Yesterday was the Wednesday of Holy Week—the week leading up to Easter Sunday, one of the two days—the other is Good Friday—when Gregorio Allegri’s setting of Psalm 51, beginning “Miserere mei, Deus--Have mercy on me, O God,” was sung as part of the Tenebrae service in the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Composed in the 1630s for Pope Urban VIII, it soon became famous for its ethereal ornamentation but for almost a hundred and fifty years succeeding popes and papal musicians jealously guarded the score. In 1770, a fourteen-year-old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart visited Rome and was so struck by the music that he later wrote it down from memory, a feat for which Pope Clement XIV rewarded him with the Chivalric Order of the Golden Spur.

​Listening yesterday evening to a recording of the Miserere, I was reminded of Catherine Wilmot's evocative portrayal of the Tenebrae service. Miss Wilmot was a young Irish woman who accompanied Lord and Lady Mount Cashell on their tour of the Continent in 1801-1803 during the brief peace with revolutionary France. Her journal, edited by Thomas U Sadleir M.A. was published in 1920 as An Irish Peer on the Continent. Here is what she says—spelling, punctuation etc are as in the original.
This ceremony[Tenebrae] coming late in the evening, every Lady is drest in deep mourning with a black veil, and is handed into the place set apart for her, the gentlemen sitting at the opposite side. Excepting the Altar there is no light, but there is sufficient to glimmer on the figures in the “Last Judgment” done by Michael Angelo and reckon’d one of the finest paintings in the world. This glimmering effect of yellow light upon the figures seem’d to fancifully set them in motion and gave an illusion to the scene particularly to a group of Angels to the Front, who held the last Trumpet and woke from their graves those who were represented in every gradation of preternatural change…………The ceremonies began by the lamentations of Jeremiah and ended by the Miserere which was perform’d by innumerable Musicians, in so heavenly a manner, and in such heartrending strains, heaving through the sweetest chords, broken and scatter’d, from the spirit of contrition with such angelic force, that it seem’d a celestial intercourse which reach’d the skies, to absolve the sins, which humiliation acknowledged through those deeply plaintive and slow expiatory peals!
There are many recordings of the Miserere available. Here is a short extract which I have chosen because it was recorded in the Sistine Chapel and shows some of the frescos.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6t5fEnPtYzs
And here is the full version, sung by the choir of New College, Oxford
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3s45XOnYOIw
​
​Image of the Last Judgment is from Wikipedia.

Born in 1796, Princess Charlotte of Wales was the only child and heir presumptive of the Prince Regent, later King George IV. With the direct line dependent on this single thread, and her father’s brothers either unwed or childless, the royal matchmakers were out in force as soon as she approached adulthood. In 1814 an initial engagement to the Prince of Orange, heir to the throne of the Netherlands, came to nothing but in its February 1816 issue, the popular ladies’ magazine, La Belle Assemblée, chose as the subject of its series Biographical Sketches of Illustrious and Distinguished Characters, a German princeling, Leopold George Christian, Prince of Saxe-Cobourg.
Unusually, the article was not accompanied by a portrait of the prince but of Princess Charlotte and the editors lost no time in coming to the point. We are to present our readers with a demi-official announcement of a proposed alliance which, it is said, will be instantly submitted for the approval of Parliament. It is confidently stated that a matrimonial arrangement has actually taken place, in behalf of the presumptive heiress of the British throne, on the one part,—and a Prince of the house of Saxe-Cobourg on the other.
The remainder of the article was devoted to the prince’s antecedents— the house of Saxe Saalfeld Coburg is one of the most ancient and illustrious in Germany—, tracing his descent from Charles, Duke of Lorraine, sixth in descent from Charlemagne and concluding with a brief description of Cobourg itself, while also affirming that the protestant cause has still met with staunch supporters in that illustrious house. 

 Royal Wedding Fever had broken out. In the March issue, we are presented with the Saxe-Cobourg Robe for Evening Full Dress (above).  The robe (the pink overdress) is worn over a white satin slip flounced with crape and finished with blond. The headdress is described as a bridal veil, fastened with a brooch of pearl and pink topazes. Also popular this month are the Cobourg hat, formed of the finest whalebone transparently white, and  the Leopold turban of white satin, formed in front like the Neapolitan cap, with a large, flat feather declining backwards. None of this items had anything to do with the national dress of the Cobourg inhabitants (right) but, then as now, a royal connection could only be beneficial to a dress designer.

​The April issue of the magazine opens with a biographical sketch of the bridegroom accompanied by a portrait engraved by special permission from a Drawing made purposely for this work from the very fine Bust modelled at the express desire of Government, by P Turnerelli, Esq. and which is not only considered as an exquisite production of art, but also a most excellent portrait similitude of the illustrious original. A fine work it may be, but it certainly suggests that he is much older than twenty-six!

The date of the wedding was 2 May. ​In its May issue, La Belle Assemblée first regales its readers with a plate of the Cobourg Walking Dress and Oatlands Hat (below)-an allusion to the happy couple's honeymoon destination of  Oatlands’ Palace in Surrey). 

But that is not all. The editor continues: As we have been gratified with a sight of the wedding dresses of this amiable and illustrious female, a particular yet concise account of them cannot but be acceptable to our fair readers. The Royal Bride, happy in obtaining him whom her heart had selected, and whom consenting friends had approved, wore on her countenance that tranquil and chastened joy which a female so situated could not fail to experience. Her fine, fair hair, elegantly yet simply arranged, owed more to its natural, beautiful wave than to the art of the friseur. It was crowned with a most superb wreath of brilliants, forming rose-buds with their leaves.
There followed detailed descriptions not only of the bridal dress, but also of nine further dresses made on this happy occasion as well as a travelling dress of white corded silk with a white satin pelisse trimmed with ermine and an elegant white satin hat ornamented with blond [lace] and a beautiful plume of white feathers.
The Cobourgs, as they came to be called, returned to town for the Drawing-Room held by her Majesty on 16 May to receive the congratulations on the marriage of her Royal Grand-daughter with Prince Leopold. It was, La Belle Assemblée tells us, one of the most splendid assemblages of royalty, nobility, beauty, and fashion that has ever been witnessed in this kingdom. Over ten-and-a-half-pages, the magazine lists the attendees and the presentations before describing the dresses of the royal family and selected members of the nobility and gentry. 

The couple married not in a church or chapel but in the crimson drawing room at Carlton House, the London Residence of the Prince Regent, shortly after nine p.m. on the evening of 2 May 1816. Rather oddly, the magazine’s description of the ceremony comes last; It is included in its Monthly Miscellany, where two pages are devoted to it. The crowd was particularly great from Charing-cross to the neighbourhood of Carlton House and the Queen’s Palace [Buckingham Palace] we are told, where the Princess dined and dressed. Later, the Queen and the Princesses Charlotte, Augusta, Elizabeth, Mary and Sophia of Gloucester travelled in two carriages to Carlton House, escorted by a party of life guards. The crowd in the Park exceeded all description. The great crimson room…..had been previously fitted up for the occasion with a temporary altar and other items from the Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace.     The whole of the foreign ambassadors and ministers were specifically invited…….to enable them to report the same to their different courts. Apart from members of the royal family and the foreign ambassadors, the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon and the great officers of the household were present. Her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte advanced to the altar with much steadiness and went through the ceremony with great clearness, so as to be heard distinctly by every person present. The Prince Leopold was not heard so distinctly. Following a round of congratulations, the bride and bridegroom retired arm in arm, and soon after set off for Oatlands, which they reached at ten minutes before twelve.

The June issue opens with a portrait of the bridal couple returning from the altar, paired with the wish that this charming Princess and her illustrious partner may long continue to enjoy that delightful union of sentiment, and that unchanging love which they pledged at the altar. And may the silken and flowery bands of Hymen be every succeeding hour more firmly entwined by the strong and indissoluble ties of mutual constancy and increased esteem.
However, fickle fashion has already moved on. The fashion plates are for British Walking Dress and Parisian Promenade Hats, with no mention of the Cobourgs. 

Apart from the extremely purple prose, the magazine's coverage of the royal wedding was very similar to that of today. The main difference in the celebrations between then and now, I think, is the private nature of the  ceremony itself. There was no walk down the aisle of a packed church to a bridegroom waiting impatiently at the altar. As with so many other traditions, this appears to have originated with Queen Victoria in 1840 who arrived in a procession of carriages from Buckingham Palace to the Chapel Royal at St James’s Palace for her marriage to Prince Albert, incidentally the nephew of our Prince Leopold, by now King of the Belgians, who acted as matchmaker.

The above print dating from 1810 to 1819 beautifully captures the Regency waltz, a dance that did not meet with universal approval in its day, as is evident from the accompanying verses, by Sir H.E. Bart.

Sir H. E., was soon identified as Sir Henry Englefield, a gentlemen who at the time of writing had passed his sixtieth birthday, so perhaps the pretty waltzers were not overly put out by this rejection.  An anonymous author however soon sprang to their defence.

 Lady Caroline Lamb reported morning dancing parties to practise waltzes and quadrilles in Melbourne House in 1812. It was at this time that she met Byron and they plunged into a passionate affair. Unable to dance himself due to his club foot, he forbade her to waltz and early in 1813, published anonymously a two hundred line satire called The Waltz. It takes a swipe at many of the political issues of the day, but does not fail to emphasise the unseemly nature of the dance.

Above, dancing at Vauxhall Gardens.
​Byron provided a covering letter to his verse, purporting to be from the author, Horace Hornem, who describes his surprise on arriving at a ball,
 to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a hugh hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round and round to a d____d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the “Black Joke,” only more “affettuoso,” till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so.  By-and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down;—but no; with Mrs. H’s hand on his shoulder, “quam familiariter,” (as Terence said, when I was at school,) they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cock-chafers spitted on the same bodkin.  I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina said, “Lord!  Mr. Hornem, can’t you see they’re valtzing?” or waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper-time.
But the advance of the waltz was not to be halted.  In 1814, it stormed Almack's sacred precincts and by 1816, Thomas Wilson attempted to tame it in his Description of the Correct Method of Waltzing. Here he sets out detailed instructions for a series of 'attitudes' or figures, as they would be called today. Couples should form a circle and follow the same sequence of attitudes, he suggests, thus turning the waltz into a communal dance and robbing it of the dangerous individuality and opportunity for illicit intimacy otherwise afforded to each couple. The waltz is now generally considered chaste in comparison with Country DANCING, Cotillions, or any  other species of DANCING, he concluded triumphantly. ​

Wilson's various positions (above) are depicted very sedately, unlike  the sensuous movement of the other  prints. 
 On 16 July 1816, the Times reported: We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe for the first time) at the English court on Friday last … it is quite sufficient to cast one’s eyes on the voluptuous intertwining of the limbs and close compressor on the bodies in their dance, to see that it is indeed far removed from the modest reserve which has hitherto been considered distinctive of English females. So long as this obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses, we did not think it deserving of notice; but now that it is attempted to be forced on the respectable classes of society by the civil examples of their superiors, we feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion
Cruikshank's  Cyprian's Ball at the Argyle Rooms, below, suggests the real waltz. While the women belonged to the demi-monde, many of  their male partners would also have moved in court circles.

In my novel Perception & Illusion, set in 1813/14, I use the waltz as a barometer of the fluctuating relationship between Hugo and Lallie. Here is its first appearance:
Where the devil had Lallie learnt to waltz? One shoulder propped against the wall of his sister’s ballroom, Hugo watched with a disenchanted eye as his wife twirled gracefully around the floor with Luke Fitzmaurice, bending and turning, their arms raised to permit now one, now the other to pass under. He knew the waltz was all the rage but, damn it, could she not have told him she was taking lessons? They could have learnt together if it came to that. As the dance progressed he became more irate, especially when the couple danced side to side, both facing away but with flirtatious backwards glances. Now Fitzmaurice turned her so that they both stepped forward, her back to his torso. Hugo clenched his teeth at the sight.

As the century wore on, the waltz became both faster and simpler. Gone were Wilson's nine attitudes that were to be danced almost balletically. In came the closed position and revolving steps that continue to distinguish it today.  

Above:Presenting the Trophies (1815,  Rowlandson)

To be hoffähig, that is to have the right to be presented at court, defined your place in society in nineteenth century England. During the long eighteenth century, access to court seems to have been more or less self-regulated. Provided you were well-bred, of good repute and possessed of sufficient fortune to array yourself in court dress, an introduction could be yours. You could only be presented by somebody who had previously been presented and this, together with the instinct of all elites to safeguard their privileges, appears to have been sufficient to see off any encroaching mushrooms.
 Belinda, heroine of Maria Edgeworth’s eponymous novel of 1801, has come to stay with the fashionable Lady Delacour for the Season. Her aunt is desirous that she should go to court, and make a splendid figure there and her ladyship informs her, You must go to the drawing-room with me next week, and be presented—as it is the first time, you must be elegantly dressed, and you must not wear the same dress on the birthnight.
By the ‘birthnight’ she means the birthnight court ball held to mark royal birthdays, a glittering if highly regimented occasion where the minuet was danced by one couple at a time, in strict order of precedence. When the minuets were over, two or three country dances were danced but not by the whole company. It is likely that Belinda would not have danced at all, but would have been among the spectators.
 As George III’s health declined and his Queen grew older, the custom of holding regular drawing-rooms and balls faded until there was a period of almost two years between June 1810 and April 1812 when no drawing-room was held at all. The fashionable world did not grind to a halt but, as recorded in the Annual Register for the year: 30 April. The Queen held a drawing room at St. James's Palace. It being the first which her Majesty has held since the King's birth day in 1810, and there having been no Court for the ladies during a lapse of nearly two years, great preparations were made by the higher ranks for their appearance on this occasion.” 

Going to court required court dress. Belinda’s aunt sends her a draught on her banker for two hundred guineas. 'You will, I trust, repay me when you are established in the world; as I hope and believe, from what I hear from Lady Delacour of the power of your charms, you will soon be, to the entire satisfaction of all your friends. This was a huge sum, the equivalent of almost sixteen thousand pounds today, but, as the novel shows, it was enough to pay only for the ball-gown. Belinda must ‘let her ladyship bespeak for her, fifty guineas' worth of elegance and fashion’ for the drawing-room itself. And all this for gowns that Belinda would probably never wear again because court dress was very different to fashionable dress.

Above, left court gown 1795 and right ball dress and walking dress 1808

Although by the turn of the nineteenth century, the fashion was for light gowns reminiscent of ancient Greece and Rome, the Queen clung to the old elaborate confections of richly trimmed silks and satins supported by the obsolete hoop, described by The Morning Chronicle in January 1795 and deplored by the Persian Ambassador, Abul Hassan in 1810 who recorded the Queen’s ladies as standing from waist to toe in full-blown tents while from waist to shoulders the dresses were closely fitted. As can be seen from Rowlandson's picture at the top of this post, an unfortunate attempt was also made to marry the regency fashion for high-waisted, low-cut  gowns with the court requirement for hoops.
It was only in 1820, after the death of Queen Charlotte, that the Prince Regent changed the regulations for court dress, doing away with hoops but retaining the requirement for a lady to wear a train, lace lappets and feathers. Below, Court Dress, July 1824.

In 1810, Abul Hassan noted in his journal that No member of a family touched by scandal is received at court. By the reign of Queen Victoria, the rules regarding eligiblity had ben formalised, perhaps due to the rise of the middle classes.
The etiquette manual The Habits of Good Society (1859) sets out who can be presented at Court. Apart from the wives and daughters of the nobility and gentry, wives and daughters of the clergy, of military and naval officers, of physicians and barristers can be presented. These are the aristocratic professions, but the wives and daughters of general practitioners and of solicitors are not entitled to a presentation. The wives and daughters of merchants, or of men in business (excepting bankers), are not entitled to presentation. Nevertheless, though many ladies of this class were refused presentation early in this reign, it is certain that many have since been presented. No divorcee, nor lady married, after having lived with her husband or with any one else before her marriage, can be received.
The notices of drawing-rooms also became more elaborate. What had once been a simple announcement in The Gazette, such as this one from  21 December 1816: Notice is hereby given, that Her Majesty’s birth-day which falls on the 18th of January, will be celebrated by a Drawing-Room at The Queen's Palace, on the 6th of February and that the birth-day-of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent will also be celebrated by a Drawing-Room at Her Majesty's Palace, on St George's Day, the 23d of April, by 1864 had become much more dictatorial.

As the century progressed, the regulations became stiffer and stiffer. According to Etiquette for Ladies (undated) A spinster must appear with two, and a married lady with three,  feathers so disposed on her head that they are visible from the front, and with two long lappets of tulle or lace (two yards in length) flowing from the back of the hair. She must wear a low bodice and short sleeves, and a train coming either from the waist or the shoulders, not less than three yards in length. The gloves must be white and never tinted with a colour except in cases of mourning, when black or lavender are allowed. Her train spread out behind her by two lords-in-waiting, she must approach the throne, curtsey as low as possible so as almost to kneel. The Queen kisses her on the forehead if is she is a peeress or peer’s daughter or extends her hand to be kissed if the lady is a commoner.

In the above picture of a presentation to Queen Victoria in 1849, both queen and debutante have removed the glove from their right hand for this ceremony. This contact of skin to skin appears to have been an essential part of a presentation and was, perhaps, a hearkening back to feudal oaths of allegiance. In a letter to his step-daughter Miss Orde of October 1837, the great recorder of the age, Thomas Creevey, wrote: ….the Queen was told that I had not been presented, upon which a scene took place that to me was truly distressing, The poor little thing could not get her glove off…….she blushed and laughed and pulled, till the thing was done, and I kissed her hand.

 Etiquette for Ladies continued the description of a presentation as follows: The lady then rises, curtsies to the Prince of Wales and any other members of the Royal family who are present and passes on, keeping her face towards the Queen, and leaving the room in a succession of curtsies.
We must hope she is successful. Manners for Women (1897) records, among other cautionary tales,  the dreadful fate of the lady, the heel of whose shoe caught in her skirts and who as a result could not get up after her curtsey. She had to be carried from the Presence Chamber after the manner of the old game of “Honey Pots, causing Queen Victoria to smile broadly. Her Majesty, it appears, could on occasion be amused.

My husband and I have enquiring minds and a wide range of interests. Whether we are on holidays or just out for a day, our rule is that we stop for antique shops, flea-markets, car boot sales and second hand book shops. You never know what you will find.
Ten days ago, while driving back to Dublin from the Hook Peninsula in Co. Wexford we followed a sign for antiques, salvage and bric-à-brac down a side road, onto an even smaller road and finally up a leafy country lane to a farm where a wealth of curiosities were displayed higgledy-piggledy in the downstairs rooms and the yard. That is where I found the drawing above—a very speaking likeness of a Georgian gentleman. Turning it over, I found this inscription written in what looked like chalk on a blackboard.

Back at home, I googled his lordship and here is where it became really interesting. The Earldom of Landaff was indeed created for Francis Matthew in 1797. According to Burke’s Peerage of 1830, Francis was married three times; first on 6 September 1764 to Ellis or Elisha Smythe then to Catherine, second daughter of the first Earl of Massereene. Catherine died without issue in 1796 and Francis's third wife, the unnamed daughter of Jeremiah Coghlan esq did not bear him any sons. He died on the 30th July 1806 and was succeeded by Francis James, his eldest son by Elisha. Francis James died without issue in 1833. His two younger brothers predeceased him, there were no sons from his father’s second and third marriages and the title became extinct although the lands passed to Francis James’s sister Lady Elisha.
So who was 'my' Arnold Nesbit? Did he ever exist? In 1898, one Arnold Harris Mathew arrived on the scene,  claiming he was the fourth ‘de jure Earl of Landaff’, as the grandson of Arnold Nesbit who, he said, was the son of Francis and Elisha, born a skimpy five and a half months after their wedding. According to Arnold Harris, Arnold Nesbit's birth was concealed due to these shameful circumstances. He was raised by a maternal uncle of his father and later went to India and died there. Arnold Harris gives the place of death as Chandernagore and the place of burial as Chinsurah.
Doubly intrigued, I carefully removed the blackboard back of the picture to reveal this, clearly the source of the blackboard inscription and the reason for the misspellings in it.

The next step was to see if there was any further information on the portrait itself. I was afraid I would damage the backing if I tried to open it myself and took the framed picture down to our local framers, appealing for help with some detective work. They kindly obliged, but their efforts led to no new discovery and I am left wondering who the handsome man in the portrait was and why some unknown person identified him as Arnold Nesbit. Any thoughts?

The formalities for taking one’s seat in the House of Lords changed in 1621. Until then a new peer was personally invested by the sovereign, similar to the way a knighthood is conferred today, but now it was decided that each new peer must be formally introduced to the House although in 1663 this requirement was waived for those who were peers by descent. 1678 saw a further change, when the Second Test Act required all members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons to take the oath of supremacy [of the sovereign over the Church of England] and oath of allegiance at the Table of the respective Houses of Parliament. In addition, before taking their seats members were required to make a "Declaration against Popery", denouncing Transubstantiation, the Mass and the invocation of saints as idolatrous. In 1701, an oath of abjuration which required members to swear support for the Hanoverian succession was added to the mix.
 
The swearing-in of a new peer by descent seems to have been a low-key affair. On 11 March 1791, according to the Journal of the House of Lords, This Day John Earl Talbot, and George Brydges Lord Rodney took the Oaths, and made and subscribed the Declaration, and also took and subscribed the Oath of Abjuration, pursuant to the Statutes. The ceremony for the introduction of a newly created peer was more elaborate and on 28 June 1814 the House witnessed an unprecedented spectacle when, as the Annual Register tells us,  the Duke of Wellington appeared for the first time in the House of Lords since his well-merited elevation to the peerage of Great Britain.
 
On 16 April 1809 the then Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley, newly appointed head of the British forces in Portugal, embarked for what became known simply as The Peninsula. As he chased the occupying French army out of Portugal, and pursued it through Spain and into France, his successes were marked by a series of honours. Following victory at Talavera in July 1809, he was elevated to the peerage as Viscount Wellington of Talavera and of Wellington with the subsidiary title of Baron Douro of Wellesley. He was created Earl of Wellington after Ciudad Rodrigo in January 1812, Marquess of Wellington after the liberation of Madrid the same year and Marquess of Douro and Duke of Wellington following the battle of Toulouse and Napoleon’s abdication in 1814.
 The Annual Register continues: Shortly after three o'clock, the Lord Chancellor having taken his seat, and a numerous assemblage of Peers being present, the illustrious Wellington was introduced with every possible formality which the occasion admitted and which he so justly merited. The Duke of Wellington entered, supported by the Dukes of Richmond and Beaufort, in military uniform, and in their ducal robes. Being arrived in the body of the house, the Duke made the usual obeisance to the lord chancellor, and showed his patent and right of summons: the illustrious personage then approached the table, where his grace's various patents, as baron and viscount, earl, marquis, and lastly as duke, were each read by the clerks. The oaths were then administered, and the Test Rolls were signed by him. He then, accompanied by his noble supporters, took his seat on the dukes' bench, and saluted the house in the usual manner, by rising, taking off his hat, and bowing respectfully.
The report adds that On this interesting occasion the Duchess of Wellington and Countess of Mornington were present and the honours conferred upon a conqueror were witnessed by those to whom he was most endeared a mother and a wife.
After an address by the Lord Chancellor, ‘pursuant to their lordships’ order’, to which the Duke replied, evidently under strong and laudable feelings of embarrassment…. His Grace then retired to unrobe. He wore a field marshal's uniform, with his insignia of the Garter. On his return into the house, he sat for a few minutes on the extremity of one of the benches, and then retired for the evening.

Above: Lord Arturo Marchese Douro e Duca di Wellington at the height of his fame, portrayed by the Italian artist G B Bosio.

Above all I love a masquerade; because a female can never enjoy the same liberty anywhere else. It is delightful to me to be able to wander about in a crowd, making my observations, and conversing with whomsoever I please without being liable to be stared at or remarked upon, and to speak to whom I please, and run away from them the moment I have discovered their stupidity.
    These words of the renowned Regency courtesan Harriette Wilson sum up the excitement and informality of the Regency masquerade. In her memoirs she devotes several pages to that famous masquerade which was given by the members of Wattier's club, to all the nobility in England, in honour of peace between Great Britain and France, which occurred prior to my leaving England. It was the most brilliant assemblage I had ever witnessed.
    Not only nobility were present. The three Wilson sisters, Harriette, Amy and Fanny Dubouchat, all fashionable impures, were invited but their friend and rival, Julia Johnstone, who together with Harriette and Fanny made up the notorious ‘Three Graces’, had to beg for an entrance ticket. Finally Lord Hertford offered her one provided she went in boy’s clothes. Harriette continues: Julia was very shy and did not like boy's clothes; but Julia's legs were perhaps the handsomest in Europe, and then Julia knew there was no remedy.
    No expense was spared on the costumes, which were made by the fashionable Stultz of Clifford Street, tailor to the Prince Regent and Beau Brummell. We asked Stultze's advice about a modest disguise for Julia, and he referred us to a book full of drawings therein exhibited, the dress of an Italian or Austrian peasant-boy and girl, I forget which; but I remember that Julia wore black satin small-clothes, plaited very full, round the waist, a la Cossaque, fastened tight at the knee, with a smart bow, fine, black, transparent silk stockings, black satin shoes, cut very short in the quarters, and tied with a large red rosette, a French cambric shirt, with beautifully small plaited sleeves, a bright blue, rich silk jacket without sleeves, trimmed, very thick, with curiously wrought silver bell-buttons, and a plain, round black hat, with a red silk band and bow.
    I, as Julia's fair companion, was to wear a bright, red, thick silk petticoat, with a black satin jacket, the form of which was very peculiar and most advantageous to the shape. The sleeves were tight, and it came rather high upon the breast. It was very full-trimmed, with a double row of the same buttons Julia wore. My shoes were black satin, turned over with red morocco; my stockings were of fine blue silk, with small red clocks; my hat was small, round, and almost flat, the crown being merely the height of a full puffing of rich pea-green satin ribbon. The hat was covered with satin of the same colour, and placed on one side at the back of the head. The hair was to fall over the neck and face in a profusion of careless ringlets, and, inside my vest, an Indian amber-coloured hankerchief.
    Stultze brought home our dresses himself in his tilbury, on the morning of the masquerade, being anxious that we should do him credit. Everything fitted us to a hair. The crowd was expected to be immense, and we were advised to get into our carriage at five in the afternoon, as, by so doing, we should stand a chance of arriving between nine and ten o'clock, at which hour the rooms were expected to be quite full. Fanny chose the character of a country house-maid. She wore short sleeves to show her pretty arms, an Indian, glazed, open, coloured gown, neatly tucked up behind, a white muslin apron, coloured hankerchief, pink glazed petticoat, and smart, little, high, muslin cap. What character in the name of wonder did Amy choose? That of a nun, forsooth!
    Harriette estimated that about five thousand people attended the masquerade.  Byron’s friend Hobhouse who went in Albanian dress puts the number at seventeen hundred which seems more likely. Is that a boy, or a girl, think you?" was the question from every mouth, as Julia and I passed them. "The leg is a boy's, the finest I ever saw," said one; "but then that foot, where shall we find a boy with such delicate feet and hands?" Still it remained a puzzle, and everybody seemed undecided as to the sex of Julia. I waltzed and danced quadrilles with half the young ladies and gentlemen in the room.
    Later she has an intriguing encounter with A gentleman, in a rich white satin, Spanish dress, and a very magnificent plume of white ostrich-feathers in his hat………..I liked his voice, and there was something romantic throughout this little adventure which pleased me. I was in high spirits, and the mask's beautiful dress was set off by a very fine person: and so, when he again insisted on more kisses, I candidly confess I never once dreamed of calling out murder.
    After supper, she tells us,  I was in my glory, and determined to enjoy myself in perfect freedom. I chatted with everybody who addressed me, just long enough to ascertain that they were uninteresting people. At last I found myself in the still quiet room I have before described. It was entirely deserted, save by one solitary individual. He was habited in a dark brown flowing robe, which was confined round the waist by a leathern belt, and fell in ample folds to the ground.
   The solitary individual was Lord Byron and after a high-flown exchange, she asks "Do you wish to leave me now, then?"
   "Yes."
   "Thank you for being candid, and God bless you, dear Lord Byron," said I, this time raising up my mask, that I might press his hand to my lips.
   "Amuse toi, bien, mon enfant" said Lord Byron, drawing away his hand from my mouth, to give me an affectionate kiss.
      Byron, according to his own account, had a less pleasant encounter with Lady Caroline Lamb, feeling obliged to talk to her, for she laid hold of Hobhouse, and passed before where another person and myself were discussing points of Platonism; so frequently and remarkably, as to make us anticipate a scene ; and as she was masked, and dominoed, and it was daylight, there could be little harm, and there was at least a probability of more quiet. Not all I could say could prevent her from displaying her green pantaloons every now and then; though I scolded like her grandfather upon these very uncalled for, and unnecessary gesticulations.”
    Harriette ends the evening with the wealthy MP Richard Meyler who had pestered her sister all evening to point out Harriette. At last he finds her. Meyler examined my hand and nails attentively, and then called me by my name. "I could swear to this hand anywhere; but how you have tormented me to-night," said Meyler. The novelty of my dress seemed to make the impression on Meyler, which a new woman might be expected to make on a man, who, like him, was so fond of variety. He was quite in raptures, and refused to leave my side an instant during the remainder of the evening, lest any famous knight-errant should carry me off in a balloon.
    At eight o'clock in the morning an excellent breakfast was served. It consisted of coffee, tea and chocolate; and, when I returned home at half-past nine o'clock, I heartily wished that the whole fete would begin again.
 
Sources: The Memoirs of Harriette Wilson, Written By Herself, 1825
Recollections of a Long Life John Cam Hobhouse 1909/11
Lord Byron’s letter of 2 July 1814 to Lady Melbourne.

 Above: Masquerade. Tom and Bob keeping it up in real character from REal Life In London 1821

Fans of Georgette Heyer will recall Lord Vidal’s efforts to locate an English ‘divine’ in France so that he could marry Mary Challoner without causing any breath of scandal to be attached to her fair name, and the resulting wonderful denouement in Dijon which has to be one of Heyer's most thrilling and comic scenes. But Vidal was heir to the dukedom of Avon. Would such a hasty marriage in an inn parlour in the middle of France have been valid? Would a rapidly scribbled marriage certificate that was not backed by an official register of marriages as provided for in Hardwicke’s Marriage Act have sufficed to prove the legitimacy of Vidal’s own son and heir? And what of Vidal’s own parents’ ad hoc marriage by a catholic parish priest in Anjou twenty-four years previously? Would that have been recognised in England?
Vidal, of course, eventually married at the British Embassy in Paris and it is more than likely that the Duke of Avon also arranged for a second ceremony there when he returned to Paris with his new wife. But for both couples, as for all other British couples who married abroad prior to March 1816, the record of their marriage was not kept at home. Should marriage lines be lost, the only way to prove the ceremony had taken place was by appealing to the relevant Anglican chaplaincy abroad in the hope that proper records had been maintained.
 
The aftermath of the fall of Napoleon saw British troops stationed in France and a rush of British travellers to the continent with a resulting increase in demand for these chaplaincies’ services. On 23 March 1816 the Deputy Registrar of the Bishop of London, who was responsible for foreign chaplaincies, inserted the following notice in The London Gazette, The Times and The Morning Chronicle:
FOREIGN MARRIAGES, &c. &c.
Bishop of London's Registry, No. 3", Godliman Street, Doctor's-Commons.
THE Lord Bishop of London having been applied to, in numerous instances, to permit foreign marriages, births, and burials' of British subjects to be recorded in his Registry, has permitted a book to be kept therein, in which the memorials of the same may be entered and preserved, at the request of such persons as are desirous thereof.
JOHN SHEPHARD, Dep. Reg.
 
Many returns were made by clergymen serving as chaplains at Embassies or on board ship. The first record is of a marriage at the British Embassy in Brussels on 6 April 1815 and the oldest is of a baptism in Brazil in 1788. The system of registration continued until 1924 and thirteen volumes known as the International Memoranda were filled. They are held at the Guildhall Library in London.
    
As an aside, according to the UK National Archives, ‘No merchant ship has ever been approved for marriages, although from 1854 any which took place had to be reported in the ship’s log. Any marriage which took place on board a merchant vessel was not legally valid.’ Looking at transcriptions of records of 219 marriages at sea from 1854 to 1972 compiled by TheShipsList from the Register of Marriages at Sea in the Public Record Office (ref: BT 334/117), it appears that shipboard marriages were generally solemnized by a clergyman and not by the  ship’s Master or Captain. There is plenty of room for confusion and food for novelists there!

 Lady Catherine de Burgh “If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up."
Miss Elizabeth Bennet “In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal."
Lady Catherine "True. You are a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition."
 
This Pride and Prejudice exchange epitomises the attitude to class in Regency England. From the beginning, children were taught to know their place in society. The catechism of the Church of England taught that it was part of their duty to their neighbour ‘to honour and obey the King, and all that are put in authority under him: To submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters: To order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters’.
    This teaching was expressed more simply and more drastically in 1848 in the hymn ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ by Mrs Cecil Alexander. The third verse, which today is frequently omitted, reads:
The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them high and lowly
And ordered their estate.
    To wish ‘to quit the sphere in which you had been brought up’ was, accordingly, to defy God’s will.
 
But who, in Jane Austen’s day, was a gentleman? Barclay’s English Dictionary published in 1813, defines the ‘Gentleman’ as: ‘A person of noble birth or descended of a family which had long borne arms. Chamberlain observes that, in strictness, a gentleman is one whose ancestors have been freemen, and have owed obedience to none but the prince; on which footing no man can be a gentleman but one who is born such. But among us, the term Gentleman is applicable to all above a yeoman; so that noblemen may be properly called gentlemen.’ However, Barclay seems to contradict this last pronouncement by defining ‘Gentry’ as ‘a rank of persons between the nobility and the vulgar’ and a ‘Gentlewoman’ as ‘a woman of birth, or one superior to the vulgar, both in wealth and behaviour’.
    So we have three criteria, birth, wealth and behaviour. While birth cannot be changed, wealth and behaviour may make up for a lack of it.
    In A Treatise on the Wealth, Power and Resources of the British Empire, published in 1814, Patrick Colquhoun classifies Gentry as ‘Baronets, Knights and Esquires, and Gentlemen and Ladies living on [unearned] Incomes’. Colquhoun puts the average annual income of this  last group at £800.
    Returning to Pride and Prejudice, Mr Darcy and Mr Bennet with annual incomes from their estates of £10,000 and £2,000 respectively are both gentlemen. Although Mr Bingley’s inherited fortune of £100,000 originated in trade, his proposed purchase of an estate together with his gentleman-like behaviour will move him and his family into the landed class. Mrs Bennet’s brother, Mr Gardiner, on the other hand,  ‘a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses’ and whose behaviour is eminently gentleman-like, is not a member of the gentry although his income quite likely equalled or exceeded that of his brother-in-law.

What was the minimum income necessary to be able to live as a gentleman? I recently discovered a treatise on Practical Domestic Economy published in 1823 which gives examples of 'practical estimates of household expenses' for different incomes. All are for a family of a husband, wife and three children. They are grouped into three sections:

• Ten estimates for families with annual incomes ranging from £62 to £125 per annum providing for articles of necessity only.
• Eight estimates for ‘families in a superior condition of life’, with annual incomes ranging from £150 to £750. As the incomes increase, we see the addition of servants, ranging from £3 per annum for ‘occasional charring’ at the lowest level to £40 per annum for ‘three maids and ‘one man as groom and footman’ at the top of the scale, and horses, ranging from ‘a horse and occasional groom @ £42 per annum for those with an annual income of £400  to ‘two horses@ £65/17s/6d plus a gig or other two-wheel carriage @ £12 for those with £750 at their disposal. The cost of their groom is included in the cost for servants.
• Seven estimates showing how ‘Gentlemen, by practical regulations, may best enjoy all the superior elegancies of life which their respective fortunes can attain.’ Incomes range from £I,000 to £5,000 per annum, the latter providing for an ‘Establishment of Thirteen Male and Nine Female servants, ten horses, a coach, a curricle and a Tilbury chaise of gig.’ And Mr Darcy’s income was twice that.
• The couples in the first group are described as ‘a man and his wife’, while those in the other groups are ‘a gentleman and his lady’.


• As a writer, I could not help wondering about the unfortunate gentleman trying to support his lady and three children on £150 per annum (below).

Why was his income so low? Had he made any attempt to augment it by working, say, as a clerk—he would presumably have learnt to write a good hand—or was it beneath him to seek employment? Was he sympathetic towards his wife? It is likely that she was a lady who had been taught how to manage servants but not how to do any house work herself and who now found herself responsible for all household tasks apart from the heavy scrubbing. Did he complain because their rooms were untidy and the meals not to his liking?
Indeed, if we imagine Mr Bennet dead and Wickham having once more had to resign his commission, it could well be him and Lydia trying to make ends meet on £150 per year. We can only be sorry for their children, if any.

PS If you are unfamiliar with old money and would like to know more about how Pounds, Shillings and Pence worked, do scroll down to the relevant blog and if you are interested in future blogs, please check out and like my Facebook page fb.me/catherinekullmannauthor

For centuries, London fashionable society flocked to Hyde Park to see and be seen so it is little wonder that when Bob Tallyho Esq. undertakes to show his country cousin the Hon. Tom Dashall Real Life in London  in the 1821 book of the same name, one of their first outings is to Rotten Row. You can see them above, Bob explaining all to Tom. Here, between the hours of four and seven in the afternoon, he might see the Pinks of the fashion both of the beau monde and the demi-monde, admire the Season's debutantes or catch the eye of a married lady.
    Here a keen equestrian might display his new ‘bit of blood’ or seek to impress his fellows and the ladies with his driving skills as he tooled his curricle or phaeton up and down the mile-long bridle path.  If he is fortunate, he might be able to persuade a young lady's mother to permit her to take a turn with him—a rare opportunity for a private conversation in this strictly chaperoned world.
    Or, if he is not yet ready to be caught in ‘parson’s mousetrap’, he can assess the offerings of the Birds of Paradise. The English Spy (1825) describes these  as ‘on foot, on horseback  and the more finished of the daughters of Pleasure lolling in their carriages, ogling and attracting by the witchery of bright eyes; the latter may, however, very easily be known, by the usual absence of all armorial bearings upon the panel, the chariot elegant and in the newest fashion, generally dark-coloured, and lined with crimson to cast a rich glow upon the occupant, and the servants in plain frock liveries, with a cockade, of course, to imply their mistresses have seen service.’

Built after William and Mary moved their court to Kensington Palace and lit by three hundred oil lamps, the ‘Lamp Road’ was the road by which the royal family and their courtiers travelled between London and the Palace. In 1737 George II ordered the construction of a new royal carriageway south of the old one. On its completion the old ‘Route du Roi’ was made into a bridle path that by 1780 was known as Rotten Row.
Initially used by riders and carriages alike, as we see above, by 1834 traffic had become so heavy that all carriages were banned with the exception of those of the monarch and the Duke of St. Albans, the Hereditary Grand Falconer, who took care to exercise this privilege once a year so that he did not lose it.
    A new carriage drive was created and it was here, according to the January 1835 issue of La Belle Assemblée,  on the ‘jewelled portion of this ring, between Grosvenor and Buckingham gates', that ‘streams of well-attired pedestrians, gallant horsemen and glittering equipages concentrated themselves into one channel’.  As a result, the author laments, “the glories of “The Gardens” are gone – Rotten Row is desolate and the banks of the Serpentine….are as green, as silent and as solitary as those of the Susquehannah!’ What a splendid sentence!

Glossary:
Pink of the fashion                  The top of the mode
Bit of blood                            A horse
Bird of Paradise                      An expensive courtesan
Daughter of Pleasure              A courtesan
to tool a carriage                   To drive a carriage
Parson's mousetrap                The state of matrimony

On 15 February 1971, the UK and Ireland decimalised their currencies, replacing Pounds (£), shillings (s) and pence (d)  with a  pound worth 100 New Pence. The £ sign was retained but new pence were denoted by  the symbol 'p', pronounced 'pee'. £1/10s was now £1.50p.
     The upcoming forty-fifth anniversary of 'Decimal Day' made me think about the supplanted £.s.d. -  'old money', the currency of my youth and a currency of interest to every reader and writer of historical fiction. To me, a budget set out like the one in the picture below makes perfect sense.  For those who are younger, it will be more of a puzzle. So here is a brief introduction to  £.s.d. and how we learnt to use it.

Pound comes from Latin libra pondo or ‘a pound by weight’ and the familiar £ sign is simply an old-fashioned capital L. s and d came from the Latin names of two Roman coins, the solidus and denarius.
    There were twenty shillings to the pound and twelve pence to the shilling, making 240 pence to the pound.
    Until 1817, the standard coins  were:
A guinea - a gold coin worth £1/1s or twenty-one shillings.
A crown - a silver coin worth 5s or five shillings
A half-crown - a silver coin worth 2s/6d or two shillings and sixpence
A shilling - a silver coin worth 12d or twelve pence
A sixpence -  a silver coin worth 6d or six pence
A threepence - a silver coin worth 3d or three pence
A penny -  a copper/bronze coin worth 1d
A halfpenny (pronounced ‘haypenny’ and frequently written ha’penny) - a copper/bronze coin worth half a penny.
A farthing - a copper/bronzer coin worth a quarter of a penny.

    As part of the great recoinage of 1817, the guinea was replaced by the sovereign which was a gold coin worth twenty shillings. Although the guinea eventually went out of circulation, into the twentieth century it continued to be the value of choice for professional fees e.g. those of doctors or barristers.  Even today, some transactions such as sales of horses and some auctions are carried out in guineas, now with an equivalent value of  £1.05p.
    A two shillings coin or 'florin' was first issued in 1849.
    Although still legal tender, crowns gradually went out of use in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and farthings ceased to be legal tender in 1960. The other coins from half-crown to halfpenny continued in use until decimal day.
                                                                     1889 Queen Victoria Crown 

 
  Suggested budget for a man, his wife and three children with an annual income of £62 in 1823.
    This was a family at the lowest end of the income scale. There is no provision for servants, not even occasional charring and tea is allowed 'once a day only'.


 
    How did we cope with such a complicated system? To begin with, we learnt the multiplication tables (up to twelve times twelve) by heart, including the monetary value by reciting them again and again e.g. :
    8 Ones are 8 pence
    8 Twos are 16 pence; 1 shilling and 4 pence
    8 Threes are 24 pence; two shillings
    In addition to simple arithmetic, we learnt to add, subtract, multiply and divide using monetary values, remembering always to divide the total number of pence by twelve to find out how many shillings were to be carried forward and then divide the total number of shillings by twenty to see how many pounds were to be carried forward. This was before calculators, so had to be done in our heads. Counting on fingers was frowned upon.
   In the example of addition below, I have noted the amount carried forward in brackets at the bottom line of the shillings and pounds columns. Although this was considered a rather babyish thing to do, it  helped you check your figures, especially in a long sum.
                  £          s          d
                  3          4          7
                  2          9          6
                            17        11
                  1(2)     8(2)       5
Total         8          0          5
    By and large, it was a cumbersome and outdated system and although some elderly people had problems with the change, in general people were glad to see it go. The transition to the new currency went very smoothly. I remember getting the bus on the morning of decimal day and all the passengers made a point of using the new currency,  saying, for example,  '5p' instead of 'a shilling' as if they had been using the new currency all their lives.

Broadside from 1803  The Treaty of Amiens has collapsed and Britain is once again at war with Napoleonic France.

Napoleon never succeeds in his ambition to invade England. Over the next twelve years, as he marches ever further eastwards, finally invading Russia, British forces defeat him at sea and begin to drive his army back from the occupied Iberian Peninsula. In 1812 he is forced to retreat from Russia with the loss of almost five hundred thousand men. In 1814 Wellington's army enters France, Napoleon abdicates and is exiled to Elba. The brief peace is shattered by his escape less than a year later. The French army rallies to him and he returns to  Paris in triumph on 20 March 1815 to reign for a final ‘hundred days’. Allied and French forces clash for the last time at Waterloo on 18 June 1815 when Napoleon is finally defeated.

Unlike the other combatants in this long war, Britain was spared the havoc wrought by an invading army and did not suffer under an army of occupation. The war happened off-stage and far away, with no news reaching home apart from that provided in official dispatches published in the Gazette and what little was contained in intermittent private letters.

But the war had to be paid for. The unpopular income tax, which was introduced for the first time in 1798 and abolished in 1802 after conclusion of the Peace of Amiens was reintroduced in 1803 as a ‘contribution of the profits arising from property, professions, trades and offices’. Trade was depressed by Napoleon’s continental blockade, leading  to increased unemployment and rising food prices.

And then there was the human cost, bitterly felt by families whose menfolk were fighting abroad but otherwise accepted as the price of victory.
 
 

I love staying at old inns. There is something cosy about their irregular small rooms, lit by deep-set windows and frequently decorated higgledy-piggledy with an eclectic assortment of furniture, curios and ornaments. They seem to have grown organically if not symmetrically over the centuries, adding on a few rooms below low ceilings supported by heavy beams black with age,  or responding in a haphazard way to new-fangled inventions such as electric light or the demand not only for indoor plumbing but also for en suite facilities. Many have risen to the challenge of the internet generation and offer Wi-Fi. It is intriguing to find twenty-first century technology in seventeenth century buildings.
    And yet they still harbour the ghosts of former days. This is particularly true of old coaching inns, where stables and coach houses have frequently been converted to bedrooms and charming flower gardens enliven what were once busy coach yards. And every so often, you stumble on something that casts a particular light on how they managed things in the past.
    We recently stayed at the Hotel de la Croix d’Or in Avranches, Normandy, a former coaching inn or relais de poste dating from the seventeenth century. To get to our room we had to go down a narrow corridor, out into the yard and up a wooden staircase to a door over the original entrance to the coach yard. Once here, we crossed a small passage to a door that apparently led us into the inn proper as we had to go down a step. Our room overlooked the street and behind it what might have been at some time a corridor leading to other rooms had been converted to a comfortable shower room with a separate wc. Beyond that was a private sitting area. From here we could look down into the garden (above)

In the hotel reception area I was fascinated by two large copper constructions, holding smaller saucepans. They were bains-marie. Said to have ben develped by an  alchemist known as Maria the Jewess, these ‘hot-water baths’ were later adopted by cooks as a convenient way of keeping things warm or cooking them slowly without overheating them.  The two at the Croix d’Or date from 1870. The smaller, with four saucepans was used previously to keep sauces warm, while the larger, with ten saucepans, (left) was used for coffee.  What an ingenious way of coping with the breakfast rush or a sudden influx of travellers all looking for coffee in the few minutes it took to change horses.