Pickpockets

This “cake” (a naive young fellow) is so busy being charmed by his lady friends, that he hasn’t noticed they’re picking his pocket! A Cake in Danger by Rowlandson, 1806. Via the Royal Collection.

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A Seaside Postcard

On a hot summer day, the #gloriousGeorgians let it all hang out... Intrepid bathers and dirty old men have been the stuff of seaside scenes for centuries! Summer amusement at Margate, or a peep at the mermaids, 1813, Thomas Rowlandson. Via the British Museum.

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The Art of Deception: Georgian Cosmetics

It's a pleasure to welcome Monica Hall to the blog today with a post on the dangers of Georigan cosmetics... What did it take to achieve that 18th century look?

---oOo---

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!                  

She Walks in Beauty, Byron (1788-1824)

Mmm.  Well, not everyone agreed with this, and the fear of entrapment by make-up was so widespread that Parliament was obliged to pass an Act in 1770 which stated that

….  all women, of whatever age, rank, profession or degree, whether virgins, maids or widows, that shall, from and after such Act, impose upon, seduce or betray into matrimony, any of His Majesty’s subjects, by the scents, paints, cosmetic washes, artificial teeth, false hair, Spanish wool, iron stays, hoops, high-heeled shoes, bolstered hips, shall incur the penalty of the law in force against witchcraft and like misdemeanours and that the marriage upon conviction shall stand null and void.

To be fair to Lord Byron, he was writing after the most extraordinary excesses of Georgian self-adornment had been replaced by somewhat less wild cosmetic fashions and, indeed, his appreciation of his lovely lady may have owed a good deal to both the Act and the French Revolution, which understandably reduced the popularity of wearing ostentatious wigs among the aristocracy.   Thomas Rowlandson’s 1792 Six Stages of Mending a Face splendidly illustrated just how bad things could be, and was rather ambiguously dedicated to the Rt. Hon. Lady Archer.  Her response, if any, is not recorded.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

 None of this was new, of course.  Since Tudor times, at least, women had been resorting to artifice to repair the ravages of diet, disease, and time.  The growing fondness for ‘white gold’ (sugar) played havoc with the teeth of those who could afford it, smallpox left scarring, and venereal disease was often signalled to the observant by significant hair loss.  Pepys wrote, somewhat unfeelingly, about the shame he felt about his syphilitic brother’s pate, although one cannot help but feel sympathy for those who were suffering from premature baldness for innocent genetic reasons.  However, the wig provided a solution for that, and the bigger the better. 

The Georgian preference was for ghostly whiteness, both in wigs and on the faces of the fashionable of both sexes, and the liberal powdering of both was de rigeur amongst the well to-do.  Some ingredients were innocent enough, such as flour or chalk, but others certainly were not.  Still in use in Georgian times, although its detrimental effects must have been known, was lead in face powder.  The unappetising facial recipe also included vinegar, horse manure, and (presumably strong) perfume.  As a contrast to the desired pallor, both sexes used carmine rouge on their cheeks, and not subtly; to our mind; they would have looked like Dutch dolls.  Wigs needed something to stick the whitening flour in place, and that something was lard and, when wigs went out of fashion, they used the same recipe on their own hair.  At least, one supposes, it might have suffocated the ubiquitous headlice.  It was not until the time of Jane Austen that the more natural look became truly fashionable and men could be reasonably sure that, come the wedding night, they weren’t in for a dreadful shock.  One’s sympathy is limited, of course, as in Georgian times, men were quite as capable of employing artifice as were women.  But it was a man’s world, so the women could legally be accused of witchcraft while the men carried on powdering their wigs and putting on makeup, and deceiving ladies, as usual.  The notion of witchcraft, however, was rapidly losing its force in the Enlightenment, and there seem to be no successful prosecutions of witchcraft-by-cosmetics extant.  Not before time. 

So who, in such times, made these cosmetics? 

The notion of non-industrial cosmetic production actually survives until the 1870s and beyond.  Industrial production certainly became possible, thanks to Max Factor (b. 1872) and others in the early 20thC, thanks largely to the nascent movie industry.  But people a hundred years earlier still relied upon themselves, or their local apothecary, who had a recipe book for drugs, cosmetics, pest extermination, inks, domestic cleaning compounds, perfumes etc., the Formulary.  Popular widespread adoption, however, always lags behind invention  -  the first cylinder stick lipstick was actually made in the USA in 1915, but brush or finger-applied lipsticks date from possibly 5,000 years ago and from the Middle Ages onwards included such exotic (or off-putting) ingredients as pig fats, gold leaf, animal marrow, the ubiquitous carmines, and fish scales for that alluring glittery look. 

Meanwhile, in the 18thC, women were still knocking up cosmetics themselves.  However, the chemists themselves were beginning to understand that many ingredients were lethal or, at the least, very detrimental.  And in the 19thC, scientists began to proscribe some cosmetic procedures.  They weren’t very happy about lead.  Lead attacks the bodies and brains of the young particularly, but it took into the 20thC for its use to be regulated although, in 2007, the US authorities discovered that 70% of lipsticks contained lead, some in illegal amounts.  Such is the power of cosmetics.

But you can still make your own  … and not die as a result, although they hardly sound subtle.  My father’s 1930s Formulary has pages of cosmetic recipes, many of which date from Victorian times, and would have been recognisable 100 years earlier.  The ‘mascaras’ sound frankly eye-watering, being made of soap and lamp-black.

VICTORIAN FACE BLEACH OR BEAUTIFIER

Syrupy lactic acid 40 oz., Glycerin 80 oz., Tincture of benzoin 3 oz., Carmine No. 40 40 gr., Glycerine 1 oz., Ammonia solution 0.5 oz., Water 3 oz., perfume.

WIG PASTE

For fastening the wig to the head.
Isinglass 1 part, Rose water 8 parts, Tincture of benzoin 2 parts, Oil of Turpentine 2 parts, Alcohol 4 parts.

And for the really adventurous, I have a 1930s recipe for a drain rocket  …. sounds much more fun than Dyno-Rod!  No, no, don’t try this at home.  Don’t. 

Potassium nitrate … 4oz. Powdered resin 2 oz.  Manganese dioxide 2 oz.  Powdered asphaltum 1 oz.   Mix and use to pack into cartridge cylinders, with a suitable fuse.  What do they mean?  Suitable fuse?  This apparently didn’t really work well in blocked drains, but it could certainly blow the wig off your head.



About the Author

Retired after a working life in business and management, Monica thankfully pursues her interest in both philosophy and the history of our Industrial Revolution.

 Written content of this post copyright © Monica Hall, 2015.

The Opening of London's First Circus

There is little I like more than passing a few hours of entertainment and as a lady with a love for equestrianism, it is a pleasure to share the tale of the estimable Philip Astley and his hugely popular circus, which opened on 4th April 1768. Astley had spent many years in the 15th Light Dragoons and during the military career that eventually saw him attain the rank of Sergeant Major, he honed and perfected his riding skills, discovering a natural affinity with horses.

Astley was a soldier, horseman and born businessman to boot. Once he retired from the army he established himself as a riding instructor and entertainer, performing shows of trick riding in a small outdoor enclosure he established in Lambeth. The former cavalry officer soon had audiences flocking to watch the astounding equestrian displays and it wasn't long before he employed clowns to entertain the audiences in between equestrian displays. He has the honour of being the first man to bring together a variety of acts in an arena, thus creating the modern circus. With Astley's becoming something of a hot ticket, the circus extended its opening hours into the evenings and crowds thrilled to fireworks, pantomime, music and all manner of entertainments.

Exterior view (1777) of the Amphitheatre of Astley's circus by Charles John Smith after William Capon

By 1770 demand for tickets to Astley's shows far outstripped capacity and he moved the circus to Westminster Bridge, adding a broad range of other acts such as acrobats, musicians and even performing dogs. With circus shows taking place in the afternoon and evening, in the morning Astley continued to run his successful riding school. As the circus grew so too did Astley begin to reap the financial rewards and as new circuses began to spring up, he invested greatly in his business. The open air amphitheatre eventually gained proper audience seating and a roof, with Astley grandly christening it the Royal Amphitheatre. 

Astley's Ampitheatre in London by Thomas Rowlandson and Augustus Pugin for Ackermann's Microcosm of London (1808-11)

The showman enjoyed enormous success in England and opened further venues throughout the country before shifting his attention to France. Louis XV adored him and invited the circus to perform at Versailles for the court where Marie Antoinette herself was charmed by the entertainments. Perhaps most important of all, he understood the importance of giving the audience what they wanted; by observing spectators at his own establishment, at street entertainments and in the theatre he was able to identify what it was that the public enjoyed and his shows constantly evolved to reflect this. Performers travelled from across the world to join the show

Surviving against rivals, fires and social change, it was time that eventually defeated Astley's; the amphitheatre that had once been the toast of the town was demolished in 1893 and no trace of it remains today.

Doggett's Coat and Badge

Thomas Doggett (Dublin, Ireland, ca. 1640 – London, England, 20th September 1721) 

We Georgians know the Thames too well,  its sights, its sounds and, of course, its often eye-watering smells. That river can be a devil to cross and for that, we all call huzzah for the watermen who carry us safely across the waters in their familiar ferries. In today's tale, the worlds of theatre and river meet in the story of Doggett's Coat and Badge.

To start the story, we shall take a diversion by way of Dublin in pursuit of a theatrical gentleman, who made a lasting contribution to the sporting life of London. Not a great tragedian nor a noteworthy Shakespearean, it's time to pour the claret and welcome Thomas Doggett to Gin Lane! 

A successful comedy actor in Ireland, Doggett was approaching middle age when he arrived in the capital to make his stage debut. He enjoyed great success as a comedic performer and became known as one third of the actor-manager triumvirate at the Drury Lane Theatre with Robert Wilks and Colley Cibber, a famed partnership eventually ended by one too many differences of opinion. He also managed the Haymarket though it isn't for his theatrical career that Thomas has caught my eye, it is for Doggett's Coat and Badge.

Married to a lady from Eltham, whilst working in the city Doggett would commute to his rooms in Chelsea from his Kent home. As was common, he spent much time travelling on the river, where he developed friendships with many of the city's 2500 watermen. The waterman were responsible for ferrying passengers across the Thames safely; each served a seven year apprenticeship and many of the watermen had followed generations of their family into the trade.

Always fond of a little entertainment, when George I came to the throne in 1714, the patriotic Doggett decided that something should be done to mark the occasion, especially since the new monarch was one of his greatest fans. After casting around for inspiration he hit on the idea of a boat race on the Thames, to be rowed annually on 1st August. The competitors were to be six watermen who had served as apprentices for a minimum of six months and the prize for the victor would be traditional watermen's coat adorned with a silver badge bearing the white horse motif of the Hanovers. It was a handsome prize and with Doggett's talent for showmanship and publicity, a sought-after one too! 

Doggett's Coat and Badge by Thomas Rowlandson

The early races were enormously popular and the six contestants were chosen by ballot from hundreds of entrants. Rowing their ferries against the tide, the race was a true test of strength and stamina. The watermen were a vital part of the fabric of London life and the annual event was an opportunity for them to shine and be celebrated by the people who used their services every day. 

Huge crowds gathered to watch the contest and to this day the race is still held every summer, the world's oldest annual sporting event. Doggett's name lives on as the benefactor of this unique race, best enjoyed with good friends and a tasty picnic; it makes for a fine way to spend a day!