be traced back to two 18^th century books, the most significant of which was Samuel Tissot’s famous 1760 medical treatise On Onania: or A Treatise upon the Disorders Produced by Masturbation, which asserts:

“Frequent emissions of semen relax, weaken, dry, enervate the body, and produce numerous other evils, as apoplexies, lethargies, epilepsies, loss of sight, trembling, paralysis, and all kinds of painful affections.”

By the 19^th century, concerns about the evil effects of masturbation had risen to epic proportions.  The solitary vice was being discussed in medical texts and religious treatises.  And the Victorians—who ascribed moral value to self-discipline and restraint—were driven to devise various means of discouraging and controlling it.

The Crime

According to physicians R. and L. Perry in their 1847 book The Silent Friend: A Medical Work on the Disorders Produced by the Dangerous Effects of Onanism:

“The practice of the solitary vice, onanism, manustupration or masturbation has been condemned by all writers, whether medical men, philosophers, or divines, from the earliest ages of mankind.  One of its names, onanism, is derived from the saddening example of Onan the second son of Judah, who was struck dead by his Creator for the commission of this heinous sin.”

The Secret Companion by R J Brodie, 1845.
(Image via Wellcome Library, CC By 4.0)

In his 1845 book, The Secret Companion: A Medical Work on Onanism or Self-Pollution, consulting surgeon R. J. Brodie calls masturbation a perverted inclination and a baneful habit which “destroys the germ of manhood.”  While Dr. William Acton, in his 1894 book on The Functions and Disorders of the Reproductive Organs, refers to masturbation as a “melancholy and repulsive habit” that is “degrading and debilitating to the child” and injurious to the adult.  Acton advises young men to give up the practice as early as possible, warning them that:

“When once the vile habit has become confirmed, the young libertine runs the risk of finding himself, a few years later, but a debauched old man.”

Brodie is equally severe.  He blames self-abuse on “licentiousness and unrestrained indulgence of the passions,” writing:

“Sages and moral writers of every age, have described in glowing terms the direful and awful result of Masturbation a passion that captivates the imagination of its victim imperceptibly, step by step, till every moral feeling is obliterated, and all the physical powers destroyed.”

The Consequences

According to many moral and medical texts of the Victorian era, not only did masturbation weaken the mind and body, it also weakened the soul.  As Brodie explains (quoting M. Hoffman):

“We can easily comprehend, how there is so close a connection between the brain and testicles; because these two organs secern from the blood the most subtle and exquisite lympha, which is destined to give strength and motion to the parts, and to assist even the functions of the soul.  So it is probable, that too great a dissipation of these liquors may destroy the powers of the soul, and body.”

The Secret Companion by R J Brodie, 1845.
(Image via Wellcome Library, CC By 4.0)

However, as much as masturbation was considered a moral evil and potential destroyer of one’s soul, the bulk of the consequences resulting from self-abuse were believed to accrue to the body.  In an 1843 issue of the Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, Dr. William Mackenzie, Surgeon-Oculist to Queen Victoria, writes:

“…masturbation is often followed by loss of appetite, indigestion, headach[sic], vertigo, tinnitus aurium, rigors, flushings, constant clamminess of the hands, want of sleep, signs of congestion or chronic inflammation of the brain, apoplectic symptoms, palpitation of the heart, and emaciation, leading to a suspicion of phthisis.  Palsy and insanity are not unfrequent consequences of masturbation.”

In The Secret Companion, Brodie includes several case studies of individuals suffering terribly from the consequences of over-indulgence in the solitary vice.  In most of the studies, the patient picked up the habit while still a boy in school.  For example, Brodie describes one patient as:

“R.I., aged twenty, of slender form, sunken eyes, pallid countenance, and considerable emaciation, stated that when placed at a public school, at the age of twelve, he had been induced by his school-fellows to indulge in the habit of self-pollution…”

While in another case, Brodie describes a gentleman of “profound learning” who declared “with the deepest anguish” that:

“…the fruits of his academical labours would never compensate for the mischief incurred from a solitary vice taught him by a depraved companion, when he was about thirteen years of age.”

Masturbation by Mihály Zichy, 1911.

There were many similar cases wherein the patient had learned the particulars of self-abuse from his schoolfellows only to continue the practice as an adult—at which point, the patient’s health inevitably suffered.  In one case, Brodie describes a man so affected by the consequences of self-pollution that he “less resembled a living creature than a corpse.”  Confined to a straw mattress, where he languished in considerable pain, the patient could do nothing all day but reflect on the evils of masturbation.  Brodie writes:

“Thus overwhelmed in misery, he languished almost without any assistance for some months, and was the more to be pitied, for what memory he had remaining, and which he was at length entirely bereft of, only served him to take an incessant retrospect of the cause of his misfortunes, which were increased by the aggravating horrors of remorse.”

The Cure

According to Brodie, the patient who wishes for relief from the consequences of masturbation must first:

“…entirely discontinue this dreadful practice, however difficult to do so from the force of habit…”

The Electric Alarum for Treatment of Masturbation, 1887.
(Image via Wellcome Library CC BY 4.0)

This was often easier said than done, especially for those patients who reported engaging in the solitary vice multiple times each day.  To aid the process, doctors frequently recommended changes in diet, an increase in physical activity, and prayer.  Visualization exercises were also sometimes recommended.  For instance, Acton quotes the advice of a clergyman on dealing with unhealthy impulses at night, writing:

“[If a] man is tormented by evil thoughts at night.  Let him be directed to cross his arms upon his breast, and extend himself as if he were lying in his coffin.  Let him endeavor to think of himself as he will be one day stretched in death.  If such solemn thoughts do not drive away evil imaginations, let him rise from his bed and lie on the floor.”

Four Pointed Urethral Ring for the Treatment of Masturbation, 1887.
(Image via Wellcome Library CC BY 4.0)

For desperate cases, doctors sometimes recommended desperate measures.  There were cordials and various patent medicines (Brodie’s medical practice sold Cordial Balm of Zeylanica).  There were also more invasive types of “cures” such as spiked rings or electric shock devices for the genitals.  According to the book Sexualities in Victorian Britain, by the 1850s some doctors were even beginning to recommend circumcision as a treatment for masturbation.

But What About Women??

Most of what was written about the dangers of masturbation in the Victorian era was directed at men.  However, women were not entirely exempt.  According to author Joan Perkin in her 1993 book Victorian Women, some doctors believed that masturbation caused “increasing numbers of hysterical cases among girls.”  While others said that masturbation caused “certain forms of insanity, epilepsy and hysteria in females.”

Dr. Isaac Baker Brown, 1851.

At its most extreme, the cure for the solitary vice in women was grim.  Perkin mentions a gynecologist named Isaac Baker Brown who ran a clinic in London during the 1860s.  He called masturbation in women “anti-social behavior” and, as Perkin reports:

“His treatment was removal of the clitoris.”

Brown was not the only doctor during the Victorian era to perform clitoridectomies on girls and women, but the practice, as a whole, was extremely controversial.  Perkin points out that the total number of females operated on “must have been very small.”  As a side note, Brown was ultimately expelled from the Obstetrical Society

A Few Final Words…

Opinions on the physical and moral dangers of the solitary vice did not change rapidly.  Even today, there are some for whom the subject is still a controversial one.  However, rather than address modern day arguments, I will close this article by taking you back to the 19^th century.  In his 1872 book on Male Continence, American preacher John Humphrey Noyes addresses masturbation in one particularly hilarious paragraph, writing:

“…it is obvious that before marriage men have no lawful method of discharge but masturbation; and after marriage it is as foolish and cruel to expend one’s seed on a wife merely for the sake of getting rid of it, as it would be to fire a gun at one’s best friend merely for the sake of unloading it.  If a blunderbuss must be emptied, and the charge cannot be drawn, it is better to fire into the air than to kill somebody with it.”

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Acton, William.  The Functions and Disorders of the Reproductive Organs.  Philadelphia: P. Blakiston, 1894.

Brodie, R. J.  The Secret Companion: A Medical Work on Onanism or Self-Pollution.  London: R. J. Brodie & Co., 1845.

MacKenzie, William.  “On Asthenopia, or Weak-sightedness.”  The Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal.  Vol. 60.  Edinburgh: Adam and Charles Black, 1843.

Noyes, John Humphrey.  Male Continence.  Oneida: Oneida Community, 1872.

Perkin, Joan.  Victorian Women.  New York: New York University Press, 1993.

Perry, R.  The Silent Friend: A Medical Work on the Disorders Produced by the Dangerous Effects of Onanism..  London: R. and L. Perry, 1847.

Sexualities in Victorian Britain.  Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996.

Tissot, Samuel Auguste David.  A Treatise on the Diseases Produced by Onanism.  New York: Collins & Hannay, 1832.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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The Shooting Party by William Powell Frith, (1819-1909).

When one thinks of a 19^th century shooting party, one usually imagines well-to-do sportsmen in plus-fours and tweed caps, accompanied by their loaders, their beaters, and—of course—their sporting dogs.  However, according to an article in the October 29, 1880 edition of the Portsmouth Evening News, even the best spaniels and retrievers could not compete with the “great skill” of a sporting cat.  As the article explains:

“Dogs cannot climb trees to hunt birds, whereas cats find no difficulty in following game from branch to branch.”

As an example, the article references a story previously published in the New York Times which reported the exploits of a sportsman in America who routinely went hunting with only a cat to accompany him.  It reads in part:

“He goes forth with nothing but a game-bag and with his faithful and accomplished cat trotting by his side.  When he reaches a forest where the squirrels abound the cat hunts eagerly, with its nose on the ground, until it scents a squirrel.  Following it to the tree where the squirrel makes his home, the cat nimbly climbs the tree and catches the game.”

In some cases, the squirrel would elude the cat for a time, leaping from “tree to tree.”  The cat would follow in hot pursuit up the tree and along the branches and, after a “brisk chase,” the squirrel would ultimately be “overtaken and seized.”  Occasionally the squirrel opted to “take refuge in a hole” instead of fleeing into the trees.  In this scenario, the cat would exercise extraordinary patience, sitting by the hole until, at last, the squirrel “put his head out” and was caught.

Cats and Sparrows
by Byeon Sang-byeok, 1730.

This particular sporting cat did more than merely kill the game.  He also fulfilled the role of a faithful retriever.  As the article reports:

“The cat also acts as a retriever, bringing the captured game to its master; and in course of a day’s hunting, if the sky is overcast and the squirrels rise freely, the hunter usually fills his game-bag with fifty or sixty fine grey squirrels.  No dog could rival the success of this cat, and in fact it is a very rare thing for a dog to catch even a single squirrel.”

The conclusion drawn from this example is a bit of a stretch (and one that we know today did not come to pass):

“The New York Times thinks that the cat will ultimately supersede the dog as an assistant to sportsmen.”

What of British sporting cats?  The same article in the Portsmouth Evening News references a British correspondent who had written on the subject for the London Evening Standard.  This correspondent relates the story of an “aged cottager” who had once been his neighbor.  Their two cottages had been separated by a low, boundary wall.  He writes:

“I frequently heard, when in my garden, the discharge of firearms in the direction of the orchard; but I attached no importance to the circumstances, thinking it was my neighbour’s way of preventing the depredations of small birds on his crops.”

The correspondent reports that his neighbor spent a great deal of time near the boundary wall between their properties.  He “expended his ammunition” on blackbirds and thrushes, the majority of which, when shot, fell onto the correspondent’s side of the wall.  As the correspondent writes:

 “There appeared to be no doubt that to possess himself of them he must commit a trespass.  Accordingly I looked for, but could never find, evidence of trespass; and I failed to understand how in the long grass, which was more luxuriant than is usual in orchards where stock is kept, he contrived to secure his quarry.  It may be also mentioned that I never found a dead bird, although I made frequent search, and this circumstance caused further mystification.”

A Cat Bird Hunting by Bruno Liljefors, 1883.

In time, the correspondent’s son discovered exactly how it was that the aged cottager managed to gain possession of the birds he had shot.  The correspondent explains:

“He had trained a cat to perform the duties of a retriever.  Puss would spring from her sheltered position on the wall, and in a series of bounds approach the spot where she had seen the bird fall, seize it, and bring it to her master.”

An 1880 edition of the London Evening Standard provides us with another example of sporting cats in one of their letters to the editor.  A fellow who signs himself simply as “A Cat’s Friend” writes that he has trained his three cats as gundogs.  He states:

“If I take my gun in hand they exhibit symptoms of delight, and will retrieve a small bird as well as their constant companion, my Irish retriever from whom they always seek protection.”

Despite the entertaining anecdotes in the Portsmouth Evening News, the New York Times, and the London Evening Standard, the jobs of sporting spaniels and retrievers were in no danger from an overabundance of highly skilled sporting cats.  The farmer or “aged cottager” with his trusted squirrel-hunting/bird-retrieving feline was the exception rather than the rule.  Nevertheless, it does make one wonder.  What would it be like to go hunting with a pack of cats instead of dogs?  Chaos, I suspect.  What do you think?

Snipe Shooting Cats on a Winter’s Day by R. Seymour, 1830s.
(Wellcome Trust CC By 4.0)

Thus concludes another of my Friday features on Animals in Literature and History.  If you would like to 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

“The Cat as a Sportsman’s Companion.”  Portsmouth Evening News.  October 29, 1880.

“Civilisation of Cats.”  London Evening Standard.  October 19, 1880.

Fergus, Charles.  A Rough-Shooting Dog: Reflections from Thick and Uncivil Sorts of Places.  Guilford: The Lyons Press, 1991.

“Blue-stocking or not, every woman ought to make the best of herself inside and out.  To be healthy, handsome, and cheerful, is no disadvantage even in a learned professor.”
The Art of Beauty, 1883.

Portrait of a Woman by Henry Inman, 1825.
(Brooklyn Museum)

Unlike the clever, witty bluestockings that populated the fashionable salons of the 18^th and early 19^th centuries, the Victorian bluestocking was considered to be, as one 1876 publication puts it, “a stiff, stilted, queer literary woman of a dubious age.”  This unfortunate stereotype was so firmly entrenched that it even made its way into an 1883 edition of the Popular Encyclopedia, wherein a bluestocking is defined as a “pedantic female” who has sacrificed the “excellencies of her sex” to education and learning.

In her 1883 book The Art of Beauty, author Maria Haweis offers some well-intentioned, advice to these plain Jane academics.  As she reasons:

“It is one of the most potent objections to the cause of female education, that clever women go in for huge boots and Gampian umbrellas, setting at nought many graces essentially womanly and indispensable in woman: and the fact, which really has some truth in it, positively damages the cause.”

According to Haweis, an excess of education had the all too frequent side effect of turning attractive young ladies into unfashionable dowds.  She urges her female readers not to succumb to this unhappy transformation, writing:

“Recollect that you have a body, although exceptionally gifted with a mind: a little attention to it will neither nip your mental powers nor impede you as you clamber up the tree of knowledge.  Busy sisters, if you climb at all, climb gracefully, rather than bring the tree into disrepute.”

In the Library by August Toulmouche, 1872.

Later in the book, Haweis offers an unflattering example of the highly educated female.  She is described as “a mannish young lady,” of the sort which is a “hybrid between masculine and feminine.”  As Haweis states:

 “Many are her ‘ologies’ — and were she a woman of extraordinary ability one might find excuse for her elbows and knees.  But I happen to have discovered that Dorothea knows much more on any subject, though she does not straddle across the paths, nor try to ape a man.”

The Dorothea mentioned by Haweis is described as quiet, “sweet-faced,” and charming—a girl that seldom says a word and “has always men around her.”  In short, an ideal manner of Victorian female.  That is not to say that Dorothea is a nitwit.  She is, in fact, intelligent and even seems to have some level of education.  But the essential point of her character (at least as far as Haweis’ example) is that she does not flaunt her intelligence and she is never so strong-minded as to be accused of aping a man.

Based on some of Haweis’ wrongheaded remarks, one might think she was against education for women.  Quite the contrary.  For unattractive girls (referred to, rather unkindly, as “Nonentities”), Haweis asserts that education is absolutely essential.  Addressing the “Nonentity,” she writes:

“To her I have but one word to say: educate yourself…books are so cheap, and your leisure probably so large that there is little to prevent an effort to redeem lost time.”

Young Girl Reading by Otto Scholderer, 1883.

Despite her advice to nonentities, Haweis is very clear that outward beauty is a woman’s most important asset.  To this end, she is unwilling to believe those bluestockings who claim not to care what they look like, writing:

“No woman can say truthfully that she does not care whether she is pretty or not.  Every woman does care.  The immutable laws of her being have made physical attractiveness as much a natural glory to her as strength is to a man…After all, what is vanity?  If it means only a certain innocent wish to look one’s best, is it not another name for self-respect—and without it, what would woman be worth?”

The idea that a woman’s worth stems from her outward appearance is not exclusive to the Victorian era.  However, the notion that beauty and intellect are somehow incompatible in women is something which we definitely see more of in the 19^th century.  That is not to say that the beliefs of those like Haweis were the norm, only that the stereotype of the unattractive bluestocking was very much a reality.

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Cary, Pheobe.  “The Sunday Evening Reception.”  The Poetical Works of Alice and Pheobe Cary.  Cambridge: Hurd and Houghton, 1876.

Haweis, Mary Eliza Joy.  The Art of Beauty.  London: Chatto & Windus, 1883.

The Popular Encyclopedia. Vol. II.  London: Blackie & Son, 1883.

Williams, William.  “The Color Blue.”  Student and Schoolmate.  Boston: Galen James and Company, 1863.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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As a general rule, I don’t accept books for review here at MimiMatthews.com.  However, when I was approached several months ago to participate in the Progressive Blog Tour for Julian Fellowes’ new novel, Belgravia, I simply could not refuse.  Many of you probably already know Julian Fellowes as the creator, writer, and executive producer of the popular television series Downton Abbey.  He also wrote the screenplay (and won an Oscar!) for one of my favorite movies, Gosford Park.  His other film, television, and print credits are too numerous to list.  Suffice to say that he has been entertaining those of us who love historical drama for a very long time.

The story of Belgravia begins at the famous Duchess of Richmond’s Ball on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo and continues to unfold in eleven serialized installments which take us—and the cast of characters—into the Victorian era.  In the manner of a progressive dinner party, each installment is being hosted and reviewed by a different author or historical fiction blogger.  I will be focusing on Episode 8: An Income for Life.  If you would like a refresher on what happened in the previous episode, click through to Booktalk & More which recaps Episode 7: A Man of Business.

Recap (with Spoilers!)

This episode begins with John Bellasis visiting his parents’ house in Harley Street.  He is hoping to borrow enough money from them to see him through Christmas—and to compensate the Trenchard’s servants, Ellis the maid and Turton the butler, for any secrets they might discover in the course of their employment.

“He wasn’t sure what the butler and the maid would come up with, but his instincts told him that the Trenchards were hiding something.  And at that point, any illuminating fact about Charles Pope and his connections would be helpful.”

Unfortunately, John’s parents are in no position to lend him anything.  In fact, his father, Stephen Bellasis, is desperate for funds himself.  So desperate that he is considering borrowing from one moneylender to pay off another.  In the end, John resorts to stealing a solid silver punch bowl from his mother.  He pawns it for one hundred pounds.

Anxious to discover something that he might use to his benefit, John meets Turton the butler at a pub called The Horse and Groom.  Turton is very nervous, recollecting how, earlier that day, he had rifled through Mr. Trenchard’s desk and taken some of his private papers.  Among them is a letter that mentions a child called Charles.  Turton sells the first page—and only the first page—of this letter to John for twenty pounds.

“Well, I did find something,” began Turton, reaching into his pocket.  John leaned forward as the man pulled out an old brown envelope.  “It was locked away in the one of the smaller drawers, which had its own key.”  John didn’t say anything. What did he care about the details?  “It’s a letter that mentions a child, called Charles.”

John is not the only one who has it in for Charles Pope.  Oliver Trenchard’s jealousy is growing by leaps and bounds.  Hoping to make trouble for his imagined rival, he travels to Manchester to visit Charles Pope’s cotton mill.  There he meets two disgruntled employs who accuse Charles of shady business practices.  Oliver convinces them to put their accusation in writing.  He later presents the evidence to his father, James.  James is reluctant to believe the allegations against Charles Pope.  He goes to see Charles, but instead of denying the accusations, Charles suggests that he and James dissolve their business relationship.

“I would not have you quarrel with your only son over me.  I assume we should think about removing your money from the business.”

Meanwhile, Lady Templemore is trying to convince her daughter, Maria, to formally announce her engagement to John Bellasis.  When Maria informs her that she has changed her mind and will not marry John, Lady Templemore is far from pleased.

“I won’t let you throw away your chance.  I would be a bad mother if I allowed it.”

Later, Lady Templemore finds a letter from Lady Brockenhurst in Maria’s room.  She pays a visit to Lady Brockenhurst to confront her.  There, she informs Lady Brockenhurst, Anne Trenchard, and Maria that she has put the notice of Maria’s engagement to John Bellasis in the newspapers herself.  This revelation, as well as the situation with Oliver Trenchard, prompts Lady Brockenhurst to argue that the true identity of Charles Pope should finally be revealed.

“All of this can be resolved if you will only allow us to give him a name and a position and publicly include him in our family.”

The episode ends as it began: with John Bellasis.  He travels to Charles Pope’s childhood home and, pretending to be someone else, gains admittance.  There he meets Charles’ adoptive mother and learns that James Trenchard has been supporting Charles since he was a baby.  This leads him to believe that Charles must be James’ bastard son.  He later says as much to Susan Trenchard during one of their illicit meetings.

“Wait a minute.  If Pope is Trenchard’s bastard, why is the Countess of Brockenhurst so taken with him?”

Review

This episode of Belgravia was filled with tension.  Matters with John Bellasis, Oliver Trenchard, Lady Maria Grey, Lady Brockenhurst, the Trenchard’s servants, and Charles Pope are all racing toward a climax, and yet nothing is really resolved.  We are left on the precipice, anxious to read the next installment.  I wish I could share with you what’s coming next!  Unfortunately, I am sworn to secrecy (quite literally—I had to sign an NDA).

I will say that Belgravia reminds me a lot of Downton Abbey.  On the surface, it’s beautiful and comfortable, but underneath the elegance of 1840s London are the intrigues, secrets, and petty jealousies of Victorian lords and ladies, wealthy tradesman and the nouveau riche, and—of course—the servants.  Many of the characters are selfish and small-minded and some, like John Bellasis, Ellis, and Turton, have no qualms about breaking the law.  The only characters who seem to be fully decent and honest are Maria Grey and Charles Pope.  I wish there had been more of them in this episode.  If you felt the same, I can only say: Stay Tuned!

Discussion Questions

1. Do you have any sympathy for John Bellasis?
2. Do James and Anne Trenchard bear some responsibility for Oliver’s behavior?
3. What should Turton’s punishment be for breaking into Mr. Trenchard’s desk and selling his papers?

A Grand Giveaway!

Win a Copy of Julian Fellowes’ Belgravia

In celebration of the release of Julian Fellowes’ Belgravia, Grand Central Publishing is offering a chance to win one of the three (3) hardcover copies of the book!

To enter the giveaway contest, simply leave a comment on any or all of the stops on the Julian Fellowes’ Belgravia Progressive Blog Tour starting April 14, 2016 through 11:59 pm PT, June 22, 2016.  Winners will be drawn at random from all of the comments and announced on Austenprose.com June 23, 2016. Winners have until June 30, 2016 to claim their prize.  The contest is open to International residents and the books will be shipped after July 5, 2016.  Good luck to all!

BELGRAVIA PROGRESSIVE BLOG TOUR SCHEDULE:

 April 14 – Austenprose.com: Episode 1: Dancing into Battle

April 14 – Edwardian Promenade: Episode 2: A Chance Encounter

April 21 – Fly High: Episode 3: Family Ties

April 28 – Calico Critic: Episode 4: At Home in Belgrave Square

May 05 – Luxury Reading: Episode 5: The Assignation

May 12 – Risky Regencies: Episode 6: A Spy in our Midst

May 19 – Book Talk and More: Episode 7: A Man of Business

May 26 – Mimi Matthews: Episode 8: An Income for Life

June 02 – Confessions of a Book Addict: Episode 9: The Past is a Foreign Country

June 09 – Laura’s Reviews: Episode 10: The Past Comes Back

June 16 – Gwyn Cready: Episode 11: Inheritance

Book: Julian Fellowes’ Belgravia
Genre: Historical Fiction/ Regency-era Fiction/ Victorian-era Fiction
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing (April 14-June 16, 2016)
Format: eBook & audio, (352) pages in total 

Belgravia Website | Grand Central Publishing | Amazon | Barnes & Nobel | iTunes | Goodreads

*FTC 16 CFR § 255.5 – Disclosure of Material Connections: I received one free copy of Julian Fellowes’ Belgravia from the publisher.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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

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“…there are periods in a man’s life when he finds the society that walks on four feet a welcome relief from the society that walks on two.” The Fallen Leaves, 1879.

Vixen, a Thoroughbred Scotch Terrier, by Edwin Henry Landseer, 1853.

Victorian author Wilkie Collins is often referred to as the father of the detective story.  His novels, such as The Woman in White and The Moonstone, are counted among the first mystery novels ever written and are still some of the finest examples of mystery fiction you can read today.  In addition to being a fantastically talented writer, Collins was also a great lover of animals.  His favorite pet was his dog, a Scotch terrier named Tommie.  Tommie featured prominently in many letters that Collins wrote to his friends.  He was also depicted in Collins’ 1879 book, My Lady’s Money, wherein one character explains the unique spelling of the little dog’s name:

“His name is Tommie.  We are obliged to call him by it, because he won’t answer to any other than the name he had when my Lady bought him.  But we spell it with an i e at the end, which makes it less vulgar than Tommy with a y.”  

Photo of Wilkie Collins by Elliott & Fry.
(An Actor’s Notebook, 1912)

Described as a brown and white Scotch terrier, Tommie was Collins’ constant companion, remaining by his side while he wrote or while he recuperated from illness.  In his biography The Secret Life of Wilkie Collins, author William Clark quotes a letter from Collins to his American correspondent, Mrs. Bigelow, which illustrates how much the household revolved around the little dog.  He writes:

“When evening comes, I sit and think—and smoke when I am tired of thinking—and wish I was on my way again to my dear United States.  When I can neither smoke nor think any longer, then my dear old dog comes, looks at me, wags his tail and groans.  This means, in his language ‘Now Wilkie, it’s time to go to bed!’  So the evening closes.”

Though the character of Tommie in My Lady’s Money is based on Collins’ own Tommie, it is difficult to say how many traits the two dogs share.  Book Tommie is described as “the most beautiful dog in the world” with the temperament of an angel—at least, toward those people he liked.  As one character rhapsodizes:

“He has the most exquisite white curly hair and two light brown patches on his back—and, oh! such lovely dark eyes!  They call him a Scotch terrier.  When he is well his appetite is truly wonderful—nothing comes amiss to him, sir, from pate de foie gras to potatoes.  He has his enemies, poor dear, though you wouldn’t think it.  People who won’t put up with being bitten by him (what shocking tempers one does meet with, to be sure!) call him a mongrel.  Isn’t it a shame?”

Whether real life Tommie was a chronic biter and/or a connoisseur of everything from “pate de foie gras to potatoes” is unclear.  What we do know, at least according to biographer Clark, is that Collins and his partner at the time, Caroline Graves, were in the habit of “throwing oranges” to Tommie during dinner—a practice which Clark describes as being “unlikely to appeal to a conservative middle-class family.”

In the final lines of My Lady’s Money, Collins bids goodbye to all but one of his characters, writing:

“And last, not least, good-by to Tommie?  No.  The writer gave Tommie his dinner not half an hour since, and is too fond of him to say good-by.”

The Young Folks’ Cyclopædia, 1880.

The final goodbye could not be prolonged forever.  Tommie died at an advanced age.  His passing had a profound effect on Collins.  In her 1991 biography, The King of Inventors: A Life of Wilkie Collins, author Catherine Peters quotes a letter that Collins wrote to a friend upon Tommie’s death which reads, in part:

“I should not acknowledge to many people what I have suffered during his last illness and death.”

Author Peter Ackroyd echoes these sentiments in his more recent biography, Wilkie Collins: A Brief Life, writing:

“Tommy had been a constant companion for many years, and Collins was more desolate at this loss than at any time since the death of his brother; he said that he had suffered terribly during his pet’s last illness.”

According to Clark, it was not until Tommie’s death that Collins realized how thoroughly intertwined the little terrier had become in his daily life.  No longer was Tommie there to lend support as Collins wrote or to remind him that it was time for bed.  Instead, every familiar activity he engaged in made Collins miss his dog all the more.  As he wrote in a subsequent letter to a friend (quoted by Clark):

“How closely that poor little dog had associated himself with every act of my life at home…I know only now, I can go nowhere and do nothing—without missing Tommie.” 

Four months later, Collins sent a £5 donation to the Dogs’ Home in honor of Tommie.  He had not foresworn pets.  In fact, in a later letter, quoted by Peters, he writes that:

“…A kitten who has drifted into the house…is galloping over my back and shoulder, which makes writing difficult.”

Nevertheless, Tommie would always have a special place in Collins’ heart—as well as in the canon of English Literature.

The Scotch Terrier, 1882.
(Dogs of the British Islands)

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

Scottish Terrier Club of America (United States)

The Scottish Terrier Club of England (United Kingdom)

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Ackroyd, Peter.  Wilkie Collins: A Brief Life.  New York: Doubleday, 2012.

Champlin, John Denison.  The Young Folks’ Cyclopædia of Common Things.  New York: Henry Holt, 1880.

Clark, William M.  The Secret Life of Wilkie Collins.  Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 1988.

Collins, Wilkie.  The Fallen Leaves.  London: Chatto and Windus, 1880.

Collins, Wilkie.  My Lady’s Money: An Episode in the Life of a Young Girl.  Chicago: W. B. Conkey, 1878.

Peters, Catherine.  The King of Inventors: A Life of Wilkie Collins.  Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991.

Walsh, John Henry.  The Dogs of the British Isles.  London: Horace Cox, 1882.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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

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Self-Portrait by Marie-Gabrielle Capet, 1783.
(National Museum of Western Art)

Circassian Bloom—also marketed as “Bloom of Circassia”—is perhaps the most well-known brand of cheek rouge from the 18^th and 19^th centuries.  Along with such luxurious sounding beauty products as Peach Blossom Cream and Alabaster Liquid, it was featured regularly in Victorian era newspaper advertisements.  It was also frequently mentioned in 18^th and 19^th century fiction, including short stories in magazines and popular comic verses.  Perhaps the most quoted of these verses is by the English poet George Crabbe who mentions Circassian Bloom in his 1785 poem, The Newspaper.  It reads in part:

“Come, faded Belles, who would their Youth renew,

And learn the wonders of Olympian dew;

Restore the Roses that begin to faint,

Not think celestial washes, vulgar Paint:

Your former Features, Airs, and Arts assume,

Circassian Virtues, with Circassian Bloom.”

Circassian Bloom was first advertised during the 18^th century.  A typical advert, as seen in a 1772 edition of London’s Public Advertiser, begins by declaring that “Circassians are the most beautiful Women in the World.”  To enhance their beauty, the advert states that Circassian ladies have long been accustomed to using a “liquid bloom” to bring color to their cheeks.  An enterprising Englishman claims to have duplicated the secret of this liquid bloom via an extract from a Circassian vegetable.  The resulting liquid was reportedly superior to any other rouge on the market.  According to the advert:

“…it instantly gives a rose Hue to the Cheeks not to be distinguished from the lively and animated Bloom of rural Beauty; nor will it come off by Perspiration, or the Use of a Handkerchief.  A Moment’s Trial will prove that it is not to be paralleled.”

Bloom of Circassia Advertisement, Public Advertiser, April 15, 1772.

Circassian Bloom continued to be used well into the Victorian era.  It could be applied lightly with a swan’s down puff for a hint of color or with a heavier hand for a bright rosy glow.  In the 1884 short story Two Days in a Lifetime, the character of Mrs. Boyd describes her own method for applying Circassian Bloom:

“…she went up to the glass over the chimney-piece and taking a tiny box from her pocket, opened it, and with the swan’s down puff which she found therein, just dashed her cheeks with the faintest possible soupcon of Circassian Bloom, and then half rubbed it off with her handkerchief.”

Portrait of a Lady with Hat by Anton Einsle, (1801-1871).

Though many used cosmetics in the Victorian era, for women of good breeding, the practice was not generally considered respectable.  Face paint of any kind was regarded as the province of actresses and prostitutes.  Cheek rouge was considered especially vulgar, with some publications comparing the ruddy cheeks produced by Circassian Bloom to the ruddy cheeks produced by excessive drink.  Nevertheless, the cosmetics industry was flourishing and, as an 1870 edition of Harper’s Bazaar states:

“The time has gone by when it was a matter of church discipline if a woman painted her face or wore powder.  Nor is it any serious reflection on her moral character if she go abroad with her complexion made up in the forenoon, however it may call her taste in question.  All who paint their faces and look forth at their windows are not visited with hard names, else the parlor of every house on the side-Streets of New York might have its Jezebel waiting the dinner-hour and the return of masculine admirers.”

Even if a lady avoided the vulgar temptation of Circassian Bloom, it did not necessarily follow that her complexion was rouge free.  There were countless methods for staining the cheeks, including strawberry juice, crushed geranium leaves, and—as Harper’s reports—rubbing one’s cheeks with a “red flannel.”  There were also many recipes for homemade rouge made from ingredients which were gentler on the skin than the lead, bismuth, and arsenic which featured heavily in the popular cosmetic preparations of the 19^th century.  Homemade rouge was preferable for other reasons as well.  As Harper’s points out:

“There are more tints of complexion than there are rose…By making her own rouge a lady can graduate her pallet—her cheeks—at pleasure.” 

The 1883 edition of Beeton’s Domestic Recipe Book provides several recipes for rouge in which the red hue is derived from carmine powder or tincture of cochineal (a dried insect which produced a brilliant red color).

Beeton’s Domestic Recipe Book, 1883.

Alternatively, Harper’s recommends adding carmine or flakes of indigo to a base recipe of the popular complexion wash known as Milk of Roses.  The recipe calls for mixing:

“…four ounces oil of almonds, forty drops Oil of tartar, and half a pint of rose-water with carmine to the proper shade…Different tinges may be given the rouge by adding a few flakes of indigo for the deep black-rose crimson, or mixing a little pale yellow with less carmine for the soft Greuze tints.”

Despite the availability of recipes for liquid and powder rouge or for commercial products like Circassian Bloom, cheek rouge would never be fully acceptable in the Victorian era.  Instead, beauty books and magazines urged women to cultivate good health and the naturally rosy cheeks resulting from fresh air and exercise.  For those women determined to assist nature, beauty experts recommended a light hand.  As Harper’s wisely advises:

“…if she must resort to artificial beauty, let her be artistic about it, and not lay on paint as one would furniture polish rubbed in with rags.”

Maria Branicka by Franz Xaver Winterhalter, 1865.

**Author’s Note: This is the second in a three part series on the three best-selling cosmetics of the Victorian era: lip salve, rouge, and face powder.  The previous article is available here:

Victorian Cosmetics: Red Lip Rouge and Lip Salve

If you would like a refresher on other Victorian beauty topics, such as hair care, skin care, and perfume, I refer you to my Victorian Lady’s Guide series.  You can click through via the links below. 

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hair Care

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Hairdressing

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Skin Care

A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Perfume

Works Referenced or Cited in this Article

Beeton, Isabella.  Beeton’s Domestic Recipe Book.  London: Ward, Lock, & Co., 1883.

Crabbe, George.  “The Newspaper.”  The Poetical Works of George Crabbe.  London: George Routledge and Sons, 1858.

“For the Ugly Girls.”  Harper’s Bazaar.  Vol. 3.  New York: Hearst Corporation, 1870.

The Illustrated American.  Vol. 7.  New York: Illustrated American Publising, 1891.

Public Advertiser.  London.  April 15, 1772.

Sherrow, Victoria.  For Appearance Sake.  Westport: Oryx Press, 2001.

Strachan, John.  Advertising and Satirical Culture in the Romantic Period.  Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.

“Two Days in a Lifetime.”  Chambers Journal.  Vol. 61.  Issue 1.  London: W. & R. Chambers, 1884.

© 2016 Mimi Matthews

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

Facebook and Twitter