‘Capital Deceptions’: Science and Magic in the 18th Century

When we think of types of entertainment in the 18^th century, the most immediate things that probably leap to mind are those such as the society ball, with all its rituals, costumes and elaborate dancing, the exhausting round of visiting and tea drinking, or perhaps perusing the latest Paris fashions and trinkets in the elegant shopping streets of places like London and Bath.  But there was another popular – and perhaps slightly surprising – pastime which many ladies and gentlemen found diverting. Increasingly popular in this period was attending public demonstrations of science. 

The eighteenth century saw a rising interest in science and technology. Part of this was the new enlightenment focus on experiment and observation. But it wasn’t just ‘natural philosophers’ who were involved…increasingly, an interested lay public (at least those of middling and elite status) were also taking part. Public lectures were one part of this. Here, the enthralled audience was treated to a full philosophical discourse about new theories, ideas and practices. 

The growing interest in understanding and measuring the natural world kick-started a new vogue for collecting scientific instruments. If you could afford the high prices charged by expert makers, what better to show off your status as a dilettante scientist than to fill your study with microscopes, telescopes and orreries. In fact, instrument makers were busy producing beautifully-crafted and elegant machines, especially for collectors.  

The ‘Palermo Circle’, an instrument for astronomy designed by Jesse Ramsden (1735-1800: Image from Wikipedia)

But to show was even better than to tell, and there was another way in which people could participate in this new and exciting culture of ‘natural philosophy’ – what we today call ‘science’- which was to attend one of the many public events during which some of the latest technological marvels were showcased.  

A Philosopher Lecturing on the Orrery, Joseph Wright of Derby, 1766 – Image from Wikipedia

A good example of some of the more formal events is that of ‘Mr Warltire’s Philosophical Discourses and Experiments’, held in Northampton in 1799. John Warltire was a renowned ‘lecturer in natural philosophy’ and correspondent of Joseph Priestley, and the author of a book of ‘Concise Essays Upon Various Philosophical and Chemical Subjects’. Here, attendees were able to see demonstrations of ‘optical instruments and vision’, changes of colour ‘by chymical mixture’ and different kinds of air’, the ‘first principles of chymistry’ and the ‘properties of metals, earths and salts’. Mr Warltire also assured those wishing to pay the not-insubstantial sum of 10s for the whole course of lectures that ‘the apparatus is very complete and the experiments numerous’. 

But as well as the more highbrow lectures, also came events which were dedicated to entertainment, as much as education. Here audiences could see anything from card tricks to seemingly-magical events. Visitors to ‘Bunn’s Rural Pavilion’ in Norwich in 1787, for example, could see a demonstration of ‘Mechanical and Philosophical Experiments’ by ‘Mr Martinelli’. In Dublin in 1784 the ‘Celebrated Mr Dinwiddie’, an astronomer, scientist and technologist, offered a lecture on the ‘new discovered airs’ (gases) and how they could be put to practical use in hot air balloons. At the end of the lecture, it was promised, he would fill balloons with air and fire ‘in the space of a few minutes’. 

Also on the subject of balloons, excited viewers were invited to see the departure of ‘Mrs Sadler and a Gentleman’ in a large balloon from Mrs Dodswell’s gardens in Surrey, where they would ascend to a great height, armed with instruments for ‘philosophical experiments’. According to a report in the Northampton Mercury they ‘rose in a very majestic manner’ and continued in sight for over an hour and a half…although what sort of landing they had, and where, isn’t recorded!

Image copyright Lewis Walpole Library

One particular advertisement for an exhibition in London, though, gives us a glimpse into the sorts of wonders that curious Georgians could see for themselves. In 1789, an advertisement appeared in newspapers across Britain for ‘Breslaw’s New-Invented Capital DECEPTIONS’. Breslaw was a German-born magician, demonstrator and ‘equilibrist’ (acrobat or rope walker) who moved around England and Ireland, giving public demonstrations. For six evenings a week, spread between the ‘Great rooms in Panton St, Haymarket’ (‘fitted up in the most elegant manner’), and the King’s Head Tavern in the Poultry, and for the modest terms of half a crown, Breslaw hosted an evening showcasing all manner of wondrous ‘mechanical apparatus’ and ‘philosophical experiments’. 

The first part of the evening was a magic show by Mr Breslaw himself. According to the advertisement, he would ‘exhibit various deceptions with cards, in a manner entirely new’. This included cunning sleight of hand tricks, changing cards from black to red and back again, seemingly by magic. After this he moved on to a demonstration of psychic abilities, promising to ‘communicate the thoughts from one person to another without asking any questions &c’, followed by some ‘new experiments with caskets, dice, letters &c’, and finishing with a display of ‘several new invented mechanical watches’, in a ‘most extraordinary manner’. But this was only the start.

Giuseppe Pinetti at work on a show! Image from Wikipedia

Part two of the evening turned to the ‘philosophical experiments’ of ‘Sieur Pinetti’. This was Giuseppe Pinetti de Willeda, a French conjuror and author described in a letter by the American statesman John Quincy Adams (who saw Pinetti in Paris) as ‘a very great quack, and his Experiences, are nothing but a parcel of jugglers tricks, which every mountebank of a fair, performs as well for 12 sols, as he does for 6. Livres’. (https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Adams/03-01-02-0007-0005-0015)

Amongst Pinetti’s wonders were ‘an experiment on numbers, consisting from ten to One hundred…performed in a surprising manner’; a ‘mechanical chest with three different divisions, displayed in a surprising manner’; ‘two little friars’ who would appear in (guess what!) a surprising manner’, one of whom would apparently jump out of a little silver cup in the middle of a table. 

Audience participation was encouraged, for example, by a ‘mechanical pistol’, which was loaded with a special coin by a lady volunteer, then fired into the air by a gentleman, after which it would miraculously appear in a previously empty gold box on the table in front of onlookers. If the other demonstrations were anything to go by, this too was likely ‘surprising’!

Now the audience had been whipped into a natural-philosophical frenzy, and as if all this were not enough, the climax of the evening was still to come, in the form of an exhibition of ‘Monsieur Barlow’s Mechanical apparatus’, including ‘silver and glass machineries’ and all manner of other mechanical wonders. 

Public demonstrations like these of science, instruments, mechanics and experiments were clearly partly for entertainment, combining genuine new instruments and discoveries with the age-old sleights of the card trickster. But it is worth noting that they were an important source of education, as well as entertainment. Such events were popular amongst men and women and, in fact, have been argued to have been important sources of education for women, giving them access into an otherwise restricted male world. Scientific demonstrations thus offer us an alternative perspective on Georgian pastimes, and reveal both the popularity of ‘natural philosophy’, and the genuine wonder with which people viewed the world. 

‘Invalids Wanted’: Residential care in the 19th century.

One of the (welcome) side benefits of spending hours trawling through newspaper databases, whilst searching for material for my beards project was the raft of fantastic, and sometimes intriguing, references that caught my eye in passing.  These could be anything from quirky reports of events to adverts for unusual products. Amongst the more intriguing references that I came across were a type of advertisement that popped up quite regularly in nineteenth-century newspapers, placed by medical practitioners.  Rather than advertising their services or products, however, these were ‘wanted’ advertisements. And what they were looking for was even more unusual…an ‘invalid’ to come and live with them!

The Morning Post of 22 January 1820, for example, contained a request from ‘A Medical Gentleman, living in an airy and pleasant situation in Surrey…wishes to receive into his house an INVALID whose health may require medical care, or whose intellects are impaired’. ‘Every humane attention and kindness’ was promised. In the Brighton Gazette in 1848, an advertisement titled ‘To INVALIDS and Others’ another medical gentleman ‘living in a pleasant and salubrious part of the town’ offered part of his house to any lady or gentleman desirous of a large seaside residence…combined, if required, with medical superintendence’. A little bit of further digging yields many other examples. In Jersey, in 1861, a ‘medical man in a most cheerful situation in town wishes to receive a lady or gentleman invalid to reside’. 

In other cases, practitioners went to even further lengths. One ‘medical gentlemen’ in 1824 offered to accompany any ‘respectable invalid’ to any part of Europe in, as he was quick to stress, ‘a professional capacity’. Another, ‘lately returned from accompanying an invalid on the continent’, had clearly enjoyed himself so much that he was ‘desirous of a similar engagement’ – or a return trip. So keen was he that he made a point of stressing that high remuneration is not his object’. 

Copyright Wellcome Trust/Wellcome Images

Some specified the types of treatments that their resident patient could expect. ‘Invalids’ near Bath suffering from ‘mental, spinal or nervous affection’ in 1846, for example, were offered Mesmerism, as well as ‘superior accommodation’ by the slightly-too-conveniently named ‘M.D.’ Mesmerism, named after its inventor Franz Mesmer, sometimes known as Animal-Magnetism, was a form of hypnotism that had become popular in the 18^th century but enjoyed a resurgence in the mid 19^th century through the mesmeric public demonstrations of a French practitioner, Charles Poyen. (For a nice article about Poyen, click here)

The Mesmeric Aura! Copyright Wellcome Trust/Wellcome Images

On the face of it there are obvious potential reasons for the motivations of physicians to place such adverts. First is charity. It is entirely possible that philanthropically-minded ‘medical gentlemen’ with room to spare in their storeyed townhouses were simply following their natural, and perhaps religious, instincts to relieve suffering by taking a patient in to provide dedicated care. 

Second, having a patient ‘live in’ offered medical practitioners the time and space to perfect their therapeutic techniques, or even develop new ones. It is also worth noting that, while money isn’t usually mentioned, the assumption was presumably that the patient would contribute something to their keep, so financial reasons perhaps offered another incentive.  

Perhaps the most plausible reason behind such advertisements were new ideas about the treatment of the sick and infirm from the early decades of the nineteenth century, and beliefs in a ‘change of air’ as a potential restorative. cure for many ailments. As Richard E. Morris has argued, British physicians understood two types of ‘invalids’: those with physiological symptoms, and those with nervous exhaustion. The latter group ‘nervous invalids’ in particular, especially if they lived in a city, were seen as benefitting from a shift into country or sea air. Those suffering from ‘wet’ diseases such as consumption (TB) were recommended to seek either high altitude, coastal, or dry, inland locations for their cure. 

The ‘health tourism’ that this created saw particular resort towns gain favour, and local hotels and guest houses become popular with patients seeking a restorative break and a favourable climate. The phenomenon of the spa town was already well known too, and places such as Bath, Cheltenham and Llandrindod Wells had all been popular places of resort in the eighteenth century. But these advertisements suggest that those medical practitioners offering residence in their ‘airy’, ‘pleasantly situated’ or ‘seaside’ residence were actually also playing into broader ideas about recuperation and the ‘change of air’ and opening up their own, conveniently-located, homes as healing places. 

Copyright Wellcome Trust/Wellcome Images

Even despite this though (and perhaps I’m getting cynical in my middle age!), but I can’t help finding some elements of these advertisements (sometimes with titles such as ‘Invalid wanted’!) slightly sinister. First is the fact that they are often anonymous. Rarely was the name of the particular practitioner supplied, with more often pseudonyms, such as ‘Medicus’, or just initials. Also applicants were generally told to apply at the local post office, or other business, such as a bookseller. (One exception was a Dr Todd, who offered to ‘take charge of an invalid lady or gentleman’ for their ‘every comfort and advantage’!). 

Some almost read like disguised dating ads: In 1842, any ‘Invalid gentleman requiring constant attention’ and who wanted ‘handsomely furnished apartments’ was directed to contact a surgeon (‘who is unmarried and located in one of the best and most healthy situations in Clifton’) where a personal interview could be speedily arranged.

Whatever the individual motivations might have been, these advertisements do offer an interesting window into a side of medical practice, and a type of residential care, that we don’t necessarily associate with the nineteenth century.

The Quirky World of Victorian Shaving Patents!

A major theme of my forthcoming book Concerning Beards, about the history of beards, shaving and barbers between 1650-1900, is that of the gradual commercialization of shaving. As I’ve explored in other posts, the period after 1750 saw the increasing availability of a whole new range of creams, pastes and lotions for men to use during and after shaving. It also saw the advertising of razors for use by individual men at home, rather than necessarily having to visit the barber. As the book will show, these products proliferated through the eighteenth century and all through the nineteenth, increasing in number and type, and their advertisements appealing to prevailing ideas about manliness in various ways.

(copyright Wellcome Images)

As well as just products for sale, however, my project drew me to the question of how far shaving products were part of broader technological innovation in the past. What sorts of shaving products were being dreamed up, created and patented by artisan makers and inventors? What shaving problems were they seeking to solve? As a period of innovation and technology, the nineteenth century offers a perfect opportunity to explore the world of shaving patents.

Having a razor look the part was clearly important. Whilst the blade should be shiny and (razor!) sharp, there was clearly a demand for fancy handles. A variety of patents were sought for new types or designs of razor handle, including ‘japanning’ to give an ornamental finish, a ‘vulcanised’ rubber razor handle, ‘a preparation for instrument handles, made from a vegetable compound, rather than horn or bone’, and others promising to make wood resemble ivory. These reinforce the importance of razors as manly accoutrements: as well as cutting efficiently, they should also look elegant and upmarket.

Even so, the majority of patent applications related either new devices, or ‘improvements’ to existing razors or sharpeners, to make the act of shaving easier…and often less painful. The discomfort and after-effects of a shave with a bad razor were well know, and often provided fodder for the satirist’s pen. But shaving with an open razor was potentially risky, especially for a man shaving himself. If the handle became slippery with lather, for example, the razor could slip, slice and slash! In 1804, Samuel Bennet’s patent application related to a razor with a steel thumb ring in the handle, enabling a razor to be held firmly and safely in the hand.

The 1830s saw the invention of ‘guard razors’, with various ‘combs’ and other contraptions fitted over blades to lessen the risk of cutting. William Samuel Henson’s 1836 patent razor had a combination tooth guard (which he called the ‘protector’), to prevent the user cutting themselves whilst shaving. By the 1880s the threat was obviously still real. One variation involved a system of rollers to allow the razor to glide over the face: Johnson and Fontaine’s ‘Shaving apparatus and razor guards’ were specially contrived “to allow unskilled persons to shave without cutting themselves”.

(French steel and Vulcanite razor, c. 1850, image copyright Science Museum)

Even handling open razors could be dangerous.  Some, such as H. Hilliard in 1856, proposed a new type of razor with a frame and detachable blade, but also with a spring mechanism to keep them closed when not in use. With this he sought to protect men from the painful and messy experience of accidentally grasping a razor by its blade, rather than the handle.

If razors were to cut efficiently, they naturally had to be sharp. The second largest group of applications related, unsurprisingly, dealt with innovations in razor sharpeners – strops and hones. Between 1827 and 1888 there were at least 38 different patent applications for various machines, leather straps, some with springs, others using elastic, and using promising-sounding product names such as the ‘Revolving self-cleaning razor strop & shaving companion’. Another suggested paper ‘impregnated’ with glass dust to facilitate sharpening, possibly leading to sharp razors but bleeding fingers.

(Wooden razor strop, in three parts with folding compartments and stropping block, English, 1790-1890, image copyright Science Museum)

Finding a convenient receptacle for shaving soap was a common theme and, judging from the efforts and applications of some budding inventors, the job of creating and applying lather for shaving was apparently regarded as something of a nuisance. To relieve men from the seemingly onerous task of lathering soap in a bowl, both Samuel Shipley’s 1853 ‘cases or receptacles containing shaving soap’ and Charles Manby’s ‘Patent Travellers’ Shaving Brush’ offered an ingenious solution. Both proposed ‘hiding’ shaving soap or paste in the handle of the brush. A quick couple of pumps on a piston squirted it straight into the bristles, meaning that it could be applied straight to the face. No bowl required!

(Detail from W. Atkins’ patent specification, 1887, BL Patent Specification Books,  author’s photograph)

Another constant theme in patent applications was that of the need for hot water for shaving. The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries saw debates about whether hot or cold water was preferable; some argued that hot water allowed the blade the move quicker and more easily through tough beard hairs, as well as making the process more comfortable. Others could find no justification for this, arguing that cold water was invigorating and no more harmful to the skin. In 1867, William Atkins was amongst several who proposed contrivances for heating water. Atkins’ ‘shaving appliance’ comprised a large wooden frame, housing a spirit lamp, a large bowl for water, which could be raised and lowered, and a soap and lather box in the base.

But some, however, went way beyond function, and one invention, above all, stands out as my favourite. In 1860, Benjamin Matthewman, a York cutler and surgeon’s instrument maker, applied for a patent for his new method of inserting a photograph into the handle of a razor, thereby enabling a man to gaze lovingly at the sepia-toned features of his inamorata, as he swiped a lethally sharp blade across his throat. Was this to comfort, or to add an extra frisson of danger?!

Travel and Quarantine in the 19th Century

Amongst the many impacts of COVID-19 has been the devastation of the travel industry, and its knock-on effects on the global economy. We are all having to think carefully about the ways we travel, not only internationally, but even around our own countries and communities. At the moment, a summer holiday in the sun seems like a long way off.

In Britain, one of the solutions being put in place as we tentatively begin to consider heading out again, is to impose a two-week quarantine on incoming travelers and tourists, in attempts to limit the spread or import of the virus. It all feels very odd in an age where we have become so used to travel that it has become easy, routine and even mundane. But it’s worth remembering that these issues and restrictions are not new, and that the dangers of epidemics have actually shaped travel, and affected individual travelers, for centuries. What was it like to be quarantined in the past? In 1892, a letter was sent to the Coventry Herald newspaper from a Mr W.H. Grant, a traveller to America, who found himself quarantined on a Canadian island in the midst of a deadly outbreak of Typhoid fever.

(Image of a ‘Beaver Line’ ship from WWW.NorwayHeritage.com/Gallery – creative commons licence)

Grant was headed for New York but, due to overcrowding on direct sailings, due to a cholera scare, he elected instead to go on one of the Beaver Line’s ships via Montreal, and finish his journey to NY by rail. Things immediately began to go wrong. The ship he boarded at Liverpool, the ‘SS Lake Huron’, was itself badly overcrowded and ‘taxed to its utmost capacity’, and they departed in bad weather and heavy seas. The ship had not even got as far as New Brighton, in Merseyside, when “a sort of mutiny occurred on board, culminating in a free fight between six or eight of the seamen and officers”. The ship was forced to anchor whilst a tug took the offenders away.

(Image of SS Lake Huron from WWW.NorwayHeritage.com/Gallery –  creative commons licence)

But worse was to come. It rapidly became clear that a serious infectious disease had broken out aboard the ‘Lake Huron’. This was initially “hushed up” and Grant reported that the crew were seen throwing dead bodies overboard with no ceremony when they thought “the act could not be observed by passengers”. When a steward came down with Typhoid fever, it was no longer possible to conceal the truth, and it became clear that the vessel would not be welcomed in port.

(Image ‘Man with Typhoid’ copyright Wellcome Trust, Wellcome Images)

On arrival in Quebec the SS Lake Huron was put into quarantine off an island in the St Lawrence River – “a veritable forest with rocks, valleys, mountains, bays and the most magnificent scenery imaginable”. After two days the passengers were ordered ashore “taking whatever baggage and things we should require” whilst the ship was disinfected. Hopes of a comfortable quarantine looked doubtful though. On landing, all sick passengers were transported to a hospital some distance away, whilst the rest of the passengers were led to clearing in a forest, occupied by whitewashed, one-story buildings, with no locks on the doors, nor separate areas for men and women. They were also dismayed to see nearby a “lonely graveyard in a swamp, where 5420 people were buried twenty-five years ago, within a few months having died of ship fever and cholera”.

With true Victorian efficiency, the passengers of the SS Lake Huron quickly took control of the situation and formed a management committee. Also, true to form though, this was not some egalitarian or Utopian commune, but strictly class divided, with all first- and second-class passengers having their own ‘shed’, subdivided into areas for men and women and children, and those from steerage in another “some distance off”. No need to have the poor near the posh!

Eager to restore some sense of ‘normality’ though, working parties of able men were quickly set up, who rigged up hammocks, cut down trees and even decorated the buildings with ferns and shrubs. Bonfires were made up to cook food, and dinner was served every evening at six o clock by the two cooks from the ship. In this version of ‘lockdown’ passengers soon began to make their own entertainment too. After two days Grant reported that people were busy rambling, exploring, hunting, swimming, and even organizing hill-climbing competitions. A variety of animals were captured including squirrels, snakes and titmice, providing diversion for the youngsters.

The threat of the disease remained, and three families from the steerage buildings were taken to hospital, but after a couple of weeks, Grant was hopeful of returning to the ship and onward to his destination. Here his letter ended, and it is not clear what happened next. (It’s also worth noting that this wasn’t to be the last time this particular ship was quarantined at Quebec: in 1899 an outbreak of smallpox on the ship caused a similar situation.) But whilst the detail and context of his story are unique, they still resonate. Even in unfamiliar circumstances, surrounded by the threat of contagion, and uncertain of the future, people still found a way to preserve some sense of ‘normality’.

(Image ‘Passengers on board ship undergoing quarantine examination, 1883’ copyright Wellcome Trust/Wellcome Images)

And this, without trying to sound glib, is where history IS useful – not necessarily so much in terms of particular approaches or responses, (and hopefully not in terms of the prospects for modern quarantine!) but more in reminding us that what we are experiencing now is not new. The past is strewn with epidemics. We routinely teach children about the Bubonic Plague: our very language is shot through with references to it…e.g. things we should avoid ‘like the plague’. Smallpox. Typhoid. Spanish Flu. Each obviously has its own context, its own effects and symptoms, and each leaves its mark in the collective memory. The important thing to remember, though, is that in time they pass. It might not feel like it at the moment, and the media love their ‘things will never be the same again’ headline-grabbers, but we will come out of the other side of this, hopefully stronger and better prepared for the next one.

The ‘Toilet Arts’: Men’s Personal Grooming and Advice Literature in the 19th Century.

One of the big themes of my research project, and of a large section of the forthcoming book, is the rise, over time, of shaving as part of men’s self-fashioning and personal grooming. One question that has interested me from the start is that of how men learnt to shave? Who told them what equipment to purchase, how to sharpen razors, make lather and avoid injuring themselves? Fraternal networks – dads and brothers, as well as male friends – were all strong potential sources of information about personal grooming in the past, much as they still are today.

Image from British Library Flickr, available under creative commons

But I’ve also been interested in advice literature for men. The eighteenth century saw the rise of polite conduct literature, instructing young ladies and gentlemen in how to look and behave properly in public. This often included general instructions on dress and appearance, manners, speech and deportment, and even posture and how to stand properly. But before the nineteenth century there was generally more conduct literature available for women than men.

The early decades of the nineteenth century, however, saw conduct literature gradually replaced by a more general kind of advice literature, along the lines of ‘How to be a Lady/Gentleman’. I’ve been scouring as many as I could find to see if they offered anything more on what were sometimes referred to as the ‘toilet arts’! In particular, I wondered if there might be any evidence for how to look after beards, particularly at the height of the Victorian ‘beard movement’. What were the expectations surrounding cleaning, fashioning or cutting facial hair, and general expectations of appearance?

In general, over-attention to appearance was regarded with suspicion, and some advice literature cautioned men not to fuss too much in front of the mirror. As The English Gentleman, His Feelings, His Manners, His Pursuits of 1849 cautioned men that ‘directly you begin to be over-careful and elaborate in your dress, and give yourself a finical and effeminate appearance, from that hour do you commence vulgarity”. Although he should never be slovenly, a man should think no more about his appearance once he had left the dressing room and, once in public, should ‘avoid looking in the mirror’ or a window to check appearance!

Sometimes advice on personal cleanliness could appear in gentlemanly advice literature, although the amount and form varied greatly with each publication. The Gentleman’s Manual of Modern Etiquette (1844) for example, instructed men that the “flesh, teeth and nails should be cleansed at regular intervals”, and the nails in particular should “never be permitted to grow to an offensive length”.  Arthur Blenkinsopp’s A Shiling’s Worth of Advice on Manners, Behaviour and Dress (1850) noted also that faces, hair and teeth should be kept scrupulously clean.

(Author’s own image – original document copyright British Library)

One of my favourites is the ominously-titled ‘Don’t: A Manual of Mistakes and Improprieties More or Less Prevalent in Conduct and Speech’ which, as the name suggests, was all about how NOT to do it. Personal grooming was singled out for a barricade of ‘DON’Ts’! These included not using hair dye, since ‘the colour is not like nature, and deceives no one.’ The use of hair oil by men was ‘considered vulgar, and it is certainly not cleanly’. But, perhaps more importantly:

“DON’T neglect personal cleanliness – which is more neglected than careless       observers suppose.

DON’T neglect the details of the toilet. Many persons, neat in other particulars, carry blackened fingernails. This is disgusting. DON’T neglect the small hairs that project from the nostrils and grow around the apertures of the ears…”

If men had beards or whiskers they should be careful to wash them after smoking, and should not get into the habit of “pulling your whiskers, adjusting your hair, or otherwise fingering yourself’!

Others contained useful titbits about shaving kit. L.P. Lamont’s Mirror of Beauty (1830) contained a useful recipe for the ‘Genuine Windsor Shaving Soap’, along with instructions as to how to put the melted soap into a shaving box, to use while travelling, or for convenience, whilst Charles Gilman Currier’s The Art of Preserving Health reminded men that the beard ought to be washed very often and should be kept clean.

Specific advice about shaving beards and whiskers was more likely to be found in specific publications dedicated to the task. These came in many forms: in the eighteenth century the first shaving manuals were published by cutlers and razor makers such as Jean-Jacques Perret and Benjamin Kingsbury. Over time these began to proliferate, and included everything from instructions given out with shaving products to manuals dedicated to shaving and personal grooming more generally. There are too many to include here in detail, but a few examples will illustrate the themes.

(Author’s own image – original document copyright British Library)

The alluringly titled Gentleman’s Companion to the Toilet of 1844, for example, by the anonymous ‘London Hair Dresser’, contained a raft of useful information for shavers, from how to choose, strop and sharpen a razor, and the proper way to use it. Debates raged around whether shaving with hot or cold water was better: the author of the Gentleman’s Companion was in no doubt that hot water was the only way to ‘soften the beard or improve the edge of the razor’. Another useful section dealt with which shaving soap to pick. The best strategy, argued the author, was to ignored the advertising puffs (“There are many soaps which are ‘puffed off’ as “the best article manufactured for shaving”…but some of them are utterly worthless”). He also advised sticking to the widely available Naples soap, and avoiding alkali soaps, with their light and frothy lather, which would “much annoy you by [causing] those irritating pains which are frequently felt after shaving with a bad razor”.

(Author’s own image – original document copyright British Library)

Edwin Creer’s Popular Treatise on the Hair argued that men risked their health if they neglected cleanliness of their beards, since facial hair “collects dirt, smoke and dust from the atmosphere…and were it not that the beard intercepts those particles, they might otherwise find their way to some internal organ”. Creer also argued that occasional shaving could be useful in strengthening the beard, but preferred to let nature run its course.

Nevertheless, styling, brushing and trimming the beard and whiskers was also recommended. As Creer noted, the ‘cut’ of the beard was everything: it should neither be ‘short and scrubby’ nor long and unkempt. Equally important in preserving the lustre and appearance of a full beard was that it should be well kept. Dedicated ‘whisker brushes’ were available to comb out the tangles and remove errant particles of food. It was, after all, hard to look like a gentleman with bits of dinner lodged in the prolix fronds!

Throughout the nineteenth century, then, gentlemanly grooming was seen as important, and facial hair, whether shaving it off or beautifying the beard, was an important part of this. Perhaps the final word belongs to The Hairdresser’s Chronicle in October 1871, which contained the following, under the title ‘How to Begin the Day:

“Be very careful to attire yourself neatly; ourselves, like our salads, are always the better for a good dressing. Shave unmistakeably before you descend from your room; chins, like oysters, should have their beards taken off before being permitted to go down…”!

Barbers and Shaving in the Eighteenth Century

“It is the business of the barber to cut and dress hair, to make wigs and false curls, and to shave the beards of other men. In ancient times he used, also, to trim the nails; and even in the present day, in Turkey, this is a part of his employment”. So wrote the author of an 1841 survey of professions and trades.

One of the main subjects of my forthcoming book is the history of barbers, and their place as providers of shaving, and also as practitioners of the male face and head. I’ve been looking at some of the important questions that have sometimes been overlooked: how well equipped were barbers’ shops?; how did barbers learn to shave, and who taught them?; what happened to the barbers when men began to shave themselves around the mid eighteenth century, and also when beards came hugely back into fashion in the mid nineteenth century? But I’ve also been interested in a much more basic question: what was it like to be shaved in an early modern barbershop?

V0019646 A barber’s shop, Alresford. Coloured reproduction of an aqua Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org A barber’s shop, Alresford. Coloured reproduction of an aquatint. Published: – Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons by-nc 2.0 UK, see http://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/page/Prices.html

Barbers have (very unfairly, in my opinion!) long been the whipping boys of the haircutting trades. In the eighteenth century the chattering barber was a comic staple. Many satirical cartoons lampooned the clumsy barber, engrossed in his own conversation and paying no attention to the safety of the customer in the chair. Country barbers, affecting airs and graces, were another favourite target of cartoonists. Worse still, the rise of hairdressing as a distinct occupation in the eighteenth century caused further tensions, as hairdressers sought to establish themselves as polite practitioners to the elites, and experts in tonsorial practice! In the process, they took every opportunity to barbers were relegated to the status of ‘mere’ shavers.

For an occupation like barbering/barber-surgery, with its long and proud tradition, not to mention considerable status in early modern towns, this must have been hard to take. Complaints from barbers about their diminished status were still rumbling on in trade journals late into the nineteenth century.

The problem was that a shave in an early modern barbershop varied considerably in quality. First was the question of how well equipped the barbershop was. Some high-end establishments had cases of razors, strops and hones for sharpening, bowls, basins, towels and some sweet-smelling creams or pomatums to apply afterwards. Other shops were much more basic, though, with only the minimum of equipment, and no fripperies. Perhaps the most important factor was the quality of the razor. Before the mid 18th century, the type of steel used in razor manufacture made them sometimes brittle, and difficult to sharpen. Once cast steel was introduced around 1750, things did begin to improve, although cast steel razors were expensive and beyond the reach of poorer barbers.

Being shaved with a blunted or poorly maintained razor was an ordeal for the customer. Rather than slicing off the beard hairs cleanly, a blunt razor rasped and bit, taking off layers of skin as well as stubble. Some barbers were more diligent than others in ensuring that their razors were up to the task. One account, from J. Torbuck’s Collection of Welsh travels, and memoirs of Wales (1749) gives us an interesting (if slightly tongue-in-cheek), insight into what could happen when things went wrong!

“I next sent out for a barber (resolving to see the best face upon matters I could) and, in about half an hour’s time, in comes a greasy fellow, swift to shed innocent blood, who, in a trice, from a protable cup-board call’d his cod-piece, pulls out a woollen night-cap that smelt very much of human sweat and candle-grease, and about two ells of towelling, of so coarse a thread, that they might well have serv’d a zealous catholick instead of a penitential hair-cloth.

After some fumbling, he pulls out a thing he call’d a razor, but both by the looks of effects, on would easily have mistaken it for a chopping-knife; and with pure strength of hand, in a short time, he shav’d me so clean, that not only the hairs of my face, but my very skin become invisible; and he left me not sufficient to make a patch for an Aethiopian lady of pleasure:

I gave him a small piece, bearing Caesar’s image and superscription; at which, he doffed me so low a bow, that the very clay floor was indented with his knuckles, and so he reverendly took his leave.”

(Image Copyright Wellcome Trust)

Images such as ‘Damn the Barber’ drew on what must have been a fairly common trope, of the painful shave, highlighting the lack of care and attention by some ‘Professors of the Tonsorial Arts’, or the damage done to customers. ‘Zounds! How you scrape’ cries the unfortunate victim of one blunt razor!

(Image copyright Wellcome Trust)

But for all this, barbers remained hugely important in the lives of men throughout the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The barbershop, as Margaret Pelling, Sandra Cavallo, Jess Clark and others have shown, was an important social space for men, as well as being a site for shaving, and also the purchase of cosmetic goods. Even when men did begin to shave themselves in greater numbers, they often did this in conjunction with visiting the barber. For many (perhaps even most) men too, it was simply cheaper and easier to go to the barber’s shop than to purchase and maintain shaving goods.

How to Avoid Illness – Victorian Style

[/audio]

Beard Sculpting in the 19th Century.

Over the course of the past four or five years or so, one of the biggest growth areas in the personal grooming industry has been in products for cleaning, styling, or beautifying the beard. A whole host of options are now available, including beard oils, moisturisers and styling waxes, specially dedicated beard trimmers, and even templates, offering a myriad of different options for sculpting the preferred look.

As I’ve been studying the history of men’s personal grooming in the past, I was interested to see if beard grooming was just a modern thing, or if there was a historical precedent. The obvious place to start was in the Victorian period, when large numbers of men were sporting prodigious facial hair. Surely, with all these huge beards on show, keeping them pristine must have been important?

As I’ve mentioned many times in other posts, the Victorian beard was a statement of manliness. It spoke of supposed natural male authority, strength and even virility.  It was, as H.W. said in 1855, in his article ‘Beards and their Bearers’, a “cherished ornament”. And this was a case where bigger was regarded as better. Men were extolled to let their beards grow long, full and ‘natural’, an outward symbol of the power that lay within.

(Unidentified man from a Victorian carte d’visit – author’s own collection)

But therein also lay an important point. The emphasis upon ‘natural’ suggested that, rather than being clipped, shaped, oiled or waxed, beards should be left to do their own thing, as prolix and rampant as possible. In the early 1850s, there were sustained attacks on shaving, which was set up as a potentially dangerous act – one that robbed the body of a key source of protection against dust or germs but, even more importantly, sapped the strength from a man’s body. With shades of the Biblical character Sampson, the American Presbyterian minister and dietary reformer Sylvester Graham argued in 1849 that the “habitual shaving of the beard diminish[ed] the physiological powers of man”.

At the same time as attacks on shaving, came stern warnings to men about the dangers of artifice in appearance. Whilst they should by no means be slovenly, neither should men be too absorbed or finical in their appearance ‘from whence commences vulgarity’. There were also sexual connotations. Victorian men who spent too much time in front of a mirror, or were too keen on cosmetics, risked suspicions of effeminacy.

(Advertisement for Hovenden and Sons in the Hairdresser’s Chronicle – author’s own image)

But this is not to say that beard care was entirely absent from discussion. Men’s etiquette and conduct manuals did contain some advice about how to manage and care for a beard. Above all things, most authors agreed that beards should be kept clean.

Brushing was important, not only in keeping the beard luxuriant and shiny, but also in rescuing small bits of food that had become trapped in the undergrowth. As the authors of ‘Good Manners’ suggested in 1870, “The beard should be carefully and frequently washed, well-trimmed and well combed, and the hair and whiskers kept scrupulously clean, by the help of clean, stiff hair brushes, and soap and warm water”.

Special ‘whisker brushes’ were available to do the job properly, advertised in newspapers. In one advertisement in the Greenock Advertiser, ‘whisker brushes’ could be bought for the knock-down price of five and a half pence. In Bell’s Weekly Messenger in December 1850, ‘whisker brushes’ were included in a broader advertisement for ‘Christmas Presents this Month’. Clearly the ideal present for the whiskerando who has everything!

A little trimming or clipping was permissible, to keep everything neat and tidy since having a scruffy, unkempt beard suggested slovenliness, and it was considered ‘quite the usual business of a man’s person to trim the beard’. For those who could afford it, a valet or manservant might also do the job. As Isabella Beeton’s Book of Household Managementpointed out, a good valet should “brush the hair, beard and moustache, where that appendage is encouraged, arranging the whole simply and gracefully according to the age and style of countenance”.

(Image Copyright of Wellcome Collection)

Applying any cosmetics to the beard, though, was actively frowned upon, and there were even some suggestions that the products themselves were unpleasant. An article in the Hairdresser’s Journal in July 1868 noted the use of iron dye, containing hydrosulphate of ammonia and hartshorn for colouring beards and moustaches but noted that the ‘abominable odour’ and ‘putrid smell’ of the ingredients meant that ‘any fellow who would apply this hateful thing to his facial hair must be strong of stomach, and not over delicate as to the sense of smelling’.

Indeed, although there were many (often delicately scented) products for shaving available across the nineteenth century, there are only fleeting references to cosmetic products specifically for beards.

Nineteenth-century men, then, didn’t really go in for beard sculpting, in the belief that the beard was best left to grow ‘natural. And whilst today the idea that beards might be dirty still resurfaces from time to time, the Victorians had that covered. As ‘Xerxes’ wrote in the Folly and Evil of Shaving in 1854, “the beard keeps away nearly the whole of the dirt from the face, [and] does not prevent soap and water from penetrating beneath it to remove what dirt may accumulate there”. As such, they reasoned, “it follows that that portion of the face covered by the beard must be cleaner than the part not so covered, as well as cleaner than the head”. So, there you have it. Bearded men are the cleanest around!

A Hidden History of Beard Terms!

2020 will be a milestone for me, as it sees the completion of my research, and the submission of my book Concerning Beards: Facial Hair, Health and Practice in England, 1650-1900, in many ways bringing an end to my project on the history of facial hair – a huge, and in many ways life-changing undertaking, which has occupied me for the past 7 years. It’s been quite a journey, covering a huge range of source material, archives all over the country, conferences, public lectures and media appearances. It’s been fantastic, both academically, and personally.

One of the absolute joys of researching this topic has been discovering the wealth of gems hidden away in archives, with fantastic stories, anecdotes or even just little insights into the lives of people in the past. As you might have noticed, blog entries have sadly suffered a bit over the past year or two, as I’ve been preoccupied with full-time teaching, research and book writing. It’s time to kick start things again and to use the blog to highlight some of this material that I haven’t been able to use in the book, but which definitely deserves to see the light of day.

So, I thought I’d use today’s post as a little teaser, by revealing some of the most unusual terms I’ve come across for beards, barbers and shaving. This a whistle-stop tour through the lexical history of facial hair.

(Image copyright Wellcome Collection)

‘Imperbicke’ – In Henry Cockeram’s English Dictionary or An Interpreter of Hard English Words of 1623, ‘Imperbicke’ was defined as being ‘without a beard’ or ‘beardless’. In the early modern period, as in fact at many other points throughout history, being unable to grow a beard was often viewed negatively. In the seventeenth century, the lack of a beard suggested that a man lacked inner heat. In the humoural system of the body, beard hair was actually a waste product – a sort of exhaust gas left over from the production of sperm deep in a man’s body. Heat caused it to rise upwards, solidifying as it did, to become beard hair. So, a beard was an outward demonstration of a man’s generative power, or even virility. So, if a man could not grow a beard, it was assumed that he was lacking in sexual potency, and potentially effeminate, or at least carried more female than male characteristics. The fact that there was a specific term designated to this, shows its importance in beliefs about the body.

‘Lanuge’ – One of the most important stages in a young man’s life, and one that heralded the transition from boyhood to manhood, was the first appearance of beard hair during puberty. In Cockeram’s dictionary, again, was the word ‘lanuge’, which he defined as ‘downe, or the beard when it appears to grow’. There were other words for the first appearance of beard hair. One was ‘probarbium’, in John Barrow’s 1749, Dictionarium medicum universal. The stage of initial beard growth was also given a name: in Nathaniel Bailey’s 1730 Dictionarium Britannicum, the fluffy-faced youngster was ‘impubescent’.

‘Barbigerous’ – various appellations have been attached to the actual wearing of beards, moustaches and whiskers. My favourite of all, again from Bailey’s Dictionarium Britannicum was ‘barbigerous’, making beard-wearing sound a bit violent. Beard hair itself could sometimes be referred to as ‘barb’, as in Thomas Browne’s Union Dictionary in 1800, and a bearded man could be described as ‘barbed’. These all derive from the Latin term ‘barba’, from which we also supposedly (although there is some debate) get ‘barber’. On the matter of barbers, this is how William Toone described the term in his Glossary and Etymological Dictionary of Obsolete and Uncommon Words (London: Thomas Bennett, 1832), 81-2

(Image copyright Wellcome Collection)

Barber –  to shave or trim the beard. This ornament (for it was so considered when worn) was an object of great attention about three centuries ago, and was fashioned to a variety of shapes. Taylor, called the Water Poet, mentions them as cut to resemble a quickset hedge, a spade, a fork, a stiletto, a hammer &c. Much time was spent “in starching and landering” them, and such care was taken to preserve them in proper shape, that cases were put on to enclose them, which were put on at night, that they might not be disarranged by sleeping. The fashion of wearing beards declined in the reign of Charles II and was gradually discontinued. Barbers were employed to trim and adorn the beard, and so called from barba, a beard, and to barber was to shave or put the beard in order, and not to powder, as Dr Johnson suggests.

All this sounded better than John Wilkins’ rather curt dismissal of barbers in his Alphabetical Dictionary of 1668, describing them as ‘hair cutting mechanics’.

Smock-Faced – Returning to the issue of being beardless, ‘smock faced’ was a common insult term levelled at smooth-chinned men and beardless boys alike. Even after beliefs in the humours had started to decline, a lack of beard hair could raise suspicions about a man’s…manliness. In defining the term ‘beardless’, Thomas Dyche used it for “one that has no hair visible on the chin, as children, women and effeminate men”.

(Image copyright Wellcome Collection)

Spanopogones – In the spirit of saving the best till last, this one is perhaps the most unusual term that I’ve come across. It appeared in John Barrow’s 1749 medical dictionary, and was defined as ‘persons whose beards are thin, or whose hairs fall off from their chins’. It again points to the importance of being able to grow a beard, even if you ultimately chose to shave it off. As to how it is pronounced, I am still none the wiser!

So, with the research files bulging, and lots of stuff to share, I will endeavour to be a better boy at updating the blog. Thanks to you all for not deserting me and, as ever, for so many of your kind comments about the blog, and my work.

Halloween Special: Shaving the Dead in Irish Folklore

Shaving the dead in Irish folklore

The Irish Folklore Collection archive in University College Dublin contains a massive volume of documents, sound-recordings and other material collected under the auspices of the Irish Folklore Commission and other bodies since the 1920s. Two of the main elements of the archive are the Schools Folklore, compiled by schoolchildren in the 1930s, and the Main Collection, the work of folklorists working in communities throughout the state. These volumes are in the process of being digitised and transcribed – all of the examples here are from the Schools Collection at www.duchas.ie.

The archive incorporates a huge volume of material on folk medicine, magical cures, care for the dying, and the laying out, waking and burial of the dead. The work of laying out was rarely done by family members. Neighbours or local specialists, usually women, would wash and shroud the remains, and might also be involved in preparing the house for the wake. Great care was taken with the water used to wash the dead. Many accounts suggested it should be disposed of carefully, usually beneath a bush, in a corner, or somewhere where people didn’t normally walk, as it might cause the ground it touched to grow ‘fear gorta’, hungry grass, that would make passers-by feel faint or shaky, or create a ‘stray sod’ that would cause anyone walking over to become lost (‘go astray’). The things used during this time also needed to be treated carefully. Dying people were often placed on a woven straw mat, which would be burned or otherwise disposed of. The soap and towels used might be burned, buried, or placed in the fork of a tree.

Strictly-observed customs also surrounded the shaving of the dead and the things of shaving. In some areas it seems that all dead men were shaved, while elsewhere only those who had been clean-shaven during life were shaved after death. For example,in Carne, Co. Wexfordin the 1930s‘If a man was wearing a moustache or side whiskers it was shaved off’,[1]and in Sraheen, Co Mayo, it was even said ‘that if a man is not shaved before he is buried he will not go to heaven’.[2]  However, in Kilcommon, Co. Tipperary,‘A man who shaved during life is shaved, while those who wore beards are left there just as in life.’[3]The job of shaving the dead seems usually to have been done by a man, even if women did the washing. Most accounts mentioning shaving the dead agree that the razor used should be given to the man who did the job, though in some places, like Shancurry, Co. Leitrim, it was buried‘no matter how good it is’:[4]some add the detail that no payment should be asked for this work. Shaving a dead person seems to have been considered a tricky matter (cuts and nicks would doubtless displease the relatives). It might be said of a person who was good at sharpening tools that ‘He could put an edge on a scythe that would shave a corpse’.[5]

The association of men with shaving the dead is also evidenced in stories concerning encounters between mortals and the ‘Good People’ – the fairies – whose reputation for malevolence and caprice made them widely feared well into the twentieth century. While women might be detained by the fairies to act as midwives or nurses, men were more likely to be roped in to play games or music or, on occasion, to carry corpses or shave the dead – the latter is perhaps understandable in light of the Good People’s alleged aversion to iron. From Shrule, Co. Galway, comes the story of Pat Doherty:

There was once a man coming home from a wake. He had to cross a hill and on the top of the hill there was a little house. When he was near the house he heard a voice saying “Pat Doherty will shave the dead man”. Out ran the fairies from the house and brought him in. Then he shaved the dead man and the fairies gave him tea. When he was going home the fairies struck a weed and it turned into a horse. He got up on the horse and went home. He was putting in the horse into the stable and he disappeared. Then he went in and went to bed.[6]

One Mayo tale told of a man inveigled into both shaving a corpse for some supernatural women and carrying his coffin. Tom Coffey ‘was put astray’ on his way home one night and, exhausted, sought shelter in a house. An old man there died just after Tom arrived, and the two women attending him told Tom ‘he would have to shave him and he said that he never shaved a man in his life. They said that he would have to shave him.’ The women then obliged Tom to make a coffin. ‘They got a rope then and put it around the coffin. They told Tom that he would have to carry it and he [said he] would not be able. They said that he would. They put it on his back. He carried it all night until cock-crow. They told him to leave down the coffin and he did. The two women and the coffin disappeared.’[7]

Image from J. Jacobs, Celtic Folk and Fairy Tales

Another theme of which there are a few examples in the folklore archive concerns the man who braves a haunted house, only to meet a ghostly or otherworldly barber[8]or to be pressed into service as a barber himself. Seamus de Brun of Croom, Co Limerick told the story of a courageous tramp.

There was this great house, and nobody could stay there, because it was haunted. There was a notice on the gate stating that the person that would stay there three nights would get a thousand pounds.

There was a tramp walking the road and he saw the notice on the gate and read it. He went and told the owner that he would stay there. The first night the owner of the house gave him a bottle of whiskey. When he went in, he put down a big fire and sat down on a chair. At twelve o’clock a man dressed in black stood above on the stairs. The tramp said, what are you doing there, but he got no reply. He held on saying that until he fell asleep.

Next morning the owner unlocked the door and left out the tramp. Next night the owner gave him another bottle of whiskey. At about twelve o’clock, four men [came in] and a coffin on their shoulders. They set down the coffin and departed, and a corpse stood up from the coffin and asked him if he would shave him. He said he would, but he had no razor. The man in the coffin said that [it] was all right, as he himself had one. The tramp set to work and shaved him. Thanking him the corpse said that he had been coming here a long time, but had met no man with courage enough to shave him. The corpse told him where there were three crocks of gold and told him keep two for himself, and give one to the owner of the house. Next morning he done as he was told and got the thousand pounds. He was a rich man afterwards.[9]

Clearly prohibitions against payments for shaving the dead did not apply in the case of walking corpses.

Dr Clodagh Tait, Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick

[1]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/5009243/5001110/5122935

[2]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/4428066/4374474/4462894?ChapterID=4428066

[3]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/4922168/4857879/5018873

[4]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/4605955/4605645/4644054

[5]The Irish Press, 2 June 1979, p.7.

[6]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/5260385/5244869/5261376

[7]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/4427950/4360421

[8]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/5105151/4996451

[9]https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/4922034/4920807