Fly the Friendly Skies...of the Aerostation Company?

I don't have a lot to say in this week's post, because really, there's not much I can add to this item from the July 30, 1825 edition of The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, a London publication that was a sort of Reader's Digest of the day, including snippets from other publications as well as original material. I've posted some amusing bits from them before; but air travel in particular seems to have been a popular theme with their editors, as this article demonstrates. I thought it would be more fun to show you the original, so here you go!

Well, that's one way to avoid the problem of airline food...

And speaking of technological advances, even history bloggers have to keep up with them. I'm happy to report that you can now find ALL my e-books for sale on GooglePlay...and that includes a short story I just released, just for the fun of it, titled Family Reunion. Of course you can also find Family Reunion in all the other usual sales outlets--Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo--as well.

The Ennui is Killing Me! (Nineteenteen archives)

This entry first ran in November 2009...and it still makes me smile. Enjoy!!

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, a popular weekly magazine published in London between 1822 and 1847, ran the following short piece in its November 26, 1825 issue which got me giggling--I hope it will do the same to you!

The Journal of an Indolent Lady

"I know a young lady who has very pretty pretensions to idleness, but who has no objection to dancing the livelong night, and who would work at a ball-dress fifteen hours at a stretch, rather than not go to the assembly. Of this young lady’s life, the following specimen...may afford some idea, and it proves her to be a real amateur:

Rose at ten. Regretted not being able to lie an hour longer. Lamented the necessity of cleanliness. Dressing a great bore. Dogs in this respect happier than men. Watch-boxes still better.

Breakfasted till eleven. Sauntered for half an hour, and played with the cat. She scratched both my hands.

Half past eleven. Sunk in an arm-chair, with a novel, read the same page three times over, and fell asleep. Got up to walk to another chair, and was told I’d a hole in my stocking. I wonder why the maid does not mend them.

Twelve. Played half a lesson on the piano. What can Rossini mean by writing such difficult music?

One o’clock. Took up a needle and thread, and looked out of the window at the cattle feeding for three quarters of an hour. Cows lead happy lives. I wonder why man does not ruminate.

At two. Luncheon.

Three. Forced to walk out. I hate exercise. Was told my petticoat is longer than my gown; but what does that matter?

Half-past four. Very tired and hungry. Played again with the cat. Made Fidelle, the French poodle, fetch a stick three times out of the water. Fidelle tore my glove to pieces. I wish my brother had been by to take it from him.

Five. Played at scratch-cradle [cat's cradle], and then three games of Trou-madame [an early table game that was a cross between bar billiards and pinball] till dressing time. Can’t think why mamma does not allow me a maid to dress me. Scolded for throwing my hair papers about the room. What has the housemaid to do but gather them up? It’s monstrous tiresome to be scolded.

Six. Dinner. After coffee sat still doing nothing till bed time. Thought half-past ten would never come. Went to bed very tired. Doing nothing is extremely troublesome, and I hate it exceedingly.—But then what can one do?"

:)

"Sundry Miseries"

This is a brief article from the April 3, 1824 edition of The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, which was sort of the Reader's Digest of the day, containing a variety of articles often reprinted from other journals as well as original material. It made me giggle, and reminded me again that some things never change...

Sundry Miseries

• Residing between a stone-cutter's shop and an undertaker's.


• Haggling with a surly hackney-coachman for sixpence, and a quarter-hour after he has driven off, recollecting that you have left a new umbrella in his coach.


• Drying a long letter by the fire, holding it negligently in one hand behind you whilst you are conversing with a friend in the room, turning around and perceiving it to be in flames.


• In sharply turning a corner, coming suddenly in contact with a chimney sweeper, who impresses your white waistcoat and light-colored breeches with very visible memorials of the encounter.


• Passing through a narrow passage and realizing it has just been freshly painted.


• Wishing to wake early to be in time for a morning coach, waking, and upon looking at your watch, discovering that you had not wound it up the night before.


• Making several memorandum knots in your handkerchief, and forgetting the important cause of every one of them.


• Dreaming that you have wings, and waking with a fit of the gout.


• Endeavoring to flirt outrageously under the table and pressing the wrong foot.


• Toasting a bit of cheese, and when it is more than half done, letting it fall into the ashes.


• In a hurry to send off a letter, dipping your finger into the ink instead of into the wafer stand.

The Ennui is Killing Me!

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, a popular weekly magazine published in London between 1822 and 1847, ran the following short piece in its November 26, 1825 issue which got me giggling--I hope it will do the same to you!

The Journal of an Indolent Lady

"I know a young lady who has very pretty pretensions to idleness, but who has no objection to dancing the livelong night, and who would work at a ball-dress fifteen hours at a stretch, rather than not go to the assembly. Of this young lady’s life, the following specimen...may afford some idea, and it proves her to be a real amateur:

Rose at ten. Regretted not being able to lie an hour longer. Lamented the necessity of cleanliness. Dressing a great bore. Dogs in this respect happier than men. Watch-boxes still better.

Breakfasted till eleven. Sauntered for half an hour, and played with the cat. She scratched both my hands.

Half past eleven. Sunk in an arm-chair, with a novel, read the same page three times over, and fell asleep. Got up to walk to another chair, and was told I’d a hole in my stocking. I wonder why the maid does not mend them.

Twelve. Played half a lesson on the piano. What can Rossini mean by writing such difficult music?

One o’clock. Took up a needle and thread, and looked out of the window at the cattle feeding for three quarters of an hour. Cows lead happy lives. I wonder why man does not ruminate.

At two. Luncheon.

Three. Forced to walk out. I hate exercise. Was told my petticoat is longer than my gown; but what does that matter?

Half-past four. Very tired and hungry. Played again with the cat. Made Fidelle, the French poodle, fetch a stick three times out of the water. Fidelle tore my glove to pieces. I wish my brother had been by to take it from him.

Five. Played at scratch-cradle [cat's cradle], and then three games of Trou-madame [an early table game that was a cross between bar billiards and pinball] till dressing time. Can’t think why mamma does not allow me a maid to dress me. Scolded for throwing my hair papers about the room. What has the housemaid to do but gather them up? It’s monstrous tiresome to be scolded.

Six. Dinner. After coffee sat still doing nothing till bed time. Thought half-past ten would never come. Went to bed very tired. Doing nothing is extremely troublesome, and I hate it exceedingly.—But then what can one do?"

:)

In Which One of the Bloggers Desperately Tries to Find Some Unifying Title for a Lot of Snippets of Information and Fails Miserably

First, thank you all for your kind words on the release of Betraying Season—they’re very much appreciated! For one last bit of book release fun, I offer this video from M2 Productions, which I am smitten with:



Second, the winner of the drawing from Friday for a signed copy of Betraying Season is Miss Eliza! Miss E, please contact me here so we can arrange to have your book sent to you.

In the snippets department, I’ve been fortunate to acquire a number of issues of a magazine called The Mirror dating from 1824 and 1825. They make fascinating reading: what do you think of the illustration here for a proposed tunnel to be built under the Thames in the May 22, 1824 issue?

Then there’s this extract from an article about ballooning, entitled “On Aerial Travelling”, from the June 19, 1824 issue:

"We have yet to contrast this mode of travelling with that in ordinary rides, over which it maintains a vast ascendancy—you have not to tolerate those perpetually recurring delays occasioned by changing the cattle [horses]…no tiresome tax is levied by coachmen or guards…you are free…from the uncomfortable snatches of refreshment they may choose to provide which, however unpalatable, you are obliged to discuss amidst a heterogeneous assemblage as diverse in their tastes as in their appearance and manners…”

Hmm…flight delays? Extra charges for luggage? Bad airline food? Sounds like the more things change, the more they stay the same.

And last, there are lawyer jokes. No, I’m not kidding. How about this bit from the December 24, 1825 edition?

"Saint Evona, a lawyer of Britain, went to Rome to entreat the pope to give the lawyers a patron; the pope replied that he knew no saint not disposed of to some other profession. His holiness proposed, however, to saint Evona, that he should go round the church of San Giovanni di Laterano blindfold, and after saying a certain number of Ave Marias, the first saint he laid hold of should be his patron. This the good old lawyer undertook, and at the end of his Ave Marias, happened to stop at the altar of saint Michael, where he laid hold not of the saint, but unfortunately of the figure of the devil under the saint’s feet, crying out, “This is our saint, let him be our patron!”

Ah yes—the more things change…!