Fashion Forecast 1828, Part 1

What was the fashionable miss wearing in the first half of 1828?

This Ball Dress from January Ackermann’s Repository amuses me a little as the three large borders of the skirt feature ornaments that look like the “yo-yo” puffs that were once popular for quilts and other crafts. Though the illustration doesn’t quite do it justice, there’s a backing of black satin behind them according to the accompanying text, which must have made this dress quite striking. Also notable is the “zephyr” cape, a sort of flounce around the neckline, and the cone-shaped hairstyle: 

This is a very cozy-looking Promenade Dress, slightly military in appearance with the black trim and brass buttons at hem and cuffs, though the blue and red hat and pale green gloves don’t really seem to match. Note the leg-o-mutton sleeves (called in this period “gigot” sleeves) that we started seeing last year...and still those enormous muffs that we’ve seen for nearly twenty years now—some fashions never die! (February, Ackermann’s Repository):

Also from February’s Ackermann’s in this understated Evening Dress, with a white overskirt trimmed with two deep ruffles and red trim to match the deeply pointed bodice, gauze oversleeves covering the long sleeves as well as curious little shelf-like epaulettes at the shoulders. Her gloves appear to have red floral embroidery on the backs of the hands, and her headdress reminds me of a chef's toque, a tiara with a fabric pouf inside:

Another white dress, but this Dinner Dress is somewhat less restrained! The large bouffant ruffle at the hem is topped by a row of large bow encircling the skirt; there’s a belt of what looks like heavy embroidery, and sleeves and a zephyr cape similar to the first image. And that hat!—perhaps an overgrown turban in pink, trimmed with darker magenta ribbons. Striking, perhaps, but nothing I’d wish to wear for an entire evening! (March, Ackermann’s Repository):

I’m pleased that I have the complete description for this Ball Dress, as it refers back to an incident we already know: “White tulle dress over a Feodore blue satin slip; the waist is long, and pointed at the back and front, and bound with gold lace: the stomacher extends to the top of the shoulder, where it terminates in an obtuse angle, projecting over the sleeves, and united to an angular cape, that decorates the back: a branch of white Persian roses spreads over the front, and gives the stomacher an elegant appearance: it is terminated with a rosaceous ornament of rubies set in gold. The sleeves are short and full, and kept out by the stiffened sleeves of the slip. The skirt is made equally full all round, bound with white satin, open in front, but united at regular distances by five rosaceous ruby clasps set in gold: branches of white Persian roses form its rich and delicate border: it is a quarter of a yard shorter than the slip, which is terminated by a blue satin rouleau. The hair is parted in front, dressed in large bows,and adorned with papilionaceous bows of blue and gold tissue ribbon. White kid gloves: medallion bracelets outside. Ear-rings a la Flamande; gold necklace, with a diamond-shape locket in front; gauze scarf; white satin shoes." Note the reference to “Feodore blue”—Feodore being the older half-sister of Princess Victoria, who was of social prominence in 1827 and 1828. And the tongue-twister “papilionaceous” simply means “butterfly-shaped”! (March, Ackermann’s Repository):

Here’s a delightfully spring-like Carriage Costume from April Ackermann’s, in lilac with a profusion of trim—double flounces at the hem, sleeves en gigot with what looks like slashes and puffs of fabric drawn through (very Tudor!) and a deep double van dyke lace collar with a small, upstanding capelet collar. A lace headdress tied under the chin and an unusual wheel-shaped reticule decorated with gold tassels finish this outfit:

Well...this next Evening Dress leaves me at a little loss for words, though upholstery is what springs first to mind! Noteworthy, however, is the print fabric—not something we’ve seen very often in these fashion plates. Rosettes decorate the deep gathered hem and the gauze oversleeves, and the layered capelet over the shoulders echoes the ones in January and March’s dresses. Very--um...striking! (April, Ackermann’s Repository):

And to close with, we have a Morning Dress from June’s Ackermann’s with rather unusual sleeves: look closely, and you’ll see that there are sort of false sleeves lined in pink hanging from the shoulders behind the real (en gigot) ones, similar to the false sleeves that were all the rage in the medieval period! Asymmetrical ornamentation up the skirt, a deep pointed bodice, and broad lace collar make up the rest of this dress. The large hat almost deserves its own paragraph, with its broad brim and fancy ribbon trim:

What do you think of the fashions of the first half of 1828?

While I'm Sailing, Say Hello Again to Ada

Beep--you have reached the answering machine of historical author Regina Scott. Regina isn’t available right now. She’s sailing today on the Lady Washington from Umatilla, Oregon, to Pasco, Washington. Expect pictures and details next week. While she’s reliving history, she thought you might enjoy reliving this post from a few years ago about another lady who made history, in the sciences. Ahoy, matey!
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We talked about Lord Byron, the famous poet, during our “Bad Boys” series a while back.  He sired one legitimate daughter, Augusta Ada Byron, who could have ended up just as tormented as her father, but instead turned out to be a true nineteenth century heroine.

 

Ada grew up knowing OF her father (he was one of the most noted figures of the time, after all), but not knowing him.  Her mother had separated from Bryon in January 1816, scarce a month after Ada was born.  He left England not long after and died in Europe when Ada was nine.  Her mother was determined that no taint of what she considered her husband’s madness should touch Ada, so she insisted that Ada be schooled in something foreign to poetry and fine literature:  mathematics and science. 

 

Ada had the best private tutors.  Her mother had been the favorite student of William Frend, the social reformer educated at Cambridge, who taught her astronomy, algebra, Latin, and geometry.  She made sure Ada had a similar education.  Unfortunately, Ada was ill much of her childhood.  By the time she was eight, she had developed terrible headaches.  At 14, she caught the measles and had to stay in bed for nearly a year.  Afterward, she had to walk crutches for awhile. 

 

When Ada was 17 (see the black-and-white drawing), she met Mary Somerville, a Scottish mathematician who had had to struggle for the right to obtain her own education.  They became great friends, and Mary encouraged Ada’s interest in mathematics.  Through Mary, Ada was introduced to Charles Babbage at a dinner party.  He had wild ideas of an Analytical Engine, a machine that would calculate the future.  Though others at the party found the idea too far-fetched, nineteen-year-old Ada was entranced. 

 

So was Babbage.  In Ada, he found an lifelong friend and pen pal.  He was so impressed with her abilities in mathematics that he called her “The Enchantress of Numbers.” 

But Society demanded a different life for Ada.  At 20, she married a baron who became the first Earl of Lovelace and promptly set about filling the nursery, with three children in four years.  Babbage, however, was also busy.  He’d developed a plan for his Analytical Engine and presented it at a scientific gathering in Italy.  Another scientist published a commentary on the idea in French.  Babbage turned to Ada to translate it into English.

She translated it, all right, but she more than tripled the article by adding her own “notes,” suggestions for how the engine might work on something practical.  She even developed an algorithm the engine might run.  She felt the engine could be used for such things as composing music, drawing pictures, and conducting scientific investigations. 

 

Ada died young, at 36 from uterine cancer.  Today, Babbage’s Analytical Engine is recognized as the first computer, and Ada is given the title of the first computer programmer.  March 24 is Augusta Ada Lovelace day, an international day of blogging in memory of the woman who helped pioneer the sciences and technology that drew the world through the industrial revolution and into the future.

 

Look for more posts on famous young (and handsome!) scientists of the early nineteenth century in the coming weeks.

Prinny Gets Gas

In the first of my posts on lighting a couple of weeks ago, we saw how the world depended on candles and oil lamps...and as a result, was a dim, rather dirty place; after all, burning oil creates smoke, which stains ceilings and walls and curtains.

Starting around 1807, though, London became a slightly brighter, if still smoky, place, thanks to a new technology and its fashionable champion, the Prince of Wales (soon to be Prince Regent): gas lamps.

Early in the 18th century, amateur scientists observed that gases found in coal mines were extremely flammable and conducted laboratory experiments with them, but it wasn’t until late in the century that a Scottish engineer named William Murdoch paid serious attention to how flammable gases might be used commercially for lighting. In 1792 he fitted his own house with gas lights, and in 1798 outfitted the factory of his employer, the Soho Foundry steam engine works in Birmingham, with gas lighting. Notice was definitely taken and commercial attempts to utilize this new technology followed, along with engineering improvements, and at last in 1807 a German entrepreneur named Friedrich Winzer, who patented a coal-gas lighting system in 1804, arranged for a section of Pall Mall, one of the most fashionable streets of London, to have its oil lamps replaced with gas lights.

The public was delighted with the new brighter lighting, which made being out at night a much safer prospect. So was the Prince Regent, who immediately commissioned Winzer to illuminate the façade of his London home, Carlton House, in 1808...and in 1810 Rudolph Ackermann's print shop, (ah, my dear Ackermann!) was lit by gas. One of William Murdoch’s colleagues at the Soho Foundry, Samuel Clegg, had also been inspired by Murdoch’s work and started the Gas Light & Coke Company, which in 1812 received a charter from Parliament (at Prinny’s urging) to provide gas lighting for the rest of London.

Soon, the new gas lights were everywhere: by 1813, Westminster Bridge had been fitted with gaslights. By 1815 there were 28 miles of gas piping under the streets of London, and Prinny had had gaslights installed in Brighton to illuminate the exterior of his beloved Pavilion (and had the interior gas-lit six years later). By 1817, the first theatres were lit by gas. Elegant lamp posts were created from the melted-down cannons used in the Napoleonic Wars to adorn the streets of the fashionable west end, some of which can still be seen in Regent’s Park and St. James’s. The lights of London became something of a tourist attraction; no other city in Europe would have anything close for years. Crime rates dropped as criminals no longer had the shield of darkness to conceal them.

Not everyone, however, was thrilled with this new form of light. The whale oil trade was aghast at what it saw as its imminent demise and lobbied hard against it, putting out that the British Navy would be ruined if the whale fishery industry, from which the Navy recruited sailors, were curtailed.

No one listened; as of 1834, London had six hundred miles of gas lines for street lights alone, and gas lighting was fast spreading all over Britain. Gas was far cheaper than candles or oil lamps—as much as 75% cheaper—and soon factories were able to extend their working hours because of the cheap illumination provided by gas. The romantic—but dim—era of flickering candlelight was over.

Wedgwood Blues

Most often, I dine on simple, white, rather indestructible plates we bought when our sons were small. I do have a fancier set of china, blue and white, for special occasions.  But what I dream of owning is what many of the aristocracy dined on, buttoned themselves up with, and decorated their homes with in nineteenth century England--Wedgwood.

In the nineteenth century, Wedgwood was synonymous with stoneware and china made by potter Josiah Wedgwood and his sons and partners. He was a man of rare vision and talent, developing new types of pottery called black basalt and jasperware. He had a way of putting white relief on a colored background.  His work so impressed Queen Charlotte that she gave him permission to call a creamy colored version queen’s ware. And his innovations in the pottery process so impressed the Royal Society that they elected him a member to sit among the scientists.

 

I had always thought Wedgwood jasperware was blue (in fact, the exact color is often called Wedgwood blue), but I recently learned it came in a variety of colors as well, including jade, lavender, yellow, black, terra cotta, and white.  At the time, ancient art from Rome, Greece, and Egypt was all the rage, so it wasn’t surprising that Wedgwood decided to copy the designs.  He was even willing to put silhouettes of his clients into the pieces.  He hired artists like George Stubbs and John Flaxman to create designs for him. Wedgwood’s work was so popular, it was used for jewelry, furniture, wall moldings, and even buttons. 

I was further intrigued to find that two of his artists were ladies, at a time when it was relatively rare for a woman to be recognized and paid for her art. Elizabeth Upton, Lady Templetown, was the wife of an Irish peer and quoted for her taste.  You can see some of her work at the Victoriaand Albert Museum in London.   Emma Crewe was called an “amateur,” yet she provided art for Wedgwood and illustrated books.  Her work was also called charming, except she was criticized in one case for making the lady appear too voluptuous!  Some of her pieces are on exhibit at the Harvard Art Museum.   

Whoever did the art, Wedgwood’s pottery and china were widely acclaimed.  Today, Wedgwood pieces are found in nearly every museum of note and grace tables from the White House to the Kremlin.  Not, ahem, mine.

 

Yet. 

Young Bluestockings Read Pride and Prejudice!

Welcome to the Young Bluestockings read (or re-read) of what is probably the world’s most popular English classic novel, Pride and Prejudice! We just couldn’t let its 200th publication anniversary pass without taking a post or two to talk over Jane Austen’s masterpiece (and her own favorite of her works!)

I think I was probably in college when I read P & P for the first time...I’d tried to read it at age 14, and it was not a success, which is why I always cringe when I hear of its being assigned to high school kids to read. I think it is one of those books best appreciated by slightly older readers, ones more schooled in the history and culture of early 19th century England who have also developed an appreciation for ironical humor...and of course, who can appreciate a good love story. When did you first read it, dear fellow Bluestockings?

I’m not going to go over the plot here...but I would like to share some observations I made on this reading for purposes of discussion...and would love to hear what those of you who read along ran across. One of the joys of Pride and Prejudice for me is that different things seem to come to light every time I re-read it...and so, let’s get started.

1. Let’s hear it for Charlotte Lucas

I’ve always liked Charlotte as a character, and have always applauded her decision to marry Mr. Collins, odious as he is. As she herself says, “I am not romantic you know. I never was.” But what she is is twenty-seven years old and nearly an old maid...which could mean a later life of poverty and being forced to rely on family members for a home and support. As we see later on when Elizabeth visits the Collinses at Hunsford, Charlotte manages her life with her husband quite nicely, and even seems to have him tamed slightly, as when she arranges to introduce Elizabeth and her father and sister to Lady Catherine, rather than allowing him to (with his usual groveling long-windedness). Charlotte has decided that being married to Mr. Collins is fair exchange for a comfortable future.

But what I noticed on this reading was how Jane Austen sets all this up long before Mr. Collins arrives on the scene: in Chapter Six of the first volume, she makes clear her opinions on marriage: “Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” Lizzy laughs and scoffs at Charlotte, of course...just as later she’s appalled that Charlotte accepts Mr. Collins’s offer. But she can’t say she wasn’t warned!

2. Darcy smiles.

Maybe it’s from having watched Colin Firth so many times, who barely reveals that he possesses a fine set of teeth until almost the last frame of the Pride and Prejudice mini-series...but I was struck by how many times Jane Austen has Mr. Darcy smiling—stating outright “Mr. Darcy smiled” multiple times over the course of the book. I totally did not remember this from previous readings, and it humanized him for me and made him a much more love-worthy hero.

3. Oh, Lady Catherine.

Of course, we all remember how dreadful she is. But one sentence during her apocalyptic visit to Longbourn made me laugh out loud at her sheer awfulness. After she commands Lizzy to come for a walk with her, they prepare to go outside. And, “As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent-looking rooms, walked on.”

Can’t you just completely see that happening—the nosy old lady poking into rooms without so much as a by-your-leave? It’s almost cinematic!

So there are a few things I noticed...now it’s your turn, dear Nineteenteen readers. Any special Pride and Prejudice moments you’d like to discuss? Favorite scenes, characters, or lines? Was this your first read, or your fifteenth?

Discuss!

Pretty, Pretty Pictures

I will admit to being a words person. It’s a good trait for a writer.  But sometimes, pictures truly are worth 1,000 words, or more!  The last few weeks, I’ve been treated to a number of very fine pictures, and I thought I’d share them with you.

First off, 2013 marks 15 years in publishing for me.  My first book, The Unflappable Miss Fairchild, was published in March 1998.  And my August book, The Courting Campaign, marks my 25th work of published fiction.  So, I decided to celebrate by commissioning a new banner for my website.  This is courtesy of Glass Slipper WebDesigns:

 

Earlier this year, I also worked with Iconic Shadows to develop the cover for A Dangerous Dalliance, the book that originally introduced the four girls from my young adult book, La Petite Four.  Here’s what the designer came up with for the first book in the Lady Emily Capers.  I’m hoping I can put up more stories about the girls later this year and early next, depending on publishing schedules.

But I’ve been promising myself a cover by a famous artist for some time, so I splurged on a revision to the cover for Perfection, one of my single title historical romances available in e-book.  This is from the Killion Group:

 

Now, I can't just leave you with my pretty pictures.  If you'd like to see a selection of interesting pictures from the early nineteenth century in England, try this group from Wikipedia. 

May you have a picture perfect Memorial Day weekend, wherever you are!

Let There be Light

It’s early evening as I write this, and getting a little dim in my office...so just now I leaned forward and with a small movement of my hand turned on the lamp on my desk. Lovely, clear light now floods this part of the room, strong enough to read by several feet away. Electricity—it’s a beautiful thing. Had this been 1813 rather than 2013, I would have had to do a great deal more to achieve this amount of light.

In the early 19th century, light came from fire. Period. That fire might flicker and bounce at the end of a candle—perhaps a tallow candle made from sheep or beef fat, which tended to smoke and sputter, could lend an odor of eau de barnyard to a room, and not give forth very much light. Tallow candles required snuffing—that is, their wicks had to periodically be trimmed as the candles burned in order for the candle to burn properly—with snuffers, which looked like an odd pair of scissors (see image above).

Or it might shine from a more expensive beeswax candle and provide a much steadier, longer-lasting light that didn’t require snuffing and smelled much more pleasant than a sheepy tallow candle.

Candles might sit in holders on a table or desk, singly or in many-branched candelabras. Or they might be in sconces attached to the wall, perhaps with a plate of polished metal or a mirror to reflect and increase the light they gave. Or they might perch in a chandelier (from the French word for candle) and give light from above...but alas, also drip on people and objects below them.

However, candles were expensive and heavily taxed—one pence a pound for tallow candles, 3 ½ pence a pound for beeswax. So for the very poorest, their light might come from rushlights—basically a rush (a marsh plant) dipped in drippings or some other greasy substance—that could be made for free, but didn’t provide much illumination.

Or the fire that was giving you light might come from an oil lamp, in its most basic form consisting of a chamber to hold some type of oil and a wick that served to draw up the oil and burn...but by the 19th century had grown fairly sophisticated, with special holders to lengthen and shorten the wick and so provide more or less light. Plant oils like olive oil and palm oil might be used, but whale oil was probably the most popular oil for lighting—not only in houses, but in businesses, theaters, and on the streets, where lamplighters made their rounds every evening and morning to light and then extinguish streetlamps.

But all this would change in 1807...and even more dramatically in 1812. Stop by in two weeks to learn how!

In the meanwhile, don’t forget that our Young Bluestockings Book Club read of Pride and Prejudice is coming up next week—get your copy out, and have fun spending time with the Bennett sisters and Colin Firth Mr. Darcy!