Austen’s Powers

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Jane Austen (wiki images)

My close family and faithful readers will know that I am semi-obsessed with arsenic. I’ve mentioned the fantastic book The Arsenic Century by James Whorton in previous posts about arsenic. Yesterday as I was rereading it, I got up to make myself a cup of tea and offered to make my husband one, too. He declined. Again. I saw his eyes flicker to the title of the book in my hand.

I’m fascinated by arsenic because it’s tied so closely to several of my passions—insects, medical history, the Victorian era, and fashion history. Arsenic was used as an insecticide well into the twentieth century, and was a key ingredient in so many medicines and in the synthetic green pigment that Victorians loved so much.

So imagine my excitement when I saw this article in Monday’s Guardian, a review of a new book by crime writer Lindsay Ashford that speculates that Jane Austen died of arsenic poisoning, and further speculates that she might have been murdered.

I’m in the camp with Professor Todd, who is quoted in the second to last paragraph. She agrees that Austen’s symptoms were consistent with arsenic poisoning–Austen was taking Fowler’s Solution for her rheumatism. Fowler’s was a very common medicine for decades. It was a highly toxic solution of potassium arsenite. But from all that I’ve read about how common arsenical compounds were during the era, I’m amazed when people didn’t die from arsenic poisoning. Like Professor Todd, I don’t believe that Austen’s death was intentional–but we may never know.

Parking Ticket

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King Sennacherib of Assyria decreed that double parking one’s chariot in the ancient city of Nineveh would be punished by impalement.

 

source: Tim Wood: What They Don’t Teach You About History

Fill in the Blank

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Candidates for the civil service during the Han Dynasty had to take an exam. To be sure they didn’t cheat, they were required to choose their questions by firing an arrow at the question paper and then answering the question nearest to the arrow hole.

Go Dog, Go (Away)

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Ralph Earl, Portrait of British General Gabriel Christie c. 1784

It’s hard for those of us living in modern-day towns and cities to imagine just how filthy and chaotic most streets were in the days before modern sanitation systems had been built. And added to the noise and filth and traffic, another menace plagued pedestrians: roving packs of dogs.

Back in the 18th century, rabies was a real threat. Louis Pasteur wouldn’t discover a vaccine until late in the nineteenth century. The dog menace probably prompted the fashion for otherwise able-bodied gentlemen to carry walking sticks and canes. Sticks and canes came in handy for whacking away lunging canines.


Source: Cunnington and Cunnington Handbook of English Costume in the 18th Century

Landlubber

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The leader of the Spanish Armada was the Duke of Medina Sidonia. He had never before been to sea, and was seasick for most of the voyage. The Armada was defeated by the British in 1588.

NESCBWI conference

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I’ll be presenting a workshop for nonfiction writers at the NESCBWI conference in April. Details to follow.

Footmen

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A specialized type of servant that first appeared in Europe in the 15th century was known as the running footman. His job was to run in front of the carriage and be available to help steer the horses around bad roads, or lift it out of ruts, as roads were in terrible condition. Footmen also ran ahead to prepare an inn for the master’s arrival. Eventually, though, these servants served as a mere status symbol. Chosen more for their good looks and level of fitness than for their good character, running footmen often wore a light cap, jockey coat, white linen trousers or just a knee-length linen shirt. They often ran carrying a pole six or seven feet long—or, if it were nighttime, a lighted torch. On their feet they wore thin-soled shoes. In the early 1700s some wore kilts, but these had a tendency to fly up as they ran—and they wore nothing underneath.

One story tells of the Duke of Queensberry who, some time during the late 1700s, was conducting “tryouts” for a new footman. He insisted that each of the candidates put on a fancy livery and then do a test run up Picadilly, in order to prove his skill as a swift runner. The Duke called down from his balcony to one especially speedy candidate, saying “You will do very well for me.” The man pointed at the fancy uniform he had been made to put on and replied, “And your livery will do very well for me!” With that he ran off, still wearing the expensive uniform, never to be seen again.*

As roads improved, by the early 19th century, running footmen had a hard time keeping up with carriages, and the position eventually became that of a house servant.

 

* Source: The Book of Days http://www.thebookofdays.com/months/jan/12.htm

A Bad Egg

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The Ottoman sultan Abdulaziz (1830 – 1876) was so afraid of being poisoned that for a time he ate only boiled eggs prepared by his own mother.

Shoo Fly

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In 1905, a schoolteacher invented the flyswatter by attaching a square piece of screen to the end of a yardstick. The holes made it effective, because flies can sense the air current from a solid object coming at them (such as a rolled up newspaper).

 

source: The Kid Who Invented the Popsicle by Don L. Wulffson

Hobbled

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Widener Library (Library of Congress)

When I was an undergrad at Harvard, one of my favorite places to study was in the reading room of Widener Library. It’s a beautiful building. In order to get to the reference and reading rooms on the second floor, you walk through a hushed marble entrance and then climb a wide, sweeping staircase that’s meant to make you feel abashed by the splendor of the place. And the front steps of the building are wide, with very short risers. People lounge on them on nice days. These short risers are no coincidence. Construction of Widener Library began in 1912, at the height of hobble skirt fashion. (The library opened in 1915.)

In 1910, a popular designer named Paul Poirot introduced a long, slim skirt that swathed itself around the wearer’s lower legs. Because it was cut straight to the ankle without a vent, women had to walk with tiny, mincing steps—as though their shoelaces were tied together. Architects responded by designing buildings to accommodate the fashion—Widener Library is one such building.

Just as women were fighting for the right to vote (which finally happened in America in 1921) and more freedom, fashions grew more restrictive. This is called irony.

In 1912, an American firm designed “Hobble Skirt” cars for city trams. These cars rose only eight inches above street level. By 1914 hobble skirt tramcars could be found in cities around the world.

The hobble skirt hit its most extreme form around 1911-12. Some employers barred their female workers from wearing them for safety reasons. Newspaper accounts report several injuries and deaths from women in hobble skirts. One article in the New York Times from 1910 recounts two women engaging in a hobble skirt race down 43rd Street, between Fifth and Madison.

With the outbreak of war in 1914 the hobble skirt was abandoned in favor of a shorter, fuller skirt, which allowed women the freedom to walk—and work, as many women took jobs in factories and industries while men were off at war.

By the way, Widener Library was built by Eleanor Widener, in honor of her son, Harry, who died on the Titanic.