1780 - The Return!
So, all the usual antics applied just as they did last time - http://wraithwitch.livejournal.com/487174.html In lea of repeating myself, I shall just write some random observations on the week as a whole - many of them on the subject of light.
I think I now understand the English obsession with the weather. Because we have it (as opposed to many countries on the continent that do not) we get grey days: days of gloom and glower and the threat of rain. All of autumn and a good chunk of winter is like this. And when you have no electric light or heating, you notice. You don’t want to be caught in the rain because there’s only so long a woolen greatcoat will shield you: once it’s soaked it’s a bugger to dry, and being huddled in sodden wool is no fun at all. When the day is overcast you will find yourself gravitating towards the nearest window to read or attend whatever task you are doing because the whole damn room is grey. A candle is of no use of course, its light is too pin-point. Once again, I suddenly understand why well to do families had multiple drawing rooms on opposite sides of the house: they were chasing the sun.
On the subject of candles I’ll say this: chandlers must have been wealthy buggers. Currently I have seven candles lit; they are festooned around my desk and in front of the mirror and illuminate the room roughly as well as a bedside lamp. I lit them at seven when (oh the extravagance) it wasn’t dark. But my room is on the East side of the house and my desk as far away from the window as it’s possible to be. Perversely, when night falls I can make do very well with three candles.
Found a newt on the floor, very dead. Pickled it and put it on my desk. Obviously.
Dining a la Rus. How dull. Prior to about 1815-1820, if there was a large meal it was eaten all together. The table was laden with starters, main course, sides, puddings, sweets and fruit all in a muddle and guests filled their plates with whatever they liked in whatever order they wished. In 1815 some eminent fop visited some aristo in Russia where he was served his meal in set courses. The sod brought this idea back to the London society swells and dining has gone down hill ever since.
I could be right or wrong, but I blame dining a la Rus for two secondary sins: firstly, that of shaming breakfast into a sad little meal that is only allowed to consist of bread or cereal or toast when it used to consist of anything it damn well pleased. And secondly for making spices something the English only use in cakes and biscuits. Ginger, cinnamon, cloves, allspice, nutmeg, saffron and mace: these used to grace breads, soups, glazed vegetables, stews, roasts, drinks and pies. Now? Fekking fruit cake - bleh.
Peppered beans and bacon, blueberry porridge with nutmeg, pork pie, mackerel and samphire pottage.
Wine, spiced apple juice, small ale.
And now: tinderboxes. I mention them only because no other bugger does - not in fiction nor on screen. How did you light that candle, Mr Strange, which you’re now extinguishing in such a theatrical manner? From a spill you say? And pray how did you light that spill? The answer in the end is that some poor bugger had to employ a tinderbox, a certain amount of swearing and a very heightened risk of self immolation as they beat a bit of flint against a sliver of steel and tried to catch the sparks on a bit of hemp. Now *that’s* prime time historical drama.
I dearly want a tinderbox, but couldn’t really justify spending twenty quid on a proper one. So instead I spent two quid on a little camping ferrous-rod. I tried lighting my first candle that way in the kitchen as there were less things to set fire to. The sparks, when I managed to produce any, went everywhere. Trying to direct them onto my little heap of cotton thread and newspaper shreds wasn’t really an option. But in the end that didn’t seem to matter as the sparks refused to light anything. As one would expect from a cheap bit of camping tat, the strike was uncomfortable to hold and smack with repeated violence. I eventually gave up, candle unlit. There’s probably an art to it.
There is candle wax fucking EVERYWHERE. It’s only been a week, and I do not blow out candles like Jonathan Strange. None the less, there’s wax on the desk, on my papers, my book, my lighter, my hands. I see why no one had carpets before the advent of electricity. I also bet no one had long nails. Or any sort of hair on their forearms. (Because I certainly don’t have either now.)
What else? Tuppenny purl. Fuck me but that’s one way to get hammered. The recipe I had was for mulled ale with sugar, ginger and gin. Not having any ginger or gin, I made up my own version: mulled ale with cloudy apple juice, cinnamon, pepper and brandy. It’s really tasty. And a bit lethal.
Desk paraphernalia. It’s amazingly gorgeously brilliant how many things one needs in the 18th C to write a letter. Desk or writing block, blotter, parchment, quill, penknife (a pen knife - for cutting nibs - how bloody dim am I that I didn’t suss that etymology sooner?) an ink bottle, an inkwell, nib-brush or rag, seal, sealing wax, candle, tinderbox. No wonder Ormskirk has all those little draws.
Pet en l'aire (badly in need of ironing).
I had decided that I wouldn’t listen to any music nor watch any film or TV (obviously). Last time I did this I allowed myself to watch a couple of dvds of 18thC stuff and told myself it was like socialising. This time there’s been none of that… But probably because the only words I’ve spoken to another human in a week have been ‘hi’ and ‘thank you’ to the postman, I cracked on Thursday eve and watched Garrow’s Law. (It’s an 18th C historical drama taken primarily from records from the Old Bailey, so it wasn’t that much of a transgression.) I maintain that if I had a cat to talk to or a faery servant who played music occasionally this would not be an issue.
Since I’ve spent two days in Regency gowns and two days in breeches and neckcloth, this week has felt far more 1820 than 1780. Although, I think unless you’re out in society and interacting with people, there’s probably little to chose between them: the forty years between seemed to have been spent gentrifying the last throws of Georgian bawdiness into Regency manners. (I suppose also that at least in a Regency gown a girl might bend with more ease... I take that back - Georgian stays were usually reed-lined and only half-ribbed in that manner so were pretty bendy - more bendy than my modern fully steel-boned waist-training corset at any rate!)
A final note: these days it seems you can get by using any old tat. Buy your clothes from Primark and a third-hand computer off ebay? Sorted. To a point, quality has ceased to make such an impact. But I found in 1780/1820, the quality of *everything* has an impact. If your ink is too thin, it will run off the nib too quickly and you’ll be forever re-dipping it every third word of fat bleary letters. Similarly, poor paper can ruin a quill. Cheap candles burn too quickly, or drip or smoke. Poor quality food does not keep. Having tankards or cutlery made of the wrong materials will contaminate the taste of the food or ale. Badly made flints will not strike... And you will notice every single one of these failings.
Me, a la Strange, obviously off to find a sharp knife and some dead Neapolitans.
I think I now understand the English obsession with the weather. Because we have it (as opposed to many countries on the continent that do not) we get grey days: days of gloom and glower and the threat of rain. All of autumn and a good chunk of winter is like this. And when you have no electric light or heating, you notice. You don’t want to be caught in the rain because there’s only so long a woolen greatcoat will shield you: once it’s soaked it’s a bugger to dry, and being huddled in sodden wool is no fun at all. When the day is overcast you will find yourself gravitating towards the nearest window to read or attend whatever task you are doing because the whole damn room is grey. A candle is of no use of course, its light is too pin-point. Once again, I suddenly understand why well to do families had multiple drawing rooms on opposite sides of the house: they were chasing the sun.
On the subject of candles I’ll say this: chandlers must have been wealthy buggers. Currently I have seven candles lit; they are festooned around my desk and in front of the mirror and illuminate the room roughly as well as a bedside lamp. I lit them at seven when (oh the extravagance) it wasn’t dark. But my room is on the East side of the house and my desk as far away from the window as it’s possible to be. Perversely, when night falls I can make do very well with three candles.
Found a newt on the floor, very dead. Pickled it and put it on my desk. Obviously.
Dining a la Rus. How dull. Prior to about 1815-1820, if there was a large meal it was eaten all together. The table was laden with starters, main course, sides, puddings, sweets and fruit all in a muddle and guests filled their plates with whatever they liked in whatever order they wished. In 1815 some eminent fop visited some aristo in Russia where he was served his meal in set courses. The sod brought this idea back to the London society swells and dining has gone down hill ever since.
I could be right or wrong, but I blame dining a la Rus for two secondary sins: firstly, that of shaming breakfast into a sad little meal that is only allowed to consist of bread or cereal or toast when it used to consist of anything it damn well pleased. And secondly for making spices something the English only use in cakes and biscuits. Ginger, cinnamon, cloves, allspice, nutmeg, saffron and mace: these used to grace breads, soups, glazed vegetables, stews, roasts, drinks and pies. Now? Fekking fruit cake - bleh.
Peppered beans and bacon, blueberry porridge with nutmeg, pork pie, mackerel and samphire pottage.
Wine, spiced apple juice, small ale.
And now: tinderboxes. I mention them only because no other bugger does - not in fiction nor on screen. How did you light that candle, Mr Strange, which you’re now extinguishing in such a theatrical manner? From a spill you say? And pray how did you light that spill? The answer in the end is that some poor bugger had to employ a tinderbox, a certain amount of swearing and a very heightened risk of self immolation as they beat a bit of flint against a sliver of steel and tried to catch the sparks on a bit of hemp. Now *that’s* prime time historical drama.
I dearly want a tinderbox, but couldn’t really justify spending twenty quid on a proper one. So instead I spent two quid on a little camping ferrous-rod. I tried lighting my first candle that way in the kitchen as there were less things to set fire to. The sparks, when I managed to produce any, went everywhere. Trying to direct them onto my little heap of cotton thread and newspaper shreds wasn’t really an option. But in the end that didn’t seem to matter as the sparks refused to light anything. As one would expect from a cheap bit of camping tat, the strike was uncomfortable to hold and smack with repeated violence. I eventually gave up, candle unlit. There’s probably an art to it.
There is candle wax fucking EVERYWHERE. It’s only been a week, and I do not blow out candles like Jonathan Strange. None the less, there’s wax on the desk, on my papers, my book, my lighter, my hands. I see why no one had carpets before the advent of electricity. I also bet no one had long nails. Or any sort of hair on their forearms. (Because I certainly don’t have either now.)
What else? Tuppenny purl. Fuck me but that’s one way to get hammered. The recipe I had was for mulled ale with sugar, ginger and gin. Not having any ginger or gin, I made up my own version: mulled ale with cloudy apple juice, cinnamon, pepper and brandy. It’s really tasty. And a bit lethal.
Desk paraphernalia. It’s amazingly gorgeously brilliant how many things one needs in the 18th C to write a letter. Desk or writing block, blotter, parchment, quill, penknife (a pen knife - for cutting nibs - how bloody dim am I that I didn’t suss that etymology sooner?) an ink bottle, an inkwell, nib-brush or rag, seal, sealing wax, candle, tinderbox. No wonder Ormskirk has all those little draws.
Pet en l'aire (badly in need of ironing).
I had decided that I wouldn’t listen to any music nor watch any film or TV (obviously). Last time I did this I allowed myself to watch a couple of dvds of 18thC stuff and told myself it was like socialising. This time there’s been none of that… But probably because the only words I’ve spoken to another human in a week have been ‘hi’ and ‘thank you’ to the postman, I cracked on Thursday eve and watched Garrow’s Law. (It’s an 18th C historical drama taken primarily from records from the Old Bailey, so it wasn’t that much of a transgression.) I maintain that if I had a cat to talk to or a faery servant who played music occasionally this would not be an issue.
Since I’ve spent two days in Regency gowns and two days in breeches and neckcloth, this week has felt far more 1820 than 1780. Although, I think unless you’re out in society and interacting with people, there’s probably little to chose between them: the forty years between seemed to have been spent gentrifying the last throws of Georgian bawdiness into Regency manners. (I suppose also that at least in a Regency gown a girl might bend with more ease... I take that back - Georgian stays were usually reed-lined and only half-ribbed in that manner so were pretty bendy - more bendy than my modern fully steel-boned waist-training corset at any rate!)
A final note: these days it seems you can get by using any old tat. Buy your clothes from Primark and a third-hand computer off ebay? Sorted. To a point, quality has ceased to make such an impact. But I found in 1780/1820, the quality of *everything* has an impact. If your ink is too thin, it will run off the nib too quickly and you’ll be forever re-dipping it every third word of fat bleary letters. Similarly, poor paper can ruin a quill. Cheap candles burn too quickly, or drip or smoke. Poor quality food does not keep. Having tankards or cutlery made of the wrong materials will contaminate the taste of the food or ale. Badly made flints will not strike... And you will notice every single one of these failings.
Me, a la Strange, obviously off to find a sharp knife and some dead Neapolitans.