It shows, on the left, a weedy looking recruit being dragged up by the scruff of his neck – so that he is nearly on tip-toes – presumably in order that he satisfies the height requirements  of the Army at that time.

A soldier in his bicorn hat adjusts the measuring rod. Above is a notice  which states “SUBSTITUTES for the Army of Reserve” and what looks like “3s per man bounty” – i.e. three shillings per recruit . On the other side of the room sit three gentlemen – presumably the recruiting committee – observing proceedings. Two jackets and hats hang on the wall while the whole scene is observed by a gaggle of onlookers in the doorway.

A dog on its hind legs seems to be particularly attracted to whatever is in the coat jacket of the corpulent gentleman on the right. From the ceiling hangs what I take to be a bird-cage.

I see from Wikipedia that the Army of Reserve was formed in 1803 in order to counter the risk of a French invasion. In that year, 50 of the Army’s 93 regiments created a second battalion, to be known as the Army of Reserve. Paraphrasing the Wiki entry: In order to bring these units to full strength, 50,000 recruits were to be raised. None of the recruits were required liable to serve in overseas. The Reserve soldiers could volunteer as Regular soldiers, and in that case would be paid a monthly wage. Within one month of recruiting, 22,500 men had enlisted. By the end of 1803, it was short of the required 50,000 by 15,000; so the government stopped recruiting for it.

It was obviously a time of great fear and confusion – a time when the Martello Towers were being built along the South Coast, and improved fortifications developed at Dover. I rather like the image of John Bull surveying the preparations on the French Coast, shown courtesy of the Bodleian Library:

Puffing furiously on his Churchwarden clay pipe, John Bull mutters “You may all be Damned” – shades of Sir Winston Churchill puffing on his cigar and hurling invective at the enemy in the following century.

It was published by William Holland in 1803 and also appears on the British Museum site here.

I

A fuller and more likely explanation is that the plumber has been called in by the attractive young lady of the house because the brass tap, installed (according to the inscription) in the reign of George II, is splashing everywhere. The plumber carries a somewhat phallic set of tools and is followed closely by the woman’s much older husband. She is looking admiringly at the plumber and clearly feels that she can have more fun with him than with the old man – the title of the caricature does rather give the game away. All in all a typical piece of Rowlandson bawdy humour – I like to think of him as the precursor of the saucy Donald McGill postcards of the middle of the last century. Well drawn, but never subtle!

Thomas Rowlandson at the age of 70,by J T Smith (The Metropolitan Museum)

I was intrigued to see that Thomas Rowlandson had prepared three different etchings, all with the title of  ‘The Prospect Before Us’ and I thought I would have a closer look at all three.

First up, a caricature from December 1788 – a time when King George III was showing signs of mental illness and  was retreating from public life to his retreat at Kew. The obvious candidate for Regent may have been the Prince of Wales, but he was hugely unpopular with the government because of his links to the Foxite opposition. The Pitt administration apparently considered  promoting a regency involving Queen Charlotte. Her son, the furious Prince of Wales, lost no time in trying to whip up public consternation by linking the queen to a suggestion that she was unduly influenced by the unloved and unlovely Juliane Elisabeth von Schwellenberg (the Queen’s dresser). It also gave the Prince a chance to have a go at William Pitt – to suggest that he was trying to get his hand on the crown by sharing in the regency arrangements. So, the Prince employed Thomas Rowlandson to come up with this print – an assignment which Rowlandson accepted but he chose to use a pseudonym. So it was that ‘Tom Brown of Spa Fields Chelsea’ was credited as artist – a fictitious character at a non-existent address.  I say ‘fictitious’ – there was a satirist of that name who lived a century earlier and who had made a name for himself  lampooning the Upper Classes, so Rowlandson may have used him as his inspiration.

By way of explanation: the figure on the left is von Schwellenberg, known for being a close confidante and ‘gatekeeper’ to the queen by deciding who could or could not gain an audience with Her Majesty. Instead of wearing a muff she holds her hands under the Chancellors bag containing the Great Seal. She is a grossly fat and ugly figure, holding the Mace, as she turns to the Queen with the words “Take care to secure the jewels – I have hitherto been confine’d to the wardrobe but now I mean to preside at Council and with Billy’s assistance the name of Schwellenburg shall be trumpeted to the remotest corner of Rag Fair”. I rather like Fanny Burney’s description in her diaries of her time as joint Keeper of the Robes – she shared the role with ‘Swelly’. Fanny couldn’t stand her – with good reason. As someone has remarked, von Schwellenberg was ‘a peevish old person of uncertain temper and impaired health, swaddled in the buckram of backstairs etiquette.’

The queen is shown with her right foot trampling on the ostrich feathers of the Prince of Wales, alongside the words ‘My Son’s Rights’. She holds a notice proposing new taxation: ‘Taxes, 1789. By Billy’s Desire: Petticoats, Blue and Bluff cloth, Devonshire brown silk, Portland Stone, Fox Muffs (a reference to the various political opponents of Pitt, namely the Foxites with the blue and buff clothing, to Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, and to William, third Duke of Portland).

The Queen utters the words ’I know nothing of the matter. I follow Billy’s advice’ – ‘Billy’ being William Pitt, the Prime Minister. The Crown is split in half – shared between the Queen and William Pitt. The latter is holding the Queen’s scarf – as if it were a pair of riding reins. His speech bubble reads: ‘Behind this petticoat battery with the assistance of Uncle Toby I shall beat down the legal fortifications of this Isle and secure the Treasury at the next general election.’

He carries a poster reading ‘I think myself as much entitled to be Regent as the Prince of Wales.’ In the background are a group of individuals outside the Treasury building. One says ‘I never meddled with a petticoat before’ while the other, the turban-headed Warren Hastings gleefully announces  ‘My diamonds will now befriend me. Huzzah!’

There are versions of the print at both the British Museum and Metropolitan Museum sites. The same title of ‘The Prospect Before Us’ was then used in two drawings which Rowlandson did, under his own name, in 1791. The first appears on the V&A site here  and on the British Museum site here. In practice I am using the one from the Royal Collections site. In it, Rowlandson shows the scene from the back of the stage at the newly refurbished Pantheon building, looking past the performers towards the auditorium ,with the Royal Box in the centre. In practice the Pantheon in Oxford Street had originally been designed as an assembly hall, ballroom and as a general place to see and be seen. But when the King’s Theatre in The Haymarket was burned down in 1789 the Pantheon had been adapted as an opera house, opening  in February 1791 with a performance of Amphion et Thalie. Rowlandson probably drew this the month before the production opened, as a way of promoting it. The date of publication was  13 January 1791 and the publisher was S W Fores.

It is described as being ‘Respectfully Dedicated to those Singers Dancers and Musical Professors who are fortunately engaged with the Proprietor of the King’s Theatre at the Pantheon’ while the title appears at the top.

The pair of dancers are colourfully dressed and garlanded with feathers and  flowers, facing out towards a packed house – row after row – in what is shown as an eight-tier auditorium.

Right at the front the musicians are  playing – you can see the cellist on the right, next to a deaf gentleman who holds an ear-trumpet in his right hand.  The army officer in the front box, on the right of the picture, has eyes only for  the lady who accompanies him.

In the royal box the King and Queen are seated. The King appears to be gazing intently through his spyglass at something off to the side.

All around the auditorium the ladies are shown wearing large-brimmed hats, often decorated with feathers. Some are wearing muffs, and many show far more interest in observing other members of the audience then they do in watching what is going on upon the stage. All in all a lovely and absolutely typical Rowlandson, full of ‘stock images’  which he used regularly.

On the very same day, S W Fores published the third version of the Prospect Beyond, by Rowlandson, shown on the Metropolitan Museum site:

The inscription below reads ‘Humanely  inscrib’d to all those Professors of Music and Dancing whom the cap may fit.’ According to the Museum commentary: ‘(It) describes the difficulties of the Italian dancers and musicians, occasioned by the demolition of the Drury Lane theatre and subsequent construction of the Opera House in Haymarket, leading them to make a public appeal for charity. One of the figures carries a model of the new theatre’.

The model has the inscription ‘Pray Remember the Poor Dancers’. The wall of the building on the left has a poster bearing the words: ‘A new Fantoccini this Evening called Humbugallo in the Dumps, a Dance called the Battle of Brick-bats, to conclude with a grand crush by all the performers’ while the notice under the adjoining window reads ‘Breeches Balls, and all other kind of Sweetmeats by Michael Nincompoop.’ The British Museum site appears to identify some of the dancers, to include Auguste Vestris, Giovanna Sestini, Michael Novosielski and Mlle Hillisburgh.

Vestris by Thomas Gainsborough

Vestris was a brilliant dancer (and the son of an equally brilliant dancer) who had started to come to England from his native France in 1780 to appear at the King’s Theatre and had continued his association with that theatre for over ten years.

Novosielski was a Polish-born architect who designed the King’s Theatre – this painting of him by Angelica Kaufman shows him holding the architectural plans for the building.

Signora Sestini by Ozias Humphry

As for the soprano singer Giovanna Sestini she sang comic roles in Italian at the King’s Theatre during many seasons until the theatre was destroyed by fire in 1789.

I haven’t been able to find a Mlle Hillisburgh but a Mlle Hilligsburg looks to have been the intended person. She appears in another print published by S W Fores, dated 1798, also shown by the British Museum online. Their description is as follows: ‘An opera dancer dances with the left leg raised high, displaying herself to the inspection of Salisbury, the Lord Chamberlain, and Barrington, Bishop of Durham, who stand together stooping to peer under her petticoats. The stiff and awkward Salisbury supports himself by his staff, his gold key dangles from his coat; he says: “My Dear Madam if you raise your foot one quarter of an Inch higher it will be impossible for me to grant you a Licence”. The bishop, who wears a mitre and looks through a glass, exclaims: “No! No! No! Not a hair’s breadth higher for the World; such sights as these is the cause of so many Divorces”. The danseuse, who holds a garland of roses, says: “Vat! you see enof.”

The print came out on 28 May 1806 and as with so many of Gillray’s works, it was published by his partner Hannah Humphrey.  This particular version can be found on the Yale University Library site. The man knocking at the door is Lord Henry Petty (‘the petty new tax collector’) while Fox, with a large bag of cash marked ‘Poundage’ in his jacket pocket, uses both of his hands to point at the entries in the book, open at the words ‘New Taxes’. These are given as ‘Property Tax 10 per Cent, Small Beer Tax, Tax on Servant Maids, Iron tax [crossed out], new Malt Tax, Soap, Candles, new Window Tax, new Stamp Tax, Hats, Salt, Tobacco, Shoes, Shirts, stock[ings]’.

Poor John Bull has already felt the pinch and has been forced to move out of the ground floor of his home, reduced to having rooms on the upper floors. A sign beneath his window reads ‘John-Bull – late Dealer in the Shop-below – Moved Upstairs: NB – Porter-age done; Shoes clean’d &c.’. And while Lord Petty shouts ‘Taxes, Taxes, Taxes!’ John Bull responds angrily: ‘”Taxes? – Taxes? – Taxes? – why how am I to get Money to pay them all? – I shall very soon have neither a House, nor Hole to put my head in.”

Fox, unmoved, replies ” A house to put your head in? – why what the Devil should you want with a House? – hav’nt you got a first-Floor-Room to live in? – & if that is too dear, can’t you move into the Garret or get into the Cellar? – Taxes must be had, Johnny! – come down with your Cash  – its all for the good of your dear Country!”

At the bottom left of the picture a barrel of beer is inscribed with the words ‘Home-Brew’d Small-Beer Ten Shillings a Barrel Duty’. But Fox is all heart: he may be shown as taxing small beer but the ragged children drinking from the parish pump do so alongside an inscription which reads “New Brewery for the Benefit of the Poor – C.J. F – in ye Chair – Resolved . . .” and “Erected 1806 C.J Volpone  – Overseer”. ‘CJF ‘is of course Charles James Fox – as does ‘Volpone’. The name is taken from the Italian, meaning ‘sly fox’. In other words, the attitude of Fox was: if you can’t afford to drink beer, drink water. Shades of Marie Antoinette …

The children are bare-footed and the girl has just chewed a large chunk out of a giant turnip (i.e. cattle food). On the ground alongside the children they have put down their hoop-stick and hoop – taken from a barrel of beer and carrying the inscription ‘Whitbreads Entire,’

The shop has a small sign reading ‘This shop to let. Enquire of the Tax Gatherer’.  The window above it has been bricked up to escape the window tax, while on the top of the building, under the eaves, an emaciated feline with its back arched defiantly observes the scene unfold.

The window opposite is not shown but from it hangs  a tatty old shirt and stockings. On the far corner, the street lamp is broken, exposing the  mantle and lamp mechanism.

Behind Fox stands a horse and cart,  described as being a ‘New Tax Cart’,  stopped in front of the pawnbrokers shop with its sign reading ‘Broad Bottom Pop Shop’ The cart is full of household furniture – chairs and a clock – taken by the tax gatherer in lieu of payment. The pawn-shop, with its three golden balls, has obviously been doing good business: the upstairs window reveals piles of moneybags inscribed ‘Pension’ and ‘Sinecure.’

The whole picture shows a government out of touch with the harsh realities faced by the poor. Ironic to think that if James Gillray had been alive today he would have been able to reissue the etching with a minimum of alterations. Jeremy Hunt as Chancellor would be shown as a weedy individual wearing running kit, and no doubt the caption would be amended to ‘The Hunt for John Bull’. Except of course ‘John’ is too gender specific and ‘Bull’ is far too masculine. Any advance on ‘Jay Cattle’?

It is interesting to note that the caricature came out in May 1806 – just three months after the death of William Pitt.  Charles James Fox had been made Foreign Secretary in February that year but died on 13 September 1806, and at the time of the Gillray etching was not involved directly in setting taxation levels. Indeed his final efforts were all directed at abolishing the trade in slaves. On 10 June 1806, Fox suggested a resolution to Parliament  that “this House, conceiving the African slave trade to be contrary to the principles of justice, humanity, and sound policy, will, with all practicable expedition, proceed to take effectual measures for abolishing the said trade…” The House of Commons voted 114 to 15 in favour – the Lords approved the motion on 24 June 1806.

Gillray produced another anti-Fox cartoon later in 1806 (21 April) entitled Comforts of a Bed of Roses. In it he depicted Death crawling out from under Fox’s bed-covers, entwined with a scroll inscribed “Intemperance, Dropsy, Dissolution”.

I rather like the fact that the dog, snarling at the figure of Napoleon, is standing on a paper containing “A List of the Broad-Bottom Administration”: Citizen Volpone (ie Fox), Lord Bogy (Lord Grenville, nicknamed Bogy Grenville), Bett Armstead (Mrs. Fox, aka Elizabeth Armistead), Doctor Clysterpipe (Lord Sidmouth), Miss Petty (Lord Henry Petty).

Doctor Clysterpipe! Now there’s a good nick-name! In case you don’t recognize the word, a clyster pipe is the anal tube of an enema-syringe. For my money that would have been a jolly good name for Jeremy Corbyn … *

As for Lord Petty, he was appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer in February 1806  in Lord Grenville’s Ministry of All Talents – the ‘Broad-Bottom Administration’ ie cross-party government which was formed in February 1806 to take over when Pitt died. Not bad for  a 25 year old….

Henry Petty-Fitzmaurice, 3rd Marquess of Lansdowne

• Okay, I cannot finish without showing an 1804-5 caricature about clyster-pipes and a confusion about orifices. It is on the British Museum site and is entitled ‘How to take a Clyster’. It is credited to Thomas Rowlandson, so of course I like it. According to the Museum text: ‘A doctor sits by a curtained bed, feeling the pulse of an aged woman. On a table are the nozzle of a clyster-pipe, with ragged fragments of its bag, a knife and fork, medicine bottles, &c. He says reflectively, holding his cane to his chin: “Upon my Word Madam, you are surprizingly better! I told you what a prodigious Effect the Clyster would produce – No doubt you felt it give you instant Relief.”

She replies: “I took it the Moment it came – the Broth was well enough tho’ rather poor – The Meat was             very tough – I thought I should have lost my only fore-tooth in biting it – but I made a Shift to pick the               Marrow-Bone clean as you see it on the Table.”

I rather like this print, entitled ‘A scene in the farce of Lofty Projects  as performed with great success for the benefit & amusement of John Bull’

It is always interesting to see how people view change – when they are right in the middle of that change and have no way of knowing where that change will lead to. So it was with William Heath’s March of Intellect series, about which I have blogged before, with a gaze into the future of travel, with its steam planes, balloon-operated transport, magic carpets and so on. In a similar vein here is a print from 1825 drawn by George Cruikshank ‘after T.G(reenwood)’ and published by George Humphrey.

It captures an interesting blend of the Regency period chaos  at coaching termini – such as at Piccadilly – with the mania for changing modes of transport, with the growth in popularity of sight-seeing and with ballooning as a serious hobby. We therefore get a scene of five tethered multi-coloured balloons in the street (“Air Street”) waiting for passengers as if they were hackney carriages. The houses are all run down and are festooned with advertisements, mostly showing  distinctly dubious claims. It is a reminder that change is so often accompanied by scams and fakers trying to part the gullible punter from his money.

 The skies above are filled with more balloons, many of them with speech bubbles explaining their purpose.

A more detailed description appears on the British Museum site. Paraphrasing it:

The five balloons in the street waiting for custom include an open but canopied car with facing seats – rather like you got in old-fashioned amusement parks. A dandified couple (left) approach the aeronaut of the first on the rank to ask ‘What is Your fare to the City?’ The man, touching his hat, answers: ‘a Shilling Sir’. The next balloon is slightly deflated; its aeronaut, a typical hackney-coachman, says:’ I say Tom!—gie my Bulloon a feed o’ gas vill you?’

He addresses a man carrying a couple of covered buckets who is approaching a rectangular post, shaped like a pedestal, with a tap and the inscription Royal Gas Compy for Supplying the Hackney Balloons. The next balloon-man sits on his car, smoking; two men talk to the fourth man, also seated on his car, the fifth balloon is empty.

A sixth balloon is just rising from the ground, the aeronaut sits in the car facing his passenger who leans out to grasp the hand of a dandy standing below, saying, ‘Good bye Charles—give my respects to the Ladies’. On the left is an Air Pump, topped by a ball on which a face is indicated, it oddly resembles the sort of petrol-pump you used to get in the last century before self-service pumps were introduced. In the foreground is a pit, inscribed Halfpenny hatc-way [sic] To the Shades; within is a staircase.

The corner-house on the left leads into an alley called Gull Lane, (ie where people would be gulled, that is to say deceived) described as ‘leading to The Workhouse’. A ground-floor shop-window, empty and broken, is inscribed ‘Rack & Ruin’. By the first-floor window is a placard: ‘These Premises to be disposed of—the Proprietors going to retire to the Bench’ [in other words,  their criminal activities have led them to the King’s Bench Prison].

From the second floor a bracket projects on which a naked infant stands, blowing a huge soap-bubble. Across the front is a long placard:’ Bubble Office from Blow Bladder Lane’; below are three placards: ‘Plan of Proposed Voyage of Discovery to the Milkey Way—well worth, the attention of the London Cow Keepers’; ‘Public Notice The Wild Goose Chace—Tomorrow; Plan for a New Cut to Battersea’.

The top floor carries the placard ‘Balloon Life Assurance – NB. No Connexion with ye next house’. There is a large notice on the roof reading ‘General Balloon Office – Office Hours from 9 till 6.’ The clerk stands on the roof outside the door, leaning against the parapet, to answer a query from a man in the car of a balloon, which the aeronaut anchors to the building by putting his hook in a staple. To the question ‘Is Mr B within?’, he answers: ‘No Sir he is gone to the Balloon Races—will you pleas to Step in?’  A nearby chimney, somewhat dilapidated, has a pawnbroker’s sign of three balls. Along the parapet: ‘Money Lent’. Below the upper windows is the legend ’Office of the Honorable Company of Moon Rakers Capital 999, 999 999’.

The third house exhibits a placard reading ‘Moon Office and Fog late Mist’. And below it are the words: Just Published by H. Hoax & Co a New Map of the Moon—Greens Book of Roads The way to Wealth &c &c.’ A man stands on the roof holding out a tray offering ‘Hot Spice cakes all Sugar & Brandy’ to any passing balloonists. The roof-sign of the last house is Speculation Mart. Below: Humbug. Doo & Co. Lower down there is a sign consisting of a large irradiated sun enclosing a face. The legend reads: ‘ The Sun Eating House. Bubble & Squeak every day’. Above the roof is a cask-shaped balloon inscribed ‘The Castle in the Air.’ It supports a castle from which tiny ladders descend.

From Air Street the house on the corner is the Rainbow Tavern, adjoining the Star and Garter. The next building is a church with its clock-tower and cupola, from which a tiny figure leans out to take the hands of a lady in a Post Balloon, exclaiming,’ Come to my arms—my Angel!’ On the cupola is poised a cylindrical building like a pigeon-house, surmounted by a weathercock. From this projects a large board inscribed ‘Clerk of the Weather—Fine Weather & Fair Winds’. The largest of the airborne balloons is the Patent Safe[ty] High Flyer To Halifax. It features what appear to be two wooden wings or stabilizers, and also a sort of tail or rudder. It supports a large car, like a mail-coach, with inside and outside passengers.

Near it a balloon, The Sky Rocket Pleasure Balloon, deflates, emitting a black cloud; the car and passengers plunge head-first to their doom, while a rescue is attempted by the occupants of a balloon inscribed The Surgery. This has a platform above the gas-bag on which a man stands to hook in the bodies as they fall; a second leans from the car and is about to catch a victim. Another rescue-balloon is nearer and so on a larger scale; the cylindrical car is inscribed Royal Humane Soci[ety] For Catching Falling Persons. 

A man kneels on the platform above the gas-container, holding his long hook. In the upper right corner is a (tiny) balloon with a car shaped like a steam-packet and having a smoking funnel; it is called Day Star Discover.(My own reading of it is ‘Dog Star’).

Two balloons with coach-body cars collide; an occupant of each uses a hook to fend off the other; one says: ‘I say you Sir mind vare you are coming to, vill you.’ A distant balloon supports a rectangular structure inscribed New Lunatic Asylum. Near it is a large grinning moon, from which hangs a placard: ‘The Man in the Moon Dinners Drest on the Shortest Notice by Danial O’Rourke’. Tiny distant balloons are drawn to it as if to a magnet.

I am most grateful to the British Museum site for explaining  this in great detail – one can spend hours looking at all the different components. It is an interesting example of how progress is perceived as being largely detrimental to the human race – and always bringing out the very worst in people.

An interesting mezzotint from the early 1780s, appearing courtesy of the British Museum site, entitled

Also noteworthy is the cup without a handle being proffered by the good doctor, held elegantly and securely between thumb and forefinger.

The words below the image read: 

          ‘What morbid Evils prey’d on Sylvia’s frame,

          Till the young doctor with his nostrums came, 

          T’was he that caused and he must cure her grief

          And his sweet Cordial soon insur’d relief.’ 

I haven’t come cross a squirrel in a print like this previously – the cat is usually used because it signifies female lust. I had to look up ‘squirrel – symbolism’ to learn that a squirrel represents:

           Renewal, Adaptability, Change, Spirit, Playfulness, Resourcefulness,                         

           Connection with earth and sky energies, Gratitude, Foresight.

The idea of the lovesick woman being revitalised by a visit from a good-looking young medic is a fairly traditional subject in Dutch 17th Century art – a certain Jan Steen did a whole series of paintings of lovesick-woman-with-doctor in the 1660s and 70s.

Not that any of them portrayed squirrels – but I can see at least half a dozen prints from the 18th Century showing a woman accompanied by a squirrel – sometimes a squirrel and dogs. So I think I will settle for ‘playfulness’ – and ‘looking for change’.

The print was sold by William Humphrey at No. 227 Strand – William being the brother of Hannah, who published many of the prints by James Gillray – and indeed lived with him for many years. William was described as being a ‘Print publisher and seller, caricaturist and occasional mezzotinter, dealer in portraits, exhibition promoter.‘ 

My interest in him is that he copied his brother (George) by moving into selling sea shells: evidenced by an advertisement from May 1783:

 “W. Humphrey, print-seller, no.227 Strand, near Temple-Bar, most respectfully acquaints the public, that he has formed a Museum of Natural and Artificial Curiosities, consisting of more than 500 specimens of uncommon quadrupeds, birds, fishes, insects, corals, shells, fossils, and miscellaneous articles, from the new-discovered countries in the South Sea, among which are very strange idols &c. the whole forming an assemblage exceeding rare and beautiful.’

The Humphrey brothers purchased numerous shells brought back from the voyages of men such as James Cook. Conchology – meaning the collecting of shells – became extremely popular. I still have a collection of cowrie shells collected by my ancestor Richard Hall. I have no idea if he attended the Humphrey’s Shell Warehouse  (“ opposite Cecil Court, St Martin’s Lane”) between 1771 and 1774 or whether he waited until June 1774 when it moved to Gerrard Street, Soho for the years up until 1778 – or indeed whether he curbed his enthusiasm until William opened shell-shop premises in The Strand between 1780 and 1785. But it is rather nice to think that some of the shells in the family collection may have been brought back from the Pacific by men such as James Cook or William Bligh – or indeed by Captain Wallis, who first visited Tahiti on board HMS Dolphin in 1767.

And why my interest in Tahiti? Because I am booked to do a cruise-ship lecture tour, visiting Tahiti, in the course of the next few months. Bring it on ….

Shown courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum

It isn’t the most colourful version – a much brighter one appears on the V&A site, but this is clear enough to show that the print is ‘dedicated to the Corporation of Surgeons by their most obedient and humble servant” and published by W Hinton.

The onlookers do not appear to be giving much comfort to the poor blighter in the chair. It rather looks as though his left leg is tied to the chair-leg while a rope has been tied around his chest and over his shoulder in an attempt to stop the patient from writhing and seeking to escape the pain from his right leg, as it is sawn away.  The surgeon is kneeling on the limb being cut off, pressing it firmly down on to the footstool. He has selected a suitable instrument from his bag of implements – there appears to be a spare saw, a couple of sharp knives and a giant pair of pincers – presumably to grip on the slippery and blooded limb as it is cut free. On the left stands a second surgeon who, I think, is holding something called a falciform amputation knife and what I can only guess is a sort of elbow-crutch. The latter is presumably to be offered to the patient if he is lucky enough to survive the amputation…

Early 16th Century Falciform amputation knife with a carved ivory wolf’s head handle, shown on Wikipedia Commons

As for the falciform knife, this was especially popular after 1730, with its fine, concave cutting edge, distinctive sickle-shaped blade and often rounded tip. The surgeon would use the knife, in a circular motion right around the leg, to cut all the skin and muscle, exposing the bone which would then be cut using the saw. From 1780 onwards there was a move to using a straight-edged knife. The straight edge facilitated a deeper and more angled incision into the muscle from the exterior of the limb. It also helped the surgeon to leave skin flaps – useful for protecting the  stump from infection and to help the healing process.

Plate from Benjamin Bell’s ‘A System of Surgery’ first published in 1783, shown courtesy of the Wellcome Collection

In the Rowlandson print the notice behind the operation is headed ‘List of Examined and Approved Surgeons’. We have Sir Dreary Dropsical, Dr Peter Putrid, and Sir Jaundice Jollop. There is a Launcelot Slashmuscle, a Samuel Sawbone and a Dr Nick Nervous. As well as a Dr Gleet and a Dr Scrotum…

It is worth remembering that this was an era before anaesthesia, and before any proper understanding of infection. Nothing would have been sterilised and indeed the surgeon would have worn his bloodied apron as a badge of honour. Not only that, but he would often be demonstrating his skill in front of an audience – hence ‘operating theatre‘. It was to lead, inevitably, to the renowned surgeon Robert Liston who would announce “Time me, gentleman”  as he started. His record? Two and a half minutes for a leg amputation from first incision to final stitch. Apparently Liston moved so quickly that on one occasion he managed to take off the fingers of one of his assistants who happened to be holding the leg… woops! And I wince at the story that on another occasion he took off a testicle when removing an entire leg….(I think you can say he made a balls-up of that operation).Robert Liston, FRCSE, FRCS, FRS – painted by the aptly-named S J Stump, a few months before Liston died in 1847 (Wikipedia)

From what I can see, up until 1800 around 80% of all such amputees died during the operation or, more usually, during the post-operative period.

For the record:

Nitrous oxide (“laughing gas”) was isolated in 1772 by Joseph Priestley and soon became known for its  pain-relieving properties, used mainly in dentistry rather than in surgical operations.

The Royal College of Surgeons of England was founded in 1800.

The first ether anaesthetic was administered (in Boston, Massachusetts) in 1846.

In 1847 the Edinburgh surgeon James Young Simpson  first administered a chloroform anaesthetic – to himself.

In 1867 James Lister recommended the routine use of carbolic acid steam spray as an antiseptic during surgery.

An amputation with graphic display of tools and severed limbs, German, 18th Century, shown courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

I will be looking generally at Astley’s show – how it started, how it developed and the sort of things Jane would have seen, based upon the newspaper reports from the week of her visit. The meeting is open to non-members (cost £12) and details can be found on the Jane Austen Society site here

I will of course include a bit about my ancestor visiting the show twenty years earlier to show how things had progressed – a chance to show the handbill issued at  the time featuring Jacko the Performing Monkey.

I hope to see some of you there!

The  Twelfth Night cake was a rich crumbly fruit cake with marzipan and icing – this is a modern one made by Mary Berry and no doubt with the copyright in the picture belonging either to her or to the BBC. (Doffed cap, tugged forelock, thank you very kindly).

The cake would be displayed in the centre of the table, and would then be sliced and given to all members of the household and guests. It contained one dried bean and one dried pea. The person whose slice contained the bean was King for the night while a slice with a pea indicated the Queen.

Even servants played along and if they won, they were recognized by everyone, including their masters, as the evening’s King and Queen – they were the Masters of the Revels and it was their right to set challenges – and forfeits – for everyone present.

By the Regency period, Twelfth Night cake became increasingly more elaborate, with added frosting, trimmings, and figurines. In London, confectioners made highly decorated cakes with sugar icing and gilt ornamentation and displayed them in their brightly lit shop windows for passers-by to admire.

Here’s another caricature, from around 1800 showing people in their finery gathered in front of a Twelfth Night cake, which is absolutely enormous.

But by the 1840s everything changed:  the giving of presents on 12th Night, an echo of the Three Wise Men bringing gold frankincense and myrrh), had moved from 5th January to Christmas Day (or in the case of the Royal family, to Christmas Eve). And 12th Night cake had evolved into a Christmas cake.

Twelfth Night Party by Isaac Cruikshank, 1794

However the tradition lives on in London’s West End to this day: an eighteenth-century actor called Robert Baddeley left a legacy to the Drury Lane Theatre so that actors appearing there on Twelfth Night could still enjoy a traditional cake and toast the production in punch. Baddeley died in 1795, leaving £100 in Three per cent stock to cover the  cost of cake and punch,  meaning that the first time his bequest was sliced up and served was on 6 January 1796. It is a tradition that is still going strong.

Zoffany’s painting of Robert Baddeley in Sheridan’s School for Scandal

According to the newspaper of 9 January 1796,  the occasion was described as follows:

“On Wednesday evening, the bequest of the veteran BADDELEY was carried into effect, with all due ceremony, in the Green-room of Drury-lane Theatre.  A Cake prepared by Mr. BIRCH, of Cornhill, who is well known as a man of taste, was the feast provided for the occasion.  This Cake, which no doubt, Mr.BIRCH made con amore, as he is an admirer of the Drama, and has given tolerable proofs of dramatic ability, was graced with a variety of appropriate decorations.  The Head of SHAKESPEARE appeared on the side in several places ; and, to shew a spirit of loyalty, as well as of mirth, a splendid Crown was fixed upon the top.  There was a suitable quantity of wine and punch; and the Performers who attended, conducted themselves with proper decorum, when they drank to the Memory of the Donor, whose good humour had supplied them with such a whimsical reason for holding him in friendly recollection.  Mr. MOODY, in customary suit of solemn black, presided over the whole, and did the honours of the table, dividing the Cake with the most equitable impartiality.  Mr. SHERIDAN, and the other Proprietors of the Theatre, were present; and the whole terminated in unalloyed merriment. “

Edward Dayes’ painting of Drury Lane Theatre, from 1795, courtesy of the Huntington Library.