Footnotes on Friday

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Cravats, Kerchiefs, and Neck Ties

One of the great benefits of leaving his last office job, according to my personal romantic hero, was that he could get rid of most of his neckties. Ghastly things, he reckons, with no practical purpose. He kept a couple for formal occasions, and the rest went to the charity shop, to torture some other poor fellow.

I was thinking about that the other day, as a friend and I looked at a period inappropriate book cover. According to the artist, the male model was Victorian, but that’s a period of more than six decades. Men’s neckwear changed in that time, so I went looking to find out how and when.

First, let me take you back to the beginning. Neck scarves of some kind were worn in ancient times. We can see them in the Terracotta Warriors, in Roman soldiers on Trajan’s Column,  and in pictures of medieval knights and Mongol warriors. A likely purpose was as a practical garment to tuck round the edge of armour to stop chafing, or to perhaps to stop sweat from rolling down the neck and setting up an itch, or to keep the neck warm, or even for multiple purposes, not the least of which might be battlefield medicine.

Their evolution from a practical garment to sartorial elegance dates back to the Thirty Years War. This was a conflict fought in Europe in the first half of the seventeenth century, as part of the struggle for dominance between the Austro-Spanish Hapsburgs and the French Bourbons. The French hired mercenaries from Croatia, and they wore a neck scarf to tie the top of their tunics shut. The look caught on among the French and spread from there. Of course, the aristocrats who adopted the fashion wore lace cravats (La Cravatte was the name given to the neckwear by Louis XIII; a nod to the Croatians).

The lace got steadily more extravagant through the early part of the eighteenth century, and matched with lace cuffs made a spectacular show.

Then came the French Revolution, which affected fashion as well as politics. The revolutionaries affected a less ostentatious style of dress, and — in fashion — where the French led, the rest of Europe followed. The cravat we know from Regency movies and books was born. The cravat covered all but the collar of the shirt, and often that, as well — a shirt being regarded as underclothes at the time. A long rectangle of fabric was folded and intricately knotted to the specifications of the wearer (or his valet, but a gentleman with pretensions to elegance would not trust such an important detail to his valet).

At the turn of the century, Beau Brummell dictated that the cravat should be a crisp white as should the stockings, the breeches and coat black, and only the waistcoat in colour. Of course, not everyone agreed, and cravats of all colours can be seen in paintings of the time.

The simplest and most casual way of tying a cravat was to wrap it around the neck several times and tie a bow, and this became highly fashionable as the nineteenth century wore on. By the 1850s, gentlemen were wearing a black cravat or bow tie, simply folded and pinned so that the shirt showed between the bottom of the tie and the top of the waistcoat. A thinner piece of material became the Ascot tie, so called because it was casual wear for events such as race meetings–recognisably a necktie like those still worn today, but much wider, and pinned to the shirt.

The next evolution was the club tie, purportedly created in the 1880s, when the rowing team of Exeter College, Oxford, took the striped bands off their hats and tied them around their necks.

The modern necktie was invented by an American in the 1920s — three pieces of material cut on the bias, thus eliminating wrinkles. My husband’s least favourite item of men’s clothing had arrived.

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The farmhouse that grew

Once upon a time there was a prince who liked to go to the seaside. One of his favourite uncles lived in Brighton, and George found the seaside resort very much to his taste. He rented a rather pleasant farmhouse, Brighton House, from a member of his staff, and later entered into a lease that let him make the changes he wanted.

The architect he chose, Henry Holland, built a rotunda over the grand dining room, and added a new wing. Brighton House became Marine Pavilion.

But it didn’t stop there. Next came extensive stables, with room for 60 horses. The stables were even bigger than the house.

But soon, that wasn’t enough. I guess the prince was having fun. The interiors were originally neoclassical, but the prince was soon having them all converted to the new oriental style, and then he had some even grander ideas. The original architect built on again, adding more rooms, but that still wasn’t enough. By 1815, a new architect, John Nash, was working on the building we have today–little is left of the first two incarnations of the building, apart from the room under one of the new domes, once the dining room, then the grand saloon.

The building was finally finished in 1823, and by then our prince was king, and too busy for more than two more visits to the farmhouse that grew.

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I was looking into this because I had my heroine in my latest book visit the Royal Pavilion, and I suddenly thought to check whether it had been built yet. It hadn’t. It was still the Marine Pavilion.

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The long shadow of war

The battle of Waterloo was touch and go; one of those victories where so many people die, that even the side that wins still loses. The casualty rate (dead, wounded and missing) was around 45% (of a total 185,000), and this was only the culminating battle in a long war with the French that lasted, with only small breaks, from 1789 until that great battle in 1815.

One of the most moving museum exhibitions I’ve ever been to was the Maori Battalion exhibition at the Rotorua Museum. The exhibits included diary notes and letters from military personnel, and video clips of interviews with them. In World War 1, over a third of those who served in the Battalion were killed or injured. In World War II, of 16,000 men who enlisted, 3,600 joined the Maori Battlion. Close to two-thirds were killed, wounded, taken prisoner or reported missing. The impact of the loss of two generations of young leaders (to death or to the after-effects of war) has been argued about for most of my lifetime. I remember one clip where the soldier interviewed talked about how, in the heat of war, he didn’t think about the number of his brothers-in-arms left behind buried in enemy soil. Then he came home, and saw the gaps in his community; saw the memorials in his wharenui (meeting house).

Deaths attributed to that long war involving France, the British and the rest of Europe are somewhere in the region of three plus million (military and civilian). What did that do to Europe, an area that, in 1800, had an estimated population of 150 million? Great Britain wasn’t fought of over, but it lost a staggering number of military personnel. It started the nineteenth century with not quite nine million people, and lost more than 300,000 soldiers and sailors in the next fifteen years. Think of it like this. Out of every 15 men, one died. That number doesn’t include the ones that keep turning up in my books–maimed, scarred, afflicted with nightmares.

My own generation was raised by people who went through the second world war, and theirs by the survivors of the first. On 11 November, when the military were left fighting right up to the time appointed for the armistice–even though peace had been more or less agreed for three days and signed for six hours–we do well to remember that the long shadow of war continues after the war ends.

 

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Rotton boroughs and voting reform

The term ‘rotton borough’ was used in England from the eighteenth century. It meant an electoral district where population changes meant a tiny population that had a disproportionate number of Parliamentary representatives for its size. For example, Old Sarum, a borough on the land of the Pitt family, had three houses, seven voters and three Members of Parliament. William Pitt the Elder was one of those MPs. Another rotton borough was Appleby, which William Pitt the Younger was elected to represent when he was 21. The rotton boroughs were valuable properties, and sold for well over market price, since they included the right to more or less elect any Member of Parliament they chose.

At the same time, huge cities had no voters at all, since they had grown in places that historically had tiny populations.

At the time (and through until the late 19th century), voting in England was confined to men who own a certain amount of property. From the fifteenth century, all owners of land worth more than forty shillings were able to vote. Women weren’t specifically excluded, but for the most part they didn’t own land; it belonged to their fathers and husbands.

Voting was regarded as a public service. Those with the responsibility would make their vote known in public, and might expect to be rewarded (or treated)–or threatened, if the vote wasn’t what the strong men of the borough wanted. The secret ballot didn’t come in until 1872.

Rotton boroughs disappeared earlier, in the Reform Act of 1832. Fifty-six Parliamentary Boroughs lost their Members of Parliament, their remaining voters becoming eligible to participate in County elections. The idea that the House of Representatives should be occupied by… well… representatives had taken a great step forward.

 

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Medicine: a woman’s place

For my current work-in-progress, I’ve been looking at women physicians in history. My heroine is a doctor, informally trained as an apprentice to other doctors and through private tutorials. Most of this learning took place in her parents own kingdom in the Central Asian mountains of Kopet Dag, or in nearby Iran. This was certainly the path to knowledge for most female practitioners of medicine in Western history. Was it feasible for my Ruth?

In short words, yes. Looked at from the point of view of gender politics, the history of medicine in most cultures has been depressingly similar. Women have done most of the work and got the blame for things going wrong, while men have got the education, the pay and the glory. That might seem quite a large claim, but think about it. Women were responsible for the management of a household, which included care of the sick and treatment of minor injuries. Even today, who usually puts band aids on the cuts and kisses the bruises better? On a community level, someone usually had a greater interest in and better knowledge of herbs and their effects than others, and that person would pass on her knowledge. When home care failed, those who couldn’t afford a university educated doctor or even a surgeon-barber would see the local herb-wife.

A particularly successful healer might find herself something of a threat both to those doctors and to the local religious authorities, who, in many cultures, ran the universities and licensed the doctors. So women’s knowledge was downplayed or discredited. The only part of medicine that women were encouraged to practice was midwifery, until men began to take that over, too.  Until recently, the contribution of women has been largely ignored in medicine, as in other fields.

“How amazing is this [that patients are cured at all], considering that they hand over their lives to senile old women! For most people, at the onset of illness, use as their physicians either their wives, mothers or aunts, or some [other] member of their family or one of their neighbours. He [the patient] acquiesces to whatever extravagant measure she might order, consumes whatever she prepares for him, and listens to what she says and obeys her commands more than he obeys the physician.” Sā’id ibn al-Hasan (died 1072)

Nonetheless, the tradition of female physicians and healers goes back to ancient times. There’s a story of a woman in Greece around 2400 years ago who went to Alexandria to train, since the Egyptians had female doctors, and was so successful when she got back to Athens that she was arrested for breaking the law. Her female patients mobbed the court and they had to let her go. (In another version of the story, she trained privately with a sympathetic doctor, and practiced disguised as a man. Other doctors, jealous of her popularity with female patients, accused her of sleeping with them. In court, she stripped off to show she was female.) Be that as it may, we know that Greece had women practicing medicine, as did the Romans.

Most cultures have left traces of elite women who practice medicine–women who are born into a physician family and grow up as apprentices in the trade, or who have access to the wealth and education to defy the norms.

In Britain, we know of at least one woman who attended university as a man and practiced medicine for more than 50 years. She was identified as a man after she died in 1865. Other women were accepted (reluctantly) into the profession because they had qualified in universities overseas. One woman was harassed and abused right through her medical course at Edinburgh university and was awarded a Certificate of Proficiency when she completed the course, rather than the degree given to her male counterparts. She went to Berne, and then to Dublin, and returned with a qualification that allowed her to be registered as a doctor.

In the Ottoman empire, men had several recognised roles in medicine: physician, surgeon, ophthamologist. Women did not have access to formal training or formal recognition, and female medical practitioners were all called midwifes, whatever form of medical care they offered. But nonetheless, women practiced medicine, learning from family or other mentors and private tutors. Indeed, given the strict segregation at the highest level of Ottoman society, female physicians must have been essential on the women’s side of any great house.

My interest, though, is in Iran and its sphere of influence, the Turkmen tribes to the north and east. Did the same apply there? It certainly did in medieval times. I’m still trying to track specific sources for the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, but meanwhile I’m following the usual cultural pattern in my Ruth’s training.

Ashbury pursed his lips and she waited for him to lecture her on her presumption, but he surprised her with a question. “Minnich tells me you are a physician. Where did you train, Lady Ruth? In the same place as you acquired your warlike attendants? Somewhere in the East, I assume?”

She inclined her head in agreement. “I apprenticed with several healers, including a physician who trained at a teaching hospital in Baghdad. I have also studied with Western physicians, though not since my family arrived in England.” She sighed. “I am well qualified to attend your niece, my lord, even though I am a woman.” And you have no one else, she wanted to tell him.

His eyebrows jerked upwards in response. “That’s not — I am not questioning your abilities, my lady.” His short laugh held no amusement. “I cannot afford to, after all. I have no alternative to offer.”

 

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Virtual historic tours

If you can’t go to the wonderful historic sites that we write about, you can still visit. Here are some links to get you started.

Heritage virtual tours: 360 virtual tours of incredible heritage sites, including British Royal Palaces; the Royal Opera House; historic buildings and castles like Wrest Park and Bovey Castle, as well as renowned distilleries such as Remy Martin and The Balvenie; galleries, museums and their exhibits, such as unique historic aircraft.

Virtual tours, panorama, and models from the BBC History division

The Louvre, where you can check out virtual tours of the Egyptian antiquities collection, remains of the Louvre’s moat and the Galerie d’Apollon

The Sistine chapel, with its incredible art.

Some of the most walkable sections of the Great Wall of China

The British Museum, the world’s oldest national public museum.

And more:

  • https://www.countryliving.com/uk/wildlife/countryside/g32000722/virtual-uk-landmark-tours/
  • https://www.standard.co.uk/go/london/attractions/london-virtual-tours-attractions-landmarks-coronavirus-lockdown-a4401481.html
  • https://www.history.com/news/10-best-virtual-museums-tours-history-from-home
  • https://www.travelandleisure.com/culture-design/architecture-design/google-arts-culture-app-europe-castles
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Will you be my Valentine?

The St Valentine we remember on this day was probably a Roman martyred for being a Christian sometime in the 3rd century. (There are at least two other candidates: one a bishop in Terni, and one who lived in Africa.) Legend has it that St Valentine performed secret marriage ceremonies for soldiers during a time they were not permitted to marry, and that he sent a letter to his jailer’s daughter signed ‘From your Valentine’.

February 14th has been associated with St Valentine since at least the 5th century. February 14th was also considered the start of Spring in Europe, and one tradition holds that it is the day the birds choose a mate. This tradition may go back to a Roman Spring Festival, celebrated from February 13th to 15th. Whichever came first, by the Middle Ages, when the French and English became devoted to the concept of courtly love, St Valentines became a day for people to declare their love.

In parts of Sussex Valentines Day was called ‘the Birds’ Wedding Day’ until quite recently. In Hamlet, Shakespeare mentions the tradition that the first man an unmarried woman sees on Valentine’s day will be her husband, when Ophelia sings:

Good morrow! ‘Tis St. Valentine’s Day
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your valentine!

Other traditions and superstitions associated with  Valentine’s day include:

  • if the names of all a girl’s suitors were written on paper and wrapped in clay and the clay put into water, the piece that rose to the surface first would contain the name of her husband-to-be
  • if unmarried women pinned four bay leaves to the corners of their pillow and ate eggs with salt replacing the removed yokes on Valentine’s day eve, they would dream of their future husband
  • if a woman saw a robin flying overhead on Valentine’s Day, it meant she would marry a sailor. If she saw a sparrow, she would marry a poor man and be very happy. If she saw a goldfinch, she would marry a rich person.
  • in Wales wooden love spoons were carved and given as gifts on February 14th. Hearts, keys and keyholes were favourite decorations on the spoons. The decoration meant, “You unlock my heart!”

Valentine cards have been made since at least the 17th century, though the explosion in the number waited till the invention of a steam powered printing press and the penny post in the mid 19th century.

Happy Valentine’s day.

Do enjoy it with five tales of a love to warm your heart in the Bluestocking Belles’ latest collection, Fire & Frost.

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Waltzing the night away

When we Regency writers include a waltz in our stories, I believe our readers see something like this — the Victorian variety, which is fairly close to how we dance it now.

 

In fact, it was a lot closer to this (by the 1820s):

Or even this (when couple dancing really got going after about 1810 — 30 years earlier on the continent):

Before that, the term waltz referred to a long dance to a piece of music with three beats in the bar, or to the music itself.

Then, of course, there is a modern waltz.

https://youtu.be/Rpd9LqD2BHs

 

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Charity events in Georgian England or the poor shall be with us always

Our view of Georgian life is often coloured by fictional accounts of high society, where ladies spent vast amounts on bonnets and gentlemen gambled away entire estates on an evening’s card game. Which is a fair reflection of a small part of society, come to that. But one in ten families lived below the ‘breadline’, and at times as many as two in five. Many people were precariously balanced on a knife edge where illness, accidents or old age could tumble them into starvation.

The Poor Law and parish-based support

The Poor Law was meant to make sure such unfortunates had the help they needed. Wealthy households paid a levy to the parish, and local overseers apportioned financial hand-outs, clothing and fuel, and bread to those who could prove they belonged to the parish and therefore had a right to its support.

Where the parish authorities were genuinely charitable, poor relief might tide a family through a bad patch so they could get back on their feet. But the idea that poverty was a character fault is not a 21st Century invention. Strident voices wanted the poor to suffer for their charity handout.

Workhouse to discourage the poor from seeking help

IN 1722, the first legislation passed allowing parishes to provide poor relief in specially built workhouses. By the end of the century, more than 100,000 people lived under their stringent and often dire regime.

The sexes were segregated, and the able-bodied set to work, with strict rules and routines. Some workhouses were pleasant enough. Others were no better than prisons, and many of the poor preferred to starve rather than be put in the workhouse.

They were overcrowded, and the people in them often overworked and underfed. Epidemics tore through them, and the deathrate for people of every age, and particularly for newborns, was brutal. Nearly 2,400 children were received into London workhouses in 1750. Fewer than 170 of those children were still alive in 1755.

Private charities

The parish levy wasn’t the only funding for the poor, though. Many landowners (and particularly their wives) kept to the age-old tradition of providing food and other items to those who lived on or near their estates, and some continued this one-on-one help in town. They also joined groups to provide help for those who needed it.

Private charities collected money for initiatives such as the Foundling Hospital in London, which cared for children whose mothers could not support them, the Marine Society, which trained poor boys for a life at sea, the Magdalen Hospital for Penitent Prostitues, various hospitals to provide free medical care, and educational initiatives. I particularly like the name of the Female Friendly Society for the Relief of Poor, Infirm, Aged Widows and Single Women of Good Character Who Have Seen Better Days. The days of 140 character tweets were well in the future.

Benefits with friends

To raise money, these charitable groups used the time-honoured idea of offering tickets to an entertainment: balls, musical concerts, art exhibitions. Some charged a weekly subscription to support their work. Some solicited donations through pamphlets and direct approaches to possible donors. (Some people have suggested balls were a Victorian contrivance, but British newspapers contain advertisements for charity balls and assemblies, or reports on them, going back to the middle of the previous century.)

Groups would also get together to raise money for a friend in need; perhaps someone who had been injured or widowed. In the British Newspapers Online archive, I found a number of advertisements for events ‘for the benefit of Mr. Xxx’, which is, of course, where we get our term Benefit, to mean a charity event.

Women and charity

While men ran many of the great philanthropic institutions, charity was “the proper public expression of a gentlewoman’s religious energy”. [Vickery, 254] Many women joined benevolent societies (where members agreed to provide support for any of their number who fell on hard times) and a huge number of women founded or joined charitable groups that supported what they themselves would have called ‘good works’.

References

Porter, Roy: English Society in the 18th Century. Penguin, 1982

Uglow, Jenny: In These Times, Faber & Faber 2014

Vickers, Amanda: The Gentleman’s Daughter, Yale, 1998

White, Matthew: Poverty in Britain. https://www.bl.uk/georgian-britain/articles/poverty-in-georgian-britain

Fire & Frost

Fire & Frost is coming out Tuesday of next week, and since the five tales of find love in the depths of winter revolve around a charity event, I thought it was a good time to look at Georgian charities.

In a winter so cold the Thames freezes over, five couples venture onto the ice in pursuit of love to warm their hearts.

Love unexpected, rekindled, or brand new—even one that’s a whack on the side of the head—heats up the frigid winter. After weeks of fog and cold, all five stories converge on the ice at the 1814 Frost Fair when the ladies’ campaign to help the wounded and unemployed veterans of the Napoleonic wars culminates in a charity auction that shocks the high sticklers of the ton.

In their 2020 collection, join the Bluestocking Belles and their heroes and heroines as The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans pursues justice, charity, and soul-searing romance.

Celebrate Valentine’s Day 2020 with five interconnected Regency romances.

Melting Matilda by Jude Knight – Fire smolders under the frost between them.My One True Love by Rue Allyn – She vanished into the fog. Will he find his one true love or remain lost, cold and alone forever?

Lord Ethan’s Courage by Caroline Warfield – War may freeze a man’s heart; it takes a woman to melt it.

A Second Chance at Love by Sherry Ewing – Can the bittersweet frost of lost love be rekindled into a burning flame?

The Umbrella Chronicles: Chester and Artemis’s Story by Amy Quinton – Beastly duke seeks confident woman who doesn’t faint at the sight of his scars. Prefers not to leave the house to find her.

(This post was originally written when we were promoting Holly and Hopeful Hearts, a collection about an earlier Charity event organised by the Duchess of Haverford and the ladies of London Society. It was published by the wonderful Madame Gilflurt on her Madame Gilflurt’s Guide to Life.)

 

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A picnic by any other name…

Sometimes, you dodge a bullet by sheer happenstance. This week, Ella Quinn, in her wonderful resource on FaceBook, Regency Romance Fans, posted about the meaning of the term ‘picnic’ in Regency England, and I went back and did some more research.

I’d looked into it for the Bluestocking Belles new collection, Fire & Frost. The heroines of our five stories make baskets of food to be auctioned for the charity that is underpinning theme for the collection. The food is to be eaten at a Venetian Breakfast on the ice of the frozen Thames (a last minute change to take advantage of the unusually cold weather).

I knew, of course, that a Venetian Breakfast was an afternoon entertainment at which food was served. The ladies, in morning dress (anything worn before the change into dinner gowns in the early evening), and gentlemen of Society would have been familiar with the term ‘picnic’.

The term started in France as pique-nique, and referred to what we today would call a collaborative meal. Everyone either brought food or drink, or they paid something towards the costs. Pique-niques became very popular in Europe during the 18th century, and when people fled the French Revolution, some of them anglicised the term and started a Pic-Nic Club. The plan was to get together to eat, drink, gamble, and put on theatricals. Around 200 people joined, and the dramatist Sheridan saw it as competition for his own professional theatre. In 1802, the resulting spat spread across the newspapers, with cartoons and the lot.

Blowing-up the Pic-Nic’s or Harlequin Quixote Attacking the Puppets, vide Tottenham Street Pantomime, James Gillray, April 2

The kerfuffle popularised the term, probably because it sounded kind of catchy. I’m guessing people began to apply it to the outdoor entertainments that were already happening, where people all brought their own food and sat and ate together. Jane Austen used it in the outdoor sense in Emma, and Dorothy Wordsworth used it in letters to a friend, both close to the period of Fire & Frost (Wordsworth in 1808 and Austen in 1816). So I think we could stretch a point to say that our Regency heroes and heroines of the winter of 1813 to 1814 might be a little ahead of their times in planning an outdoor event and calling it a picnic.

However, we were saved by the collaborative original meaning of the word. Our ladies are preparing baskets to share with the successful bidder at the auction. Hurrah! Picnic baskets.

In time, the outdoor sense outlived the joint meal sense. Meanwhile, I’ve sent a couple of line edits to make sure the picnic pedants (myself among them) don’t trip over an anachronistic name for a social practice. Phew!

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Reference: https://www.historytoday.com/archive/historians-cookbook/history-picnic