Argh, Matey! Or, An Ackermann before Ackermann’s?

Okay, I believe we have by now established that I am perhaps just a little captivated by early 19th century periodicals...and perhaps just a little bit more captivated by Ackermann’s Repository of the Arts in particular, that popular magazine published between 1809 and 1829, a fascinating era in British social history. And ohmigosh, the fashion prints—they’re pure eye candy! The detail, the coloring, the descriptions—just delicious. Historical research isn’t always this much fun.

I recently obtained a new print for my Ackermann collection, an Evening Dress in pink with a yellow overdress with train (not my favorite color combination, but tastes change...). The text at the bottom reads “EVENING DRESS London published as the Act directs June 1803 by R. Ackermann, at 101 Strand.” The quality of the engraving is far below Ackermann’s later standards in the Repository: the details of the overdress are just sort of squiggled, and the headdress is rather shapeless; only the wearer’s face is carefully depicted.

But “Wow!” I thought. “An Ackermann fashion print from six years before he brought out the Repository! How awesome is that?” Well, pretty awesome, of course...but being who we are at NineteenTeen, I wanted to know more. Had Ackermann brought out other fashion prints before 1809?

So I did a little digging on line, and found prints in a similar style from 1803 from Le Miroir de la Mode, a short-lived publication by Madame Lanchester, a well-known London modiste who would one day serve as Ackermann’s chief fashion consultant for the Repository. The Lanchester prints are much larger and more finely detailed, which makes me think that what I have here is...well, a pirated copy of a print from Le Miroir.

Copyright law as we know it simply did not exist in 1803, and printmakers and booksellers constantly stole content and republished it. That uber-bestseller serial from 1820, The History of Tom and Jerry; or the Day and Night Scenes of Life in London by Pierce Egan, had been pirated within twelve hours of its first appearance in bookshops. Not bad, even by modern bootlegging standards.

Nor was an ocean any barrier to pirating: check out this print from the English The Court Magazine in 1833...

...and this print from the American Godey’s Lady’s Book in 1834:

So...ahem...might we have here a less-than-official version of Madame Lanchester’s work? Or does the text at the bottom of the print "publish as the Act directs" mean Ackermann had some sort of permission to reprint?  I don’t know for certain so I did a little more on-line searching, and see that while the term appears on many prints in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, I could not find an explanation of what it means. So was Ackermann a pirate? I don't know...but it's looking a little suspicious!

Making a Further Spectacle of Yourself

Some time ago I discussed what the nearsighted young ladies of the 19th century did to avoid walking into walls and other people (though walking into a handsome young earl wouldn’t have been such a bad thing!). Since then, I’ve gotten my hands on an example of a few of them, and thought it would fun to take a closer look at quizzing glasses and lorgnettes.

Remember what quizzing glasses are? Those small lenses worn as a piece of jewelry round the neck for when the wearer wished to have a better look at something (say, a handsome young earl coming into the ballroom)? Well, here you go: This one dates to about 1820 and is made of silver, with decorative scrollwork around its rim and a simple twisted loop handle. It measures a little under three inches long. It came with a small leather holder, which suggests it might have resided in someone’s pocket or reticule for occasional use rather than being worn around the neck on a ribbon or chain. Interestingly, the glass is held in with a screw (you can just see where it fits in, between the small loop and the lens frame) so that it could be changed; the one in there works well as a magnifying glass, so maybe the owner used it for reading.

And then there’s the lorgnette, or specs on a stick. These appear to be a nice sturdy brass, about five and a half inches long with the lenses about an inch and a quarter across. But wait! you’re saying. Where’s the other lens? Well, this is pretty slick. See the small rings around the handle near the small loop at the end of the handle? They’re actually a latch: if you slide them down just a little, a catch releases and voila! The second lens is released and swivels out. This certainly makes it less awkward to wear them on a necklace. There’s some pretty ornamentation on the nose bridge as you can see in the second photo, and like the quizzing glass above, the lenses can be changed.

 

And just as a side note, I noticed a gent (the one in the green coat, peering at the horses) wearing specs in this 1820 illustration by Cruikshank from Pierce Egan's well-known Life in London, or The Day and Night Scenes of Jerry Hawthorn, Esq. and his Elegant Friend Corinthian Tom in Their Rambles and Sprees through the Metropolis. Tom and Jerry weren't the only ones making a spectacle of themselves at this time!

Talking Fancy

In a comment on my post last week, Marissa mentioned boxing cant, a colorful language that developed out of early nineteenth century pugilism. I wanted to follow up on that as well as my post. But first a little praise is due.

When I was writing my book, The Bluestocking on His Knee, I wanted my hero to box. I did some initial research, but I was drawing a blank, so I appealed to that bastion of all early nineteenth century knowledge, my colleagues in the Beau Monde, the Romance Writers of America Special Interest Chapter for Regency-set romances. A woman named Kate McMurry willingly shared volumes of research with me, and I will be forever grateful. I dedicated the book, and now this post, to her.

So, for a little more on what the boys were doing at Gentleman Jackson’s, here’s a piece, courtesy of Kate, from Vincent Dowling, editor of Bell’s Life (a gentleman’s sporting magazine), talking about boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s:

Here all the elite of the of fashionable world were daily assembled; noblemen and gentlemen of the highest rank did not disdain to take the gloves with the accomplished Jackson. . . In these associations there was none of the finnikin foppery [don’t you love it!] of modern times; there was no apprehensions of the derangement of well-cured locks or pretty faces; men, and noblemen too, met foot to foot and fist to fist, regardless of consequence, dealing such blows at each other’s heads as often deprived them of momentary sensation.

Sounds like a bunch of lads, doesn’t it?

Of course, those lads had a sound all their own. When playing at boxing, they often used boxing cant. The purpose of boxing cant isn’t much different than jargon and acronyms that litter professional disciplines today. Being able to speak in this special language indicated you were in the know, you belonged, you GOT it. And just in case you didn’t, but wanted to pretend that you did, a helpful chap named Pierce Egan starting publishing a series of books called Boxiana in 1812 that explained everything you could want to know about the fine art of boxing.

According to historians, boxing cant was a combination of technical sporting terms, cockney, and slang used by the criminal underworld. Here’s a few of the terms:

• The Fancy—those who took a fancy to a particular sport, from the boxers themselves to the umpires and those who thronged the matches. Today, we might use the word “fan.”



• Out-and-Outer—the perfect example of his kind



• A Cross—a fixed fight



• Chucker Outer—someone who cleared the ring after a prize fight



• Cove—a common gentleman.

You may notice some similarity between boxing cant and thieves cant, which the heroine Kim uses at first in Mairelon the Magician. Marissa and I can hardly wait to talk to you more about it next week. Make sure you’re here on Tuesday, when Marissa calls to order the first meeting of the Young Bluestockings Book Club!