Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors (52 page)

While it might seem odd on first brush that a philosopher was involved in the formation of the police force, it’s important to note that utilitarian ideas concerning cost-benefit analysis of moral and ethical issues, along with its emphasis on careful analysis, were very influential on Colquhoun’s approach to criminology. Bentham himself was considerably interested in social reform, and the reform of crime and punishment was part of that.

The River Police were based heavily on the ideas of preventative policing. Although this police force met with extreme resistance and even violence on occasion, they were successful enough that the government would eventually take control of them and make them into a public policing entity by 1800. The influence of the
Treatise
itself would be cited in later decades as more generalized, centralized, organized public police forces were formed.

Britain’s Cross-dressing Women

by Linda Collison

W
omen pretending to be men crop up regularly in English and Irish literature and contemporary dramatic productions. A recent film starring American actress Glenn Close as Albert Nobbs
is based on a short story by 19th century Irish writer George Moore.

Albert Nobbs
is the story of a nineteenth century British woman of illegitimate birth who portrays herself as a man in order to get work. The movie has been Glenn Close’s passion project for fifteen years and was released in January 2012. You can watch trailers of it on the Internet.

Women passing as men are tantalizing archetypes as old as the Cheviot Hills. Most real women who dressed as men did so primarily for economic opportunities. I believe it may have been more common than we know, back in a time when a woman depended upon a man for her livelihood and her legal status.

Most of us have heard of Anne Bonny and Mary Read, infamous British pirates of the early 18th century. These two didn’t actually pretend to be men but dressed in trousers and lived the rough life of pirates alongside their partners and lovers, the most ruthless of men. (Although, Mary Read was raised as a boy, so she may have had some gender issues....)

Less well known is Christian Cavanagh, an Irish-born mother who disguised herself as a man and operated under several aliases including Welch, Welsh, Jones, Davies, and Mother Ross. Daniel Defoe, an author with empathy for women as evidenced by his 18th century novels
Moll Flanders
and
Roxanna, the Fortunate Mistress
, chronicled her life in
Mother Ross: The Life and Adventures of Mrs. Christian Davies, commonly called Mother Ross on Campaign with the Duke of Marlborough
. No pirate, she!

After the disappearance of her husband, Christian left her children in the care of her mother and a nurse and pursued him into the army. Dressed as a man, she first volunteered as a foot soldier and fought at the Battle of Laden during the Nine Years’ War, where she was wounded, captured, and exchanged without being discovered as female. She later re-joined another campaign as a trooper of the 4th Dragoons where she served from 1701 to 1706 when she was wounded in action again—and this time discovered.

Hannah Snell was a young Englishwoman who also went in search of her man who had run off. She ended up serving as a soldier and as a marine for a many years until she too, was wounded and found out. Hannah was honorably discharged and granted a pension in 1750 (increased in 1785), a rare thing in those days. A good account of Hannah Snell and two other women who served in the British Navy can be found in
Lady Tars
(a Fireship Press reprint). There may have been many more such women who never were detected because they were never wounded.

Patricia, natural daughter of an 18th century Barbadian cane planter, poses as
Patrick
in the fictional Patricia MacPherson Nautical Adventure Series. Inspired by
Star-Crossed
, originally published by Knopf/Random House and republished by Fireship Press, the idea for the character came to me in the middle of the Pacific Ocean aboard the
HM Bark Endeavour
, a replica of Captain James Cook’s
famous vessel, on which I served as a voyage crew member in 1999.

While climbing the rigging to make and furl sail, heaving on hempen lines as thick as my wrist in unison with my mates, and taking my turn at the helm, I discovered a woman really could perform the same work as a man aboard a ship during the age of sail. But why would she, I wondered? And how might she pull it off? Answering these questions has led to many years of research about the Royal Navy during the 18th century and other aspects of colonialism.

Romance and adventure aside, in a man’s world some women chose to become men rather than turn to the poorhouse or prostitution. It must’ve been a tough choice but not without its rewards.

The Wig Business Was Big Business in 18th Century France

by Lucinda Brant

I
t is often assumed that the wig of the 17th and 18th centuries was the preserve of the aristocracy,
“an aristocratic ornament of Old Regime Europe”
, a marker of high birth and status worn by the privileged few. Indeed, at the French Courts of Louis XIII and Louis XIV, wigs were very much part of the display of power and status.

(Wig here refers to the wigs worn by men. Women’s hair is not discussed in this post.)

The full-bottom wigs worn by Louis XIV of France required ten heads of long human hair to achieve one luxuriant wig with an over-abundance of flowing locks. Cost consideration aside, how to wear such an article in everyday life made it prohibitive to all but the most aristocratic, fashion-conscious courtier.

Yet, by the end of Louis XIV’s reign in 1715, the wearing of wigs had spread throughout France. Surprisingly, wigs were not the exclusive preserve of noble courtiers but had
“tumbled down the social hierarchy”,
so far down, in fact, that by the mid 1700s wigs were upon the heads of tutors, bakers, messengers, servants, cooks, and shopkeepers. All wore a wig, and often owned two—one for every day and one for Sunday best.

The Marquis of Mirabeau lamented,

Everyone
[in Paris]
has become a Monsieur. On Sunday, a man came up to me wearing black silk clothes and a well-powdered wig, and as I fell over myself offering him compliments, he introduced himself as the oldest son of my blacksmith or saddler; will such a seigneur deign to dance in the streets?

The male wig became big business in the 18th century. It was no longer an aristocratic affectation or worn only by certain non-aristocratic professional groups such as judges, lawyers, and clergymen. The wig was not confined to men in the city but spread to towns and villages. As well as every town having a wigmaker or three, estimates put the number of journeymen who trudged the roads of rural France selling wigs at 10,000.

The account books of French wigmakers attest to a customer base that included not only the wealthy merchant citizens of the town but also priests, petty clerks, and shopkeepers, and in the death inventories of middle class citizens, wigs figured as prominent possessions. The wig was such a universal object of consumption by mid-century that it became synonymous not with luxury but with convenience.

Wig advertisements stressed comfort and appeal as most important when considering the purchase of a wig. Wigmakers were keen to emphasize the free movement of the head of the 18th century wig. Unlike its predecessor, the full bottom wig, which restricted its wearer’s movements and peripheral vision, an 18th century wig permitted the wearer to carry out his daily life as if he was wearing his own head of hair, not someone else’s.

The Parisian wigmaker Neuhaus asserted that wearing a wig was far more convenient than looking after natural hair. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He’s in the business of selling wigs! But he went to great lengths to ensure his customers felt comfortable in their wigs. He announced the invention of a new “
elastic skin that grips the wig”
without any irritating loops or garters, and
“this skin has the softness of velvet, and does not at all inconvenience the head.”

In some respects, Neauhaus’s assertion regarding the convenience of the wig over a natural head of hair was true, given the prevalence of head lice, the lack of shampoo and intermittent bathing practices. It was far easier for a man to have his head shaved and wear a wig than to groom his own hair, particularly when, for a small fee, he could have his barber maintain his shaven head and have his wig serviced by his local wigmaker.

With wigs being the universal male consumer product of the 1700s, and everyone from shopkeeper to king wearing one, men were spoiled for choice. While a shop boy might only be able to afford one wig, and thus had to choose wisely and for durability, those of the one percent of the population, the nobleman and the wealthy merchant, could afford to own dozens of wigs. If they considered themselves to be a leader of fashion, were eccentric, or merely had the money to indulge a whim, they could purchase wigs that others could only dream of owning (or not, as the case may be!).

It has often been assumed that every man wore a powdered wig, but this was not so. For everyday wear and for most occasions, men wore their wigs in their natural state, which was unpowdered natural hair. Only on the most formal of occasions, when the nobility attended court or a formal function, were wigs powdered.

Another misconception is that because wigs looked like wigs (you could tell it was a wig!) then the wig must have been made from horsehair. Not so. All the evidence—portraits, surviving wigs, engravings, documents, letters—suggest that less than half of all wigs consisted of hair from horses, and from such animals as goats and cows. Most wigs were made from human hair. For the shop boy, however, the “horse-hair tie wig” was probably his only option.

There were a small number of wigmakers who were prepared to experiment with other materials, and often because of this found themselves ostracized by their fellow wigmakers. Yet, the experimental wig attracted the eccentric, the dandy, and the jaded gentlemen. Looking for something different to make them stand out in the crowd or as a mark of their wealth, these gentlemen were not afraid to parade about society and garner the stares of amazement, incredulity, and puzzlement of others about the hairpiece atop their heads.

Horace Walpole, that great 18th century letter writer and gossip, who collected fascinating tidbits about Society, wrote in a letter dated 1751, about Edward Wortley Montagu’s odd manner of dressing, commenting
“that the most curious part of his dress, which he has brought from Paris, is an iron wig; you literally would not know it from hair....”

Naturally, I just had to give one of my characters an iron wig and so the eccentric poet Hilary Wraxton in
Salt Bride
gets to wear one at a recital, causing hilarity and disruption to an afternoon’s entertainments.

Made from iron wire turned into spiral curls, such a wig could also be made of copper. While Edward Wortley Montagu may have thought he cut quite a figure in English society parading about in his iron wig, one wigmaker advertised an iron wig as being economical because it can
“withstand rain, wind and hail, and all without causing discomfort to the wearer.”
(I wonder about that final claim.)

Feathers were also used in the making of wigs, particularly sporting wigs. Wigs made from the tails of mallards or drakes were said to be not only durable but could also fight off the wet. Some parsons’ wigs employed feathers at the front and were known as “feather tops”. One can imagine the congregation doing its best to keep a straight face with a parson at the pulpit in a fine feather top wig delivering the Sunday sermon.

Most sectors of male society succumbed to the wearing of a wig in 18th century France. Testament to the wig’s universality was its necessity. Without a wig, a gentleman’s outfit was incomplete; he could not go about his daily business out in the world without his wig—just as in the 21st century, a man’s business suit is not complete without a tie. An 18th century bewigged gentleman wished to project an air of elegance and refinement, no matter his station in life, and this is evidenced in the many portraits that survive of handsome chaps in frock coat, breeches, and perfectly fitted wig. Whether as part of a family group or in a singular pose, the wig helped make the man. As to the many styles created for the gentleman’s wig, that requires a whole other post!

Sources

Bender, A. “Hair and Hairdos of the Eighteenth Century.”
http://www.marquise.de/en/1700/howto/frisuren/frisuren.shtml
.

Briand, Pablo and Gustavo Briand.
“The Hair at the Eighteenth Century.”
The History of the World of Hair.
http://thehistoryofthehairsworld.com/hair_18th_century.html
.

Cunnington, Willet and Phillis Cunnington. “Handbook of English Costume in the Eighteenth Century.”
The English Century Garb Homepage.
http://www.theweebsite.com/18cgarb/1750.html
.

Kwass, Michael. “Big Hair: A Wig History of Consumption in Eighteenth-Century France.”
American Historical Review
111 (June 2006).

Walpole, Horace.
The Letters of Horace Walpole
, Vols. 1-4. Edited by Charles Duke Yonge. London: Putnam and Sons, 1890.

Woodforde, John.
The Strange Story of False Hair
. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1971.

Gorgeous Georgian Metrosexuals, or How to Strut Your Metrosexual Stuff in Georgian England

by Lucinda Brant

T
he term “metrosexual” was coined by Mark Simpson to describe a man (especially one living in an urban, post-industrial, capitalist culture) who spends a lot of time and money on his appearance.
Urban Dictionary
definition number 5 states:
“A straight guy who’s so cool, smart, attractive, stylish, and cultured, that everyone thinks he’s gay. But he’s so secure in his masculinity that he doesn’t care.”
Both these definitions can be applied to wealthy men in the 18th century who had time and money to spare.

Throughout English (and French) history there have been men such as this, but it wasn’t until the 1700s when the aristocracy and the upper echelons of the wealthier merchant middle class had the time and money that the metrosexual truly came into his own. Men aspiring to be gentlemen spent as much time and money fussing about their looks and what to wear as did women, and the evidence is there in their clothes, daily practices, and accoutrements.

With minor modification to
Urban Dictionary’s
definition of what it is to be a metrosexual today, here is my list (not definitive) of what it took for a gentleman in 18th century England to be classified as a Gorgeous Georgian Metrosexual.

You were “metrosexual” if:

You employ a French hair stylist instead of a barber, because barbers don’t do pomade and powder.

You own at least twenty pairs of shoes, just as many pairs of shoe buckles—some diamond encrusted—half a dozen pairs of gloves (in every shade), and you always carry in your frock coat pocket an enameled snuffbox and a quizzing glass.

You aren’t afraid to use padding in your stockings, if necessary, to enhance your male attributes. Strong, large calf muscles are a must. (What were you thinking I meant?)

You cultivate white hands and polished nails; so necessary when taking a pinch of snuff and standing about showing off your calf muscles in mixed company.