Summer Fashion

It’s two and a half weeks until the big event of the year for many romance authors: the Romance Writers of America annual conference. We’ll be in Orlando, this year. Already I’m combing my wardrobe for the right outfits to wear to meet my editor for the first time, to attend a literary tea, to dance at the nineteenth century soiree hosted by the Beau Monde Chapter (for those who write in the Regency period). Everything seems too tight, too loose, too warm, too cold, or wrong color, and nothing matches. Arg! An entire closet full of clothes and nothing to wear!

So, like many ladies in nineteenth century England, I turned to that trusted source, La Belle Assemblée, for advice. I mean, it’s going to be warm and probably humid in Orlando, but the hotel will probably be freezing in comparison. What’s a lady to do?

“The continued warmth of the weather renders yet the muslin pelisses and spensers to be almost universally adopted: some of the latter are of clear book muslin, trimmed with very full trimmings of muslin, richly embroidered at the edge. Scarf-shawls, mantles, and sarsnet wraps are only seen on evenings, when returning from the rooms or from crowded parties.”

Okay, so I need to find a wrap to wear in air conditioned hotel rooms or returning from my publisher’s party at the Waldorf. What about when I need to go outside into the Florida sun?

“Never were caps so universal; and in this the English ladies do wisely; an ardent sun, particularly when accompanied by breezes from the sea, has often a sudden effect in changing the color of the hair. Among the new cornettes is the fan cornette à-la-Contesse, so called from the front being spread out like a fan; youth and loveliness are certainly requisite to render this head-dress becoming. The breakfast cornette, of fine thread net and Brussels lace, simply finished by rouleaux of lilac satin, is a very becoming dishabille to every face.”

So wear a hat when venturing out of doors. Gotcha. I probably need to choose my neutral color to build the wardrobe around. I only have so much space in my suitcase, and I’d rather fill it with books coming home. What’s in this year?

“The favorite colors are Clarence blue, rose color, and lilac.”

Really? I think I look better in basic black.

Any advice on how a nineteenth century writer can look professional, yet fashionable and comfortable, in Florida in the summer?

No Slang like Old Slang...Unless It's New

As I'm noodling with a story idea set in (gasp!) early 20th century America, I'm realizing it will take a major re-set of my 19th century British-obsessed brain to maintain historical accuracy. Which is why I thought it would be fun to revisit this post, which originally aired in November 2008. Answers will once again appear in the comments section, if you want to keep score.

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Regina and I have enjoyed presenting you with odd words and phrases used at different times in the 19th century. They’re fun to know and, for us, fun to use (sparingly!) in writing our books to help give them that early 19th century “flavor”.

But we’ve discovered that an important part of using authentic slang is sounding authentic. As I’ve researched the words and terms I’ve discussed here in Nineteenteen, I’ve found some that sound very 19th century but aren’t, and others that sound quite modern but are indeed, old—sometimes far older than the 19th century. So I’ve put together a bit of a quiz for you: below is a list of words or phrases and how they’re used. Can you tell if they’re genuinely 19th century (or before), or more recent inventions? Answers will be in the comment section so you can test yourself without peeking. Good luck, and have fun!

1. Nuts or nutty: To be infatuated. (“Sir Steven is quite nutty over Caroline, despite her appalling taste in millinery and that regrettable moustache.”)

2. Lily-livered: Cowardly. (“We thought Cecil was going to offer for Amelia, but the lily-livered lad hid in the library reading Cicero all evening instead.”)

3. Nitwit: A fool or simpleton. (“Did you hear that Freddy Hamilton ordered six mauve waistcoats with orange stripes from his tailor? He’ll look quite the biggest nitwit in all of Mayfair!”)

4. Kick the bucket: To die. (“That scoundrel John lives in daily anticipation of his uncle’s kicking the bucket so that he’ll inherit his fortune, but the old man looks quite healthy to me.”)

5. Pig: A derogatory term for a police officer. (“As he marched around Hyde Park carrying his “Give Peace a Chance: Wellington Out of Spain Now!” sign, George worried that he and his fellow anti-war protesters would be arrested by the pigs.”)

6. Fussbudget: A complaining person. (“Aunt Gladys is such a fussbudget that I’ve sworn that I shan’t take her out in my high-perch phaeton ever again!”)

7. Put the kibosh on: To stop an action. (“Mama put the kibosh on Annabel’s dancing with Lord Speen a third time by calling for the carriage.”)

8. Smashing: Splendid, wonderful. (“The refreshments at Lady Herman’s Christmas ball were simply smashing! Where did she find strawberries like that in December?”)

Don't forget, answers are in the comments section. So how did you do?

Where the Fashionable Bluestocking Shops

I'm behind on my book that's due September 1, which means no fun reading for me. Pooh! But that doesn't mean you have to forego the pleasure this summer. Here's a post from August 20, 2008, on how nineteenth century young ladies in London went searching for a good read.

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“Summer reading, had me a blast
Summer reading, went by so fast . . .”

Sorry, wrong period! And forgive my liberty with the lyrics. I was thinking about my favorite summer pastime, which, oddly enough, doesn’t necessarily involve beaches or boys.

Reading.

Reading was a popular pastime for the nineteenth century young lady as well, although she might not want to admit it for fear of being labeled a bluestocking, one of those ladies with more brains than social skills. Marissa’s previous posts mentioned some of the authors and stories. I, of course, am just as interested in the shopping aspects.

In the early nineteenth century, London had twelve good circulating libraries, where you could pay a subscription to borrow books; four French booksellers; one German bookseller; three children’s booksellers; and twenty dealers of rare books. If you were very fortunate, your family had a private library, or you knew someone with a private library. Marissa’s characters borrow books (with rather disastrous consequences) from the private library of a noted sorcerer in her Bewitching Season. Sir Joseph Banks, the noted botanist and president of the Royal Society, and Earl Spencer, the forefather of Princess Diana, were said to have the best private libraries. Spencer House is just off St. James’s, so quite easy to access on your way to the sensational shopping on Bond Street.

And just around the corner is Hatchard’s, one of the premier bookstores in London. It opened in 1797 at No. 173 Piccadilly. In 1801, it moved to No. 190. Later it was moved to No. 187, where you can still find it today. Hatchard’s was the social meeting place for those who loved literature. Being right across the street from the Albany, where the poet Lord Byron lived, it attracted any number of literary luminaries. Even Queen Charlotte shopped there. You could always find the daily newspapers set out on a table by the glowing fire, and your servants could wait on benches outside the door while you took your time perusing the many fine offerings.

Such as the handsome baronet thumbing through Shakespeare.

So, what are you reading this summer?

A Cool Customer

It's been shockingly hot in my neck of the woods the last few days, so I thought a cool blast from the past might be in order. This post first ran on April 15, 2008; do you have any recipes for frozen treats that you'd like to share, historical or otherwise?

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Regina’s discussion of weather prediction got me thinking about spring in New England, the place about which Mark Twain said, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.” One of the surest signs of spring here is the sudden disappearance of popsicles and ice cream sandwiches from local grocery stores’ freezers on the first really warm day of the season. Ice cream is extremely popular in New England—I remember reading somewhere that more ice cream is consumed here than any other region of the US.

Old England had its share of ice cream lovers too, as you can see from this 1824 Ackermann print of a ball dress at right. What flavor does it look like she’s eating…black raspberry, perhaps? France too…this scene from a Le Bon Genre print at left entitled “La Belle Limonadiere” shows a young lady consuming what looks like a tiny egg-cup of lemon sorbet while admiring her waiter’s fine figure. And an ad from around 1840 (I wish it had included a picture) describes the virtues of “FULLER’S FREEZING MACHINE, by which four ICES can be made at one time, and repeated as often as required. The freezing apparatus, by which a Cream or Water Ice can be made by artificial process...” Ices and ice cream were a popular refreshment at balls and parties, both because they were something of a delicacy and because it was nice to slurp down something cold after dancing all evening.

We aren’t talking Ben & Jerry’s, however. I found a handful of ice cream (or iced pudding, as they were called) recipes in the 1846 cookbook The Modern Cook, written by Queen Victoria’s chef, Charles Francatelli. Flavorings included pureed pineapple, ground almonds, ground hazelnuts and cherry puree, and, believe it or not, rice. From the amounts of sugar in some of these, ice cream was preferred tooth-achingly sweet. Here’s a recipe:

ICED PUDDING, A LA CHESTERFIELD

Grate one pound of pineapple into a basin, add this to eight yolks of eggs, one pint and a half of boiled cream, one pound of sugar, and a very little salt; stir the whole together in a stewpan over a stove-fire until the custard begins to thicken; then pass it through a tammy [a kind of cone-shaped filtering device—modern cooks know it as a tamis], by rubbing with two spoons, in the same manner as for a puree, in order to force the pineapple through the tammy. This custard must now be iced in the usual manner, and put into a mold of the shape represented in the annexed wood-cut; and in the center of the iced cream, some Macedoine ice of red fruits, consisting of cherries, currants, strawberries, and raspberries in a cherry-water-ice, must be introduced; cover the whole in with the lid, then immerse the pudding in rough ice in the usual way, and keep it in a cool place until wanted.

Dueling Dukes and Other Eligibles

You see them in movies; you read about them in books: the hero and generally the villain square off in a duel with swords or pistols. We’ve talked about how many young men were taught early to shoot and to fence. They were also cautioned against hot-headed displays. But dueling was viewed as an honorable alternative to settling a dispute. Even though it was frowned upon by the magistrates, even the most senior and respected of peers sometimes demanded satisfaction on the field of honor!

Some duels were over gambling debts. In September 1810 in Surrey, Captain Hants was mortally wounded when he met a Mr. Coleshall at Monsley Hurst over a “trivial bet at Egham races.” This after Mr. Coleshall’s brother tattled on them the previous week when they were trying to set up to duel in Middlesex. So strong was the feeling about dueling, however, that when the Coroner’s Inquest was called, no witness mentioned Mr. Coleshall’s involvement. (So even the gossip columnist who reported about the event knew who had shot the gallant captain, but no one was willing to tell the jury the information.) The jury returned a verdict of “Willful Murder by person or persons unknown.” Hmm.

Sometimes duels were fought over a lady’s honor. A wealthy married gentleman by the name of Payne made advances toward a Miss Clark, who was a friend of his wife. Even his own brother tried to talk him out of it, but he refused to stop his attentions. Miss Clark must have poured her concerns out to her brother, who was a captain in the army, because he took umbrage and met Payne on Wimbledon Common (yes, that Wimbledon). Mr. Payne must have been feeling some remorse, for he told a friend that he would not return fire. The captain’s first shot killed him, leaving his widow to raise their four children. Once again, the jury returned a verdict of “Willful Murder by some person or persons unknown.”


Sometimes, however, duels were fought for political reasons. In 1798, the Prime Minister of England, William Pitt, accused George Tierney, an opposition politician, of desiring to obstruct the defense of England. Tierney demanded that Pitt withdraw the accusation; Pitt refused. Tierney challenged him to a duel, and the two met near London. The first set of shots went wild, and Pitt fired his second shot into the air, thereby vindicating honor. Even the Duke of Wellington, that victor of Waterloo, fought a duel when he was Prime Minister. He was accused of attempting to introduce “Popery” into British government by favoring laws giving Catholics more freedom in England. Wellington missed, and his opponent, the Earl of Winchilsea, fired into the air.

By the way, you may see the word delope or delopement used to describe the business of firing into the air. Georgette Heyer used the word in one of her books. So far, the term hasn’t been located in any document from the nineteenth century, to my knowledge.

So does that mean the pen really is mightier than the sword?

"The Nearest Run Thing You Ever Saw in Your Life"

Last Friday marked the 195th anniversary of an event that was...well, not to sound too dramatic, but an event that marked the beginning of modern Europe. I'm talking about the Battle of Waterloo.

It was June 1815. Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, had been defeated in 1814 after running roughshod over most of Europe and sent into exile on the island of Elba...and had come back eight months later, determined to return to his former position. Everyone who was anyone in Europe was at the Congress of Vienna, where they were busy carving up the former French empire into bits based on who owed whom favors when Napoleon sailed from Elba on February 26 and landed in the south of France. By March 20 he was back in Paris, having retaken the country without firing a single shot. King Louis XVIII (brother of Louis XVI who had been guillotined in the Revolution) who had been restored to the throne after Napoleon's ouster, fled to Belgium (at this time still part of the Netherlands).

However, the crowned heads of Europe were not about to let Napoleon stay where he was and risk his reconquering Europe once again. The man who'd been most responsible for Napoleon's recent downfall, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, left Vienna, where he'd been head of the English delegation, and headed to Brussels, Belgium. It had been decided that the armies of Europe would hastily re-gather themselves and march on France on three fronts; English and Dutch and Prussian troops would take the northeast frontier in Belgium. It was thought that Napoleon might begin his defense of France there, and the guess proved correct: on June 15, while at a ball in Brussels given by the English Duchess of Richmond, the Duke of Wellington received word that Napoleon had crossed the border with his army and was marching toward the city.

The indecisive Battle of Quatre Bras, fought on June 16, ended in more or less a draw, and ensured that further battle would follow...which it did, two days later, near the small village of Waterloo south of Brussels. Noteworthy for readers of Nineteenteen is the age of many of the soldiers who fought in this battle: there wasn't time to gather the seasoned troops who'd fought with Wellington in Spain and Portugal (many of them had been deployed to fight in America in what we know as the War of 1812) and so thousands of youths enlisted to fill the void. Though legally 18 was the enlisting age, enlistees as young as fifteen were permitted, with a nod and a wink, to join up. Many of them never returned home; of the Allied (Dutch/Belgian, German, and British) troops, 23,000 of them British, one in four did not survive.

The battle itself was hell. It had poured the previous night and everyone was wet and miserable; indeed, Napoleon did not attack until nearly noon, waiting for the ground to dry so that his artillery pieces could be better manoeuvered. This delay favored the Allies; they were awaiting the arrival of reinforcements in the form of the Prussian army under General Blucher. Wellington's strategy was to simply stand in the way and not let Napoleon progress along the road to Brussels. This he did; General Blucher's arrival with the mass of his army early that evening enabled the combined Allied/Prussian army to go on the offensive, and by half-past eight, the French began to flee. Napoleon abdicated a second time on June 24, and the years of war were finally over.

This is, of course, the briefest outline of the Battle and the circumstances around it. If you're interested in getting deeper into it, I recommend two books: the first is An Infamous Army by (yes, really) Georgette Heyer. Don't laugh; it was used as a text at Sandhurst (Britain's West Point) to teach about the battle, so well-regarded was her account. The second is Dancing into Battle: A Social History of the Battle of Waterloo by Nick Foulkes--non-fiction, but as readable and lively as fiction.

Oh, and today's title? It's a quote from the Duke himself, who is supposed to have said it to describe the day's events.

Nineteenth Century Rejection Letters Or How to Be Humiliated in Print

I’m sure it will not shock you to learn that I was doing research, again, and I came across something that surprised me. So, of course, I had to share it with you!

I was perusing an online copy of the Literary Gazette from 1827. The Gazette was the premier British literary journal for much of the nineteenth century. The sixteen-page weekly featured book reviews, opinion pieces, a social column, original poems, and information on theatrical productions. When there was room, the magazine also covered the latest discoveries in archaeology, architecture, and science. Upwards of four thousand copies were sold of each issue.

If your book was reviewed favorably in the Gazette, you could count on it becoming a bestseller. On the other hand, if the review was less than favorable, you might as well burn your quill, inhale the vapors, and give it up!

What really surprised me about the Gazette, however, was that it published a column of rejection letters each month. That’s right—if you were brave enough to submit an original poem for publication, the editor of the Gazette might respond to you in print, where all four thousand plus readers would know your fate!

Some of the responses were fairly polite or kind:

• “We are sorry not to find room for Marianne.”


• “Lines to a Goldfish in a Cage are referred to the original.”

Others provided a bit of a critique:

• “S.Y. is not polished enough.”


• “Chevalier Brun is not so striking as to induce a preference for what we have in store.”

Still others were more pointed: “To H.A.: depends on circumstances. Not very likely at present.”

And some were downright rude: “Gommazeta’s Epithets must remain among the dead.” Ouch!

Of course, most of those four thousand people wouldn’t necessarily know the title of your poem or your initials, but the London literary society was small enough that some could guess and spread the tale. You could be assured of a red face the next time you dared poke it out into the literary world.

I never thought I’d say this, but I much prefer today’s rejection letters, which come almost anonymously to your home and allow you to weep in peace! So, would you dare brave the literary world if you knew you were going to be rejected in public?