False Calves and Rising Moons
‘If people turn to look at you in the street, you are not well dressed, but either too stiff, too tight, or too fashionable.’
Beau Brummell
Famed for its high hair and heels that had been forever on the rise, the excesses of the Georgian period were ultimately reined in by domestic economics and foreign revolution. It was now no surprise that in the Regency period that followed (1795–1830) it was to be a woman’s waist that was to take an upward turn. Historically the focus of a woman’s body, it appeared no longer satisfied with its natural position and so for upward of twenty years was to be located so high under a woman’s breasts as to become invisible. No less than a godsend for the Regency woman, she could suddenly enjoy a freedom of dress that her grandmothers could only have dreamed of. Gone were heavy silks and brocades, the swathes of incongruous petticoats and breath-robbing corsets of previous centuries. Dresses ‘à la grecque’ evolved from a European pre-occupation with all things Greek and Roman and occurred as early as the 1790s, even though the Regency period in English history did not strictly start until 1811. These changes in fashion favoured the natural contours of the body, draping the female form in gauzy, diaphanous fabrics and were inspired by the French Revolution, the concept of ‘Enlightenment’, freedom, human rights and equality, which were associated with the ancient ideals of Greece and Rome. With such a radical development in female costume in favour of less structured garments it was obvious that some women were not about to embrace the change without some thought.
‘Fashions of the Day – or Time past & Time Present – 1740 a ladies dress of bombazine / the year 1807 a ladies undress of ‘bum-be-seen’, from La Belle Assemblée. (Author’s collection)
As early as 1791 the Derby Mercury commented:
the rage at the moment is the new imported dresses of clear lawn, beautifully wrought in feather stitch which runs from ten to fifty guineas a dress! This is not likely to prove the most economical dress in the world, as it is a matter of doubt whether, from the flimsiness of its structure it will endure the clear-starcher’s operation!
As far as the hair is concerned, the Mercury tells us ‘the hair is now cropped short enough to leave the ear in a state of perfect nudity’. The shape and size of bonnets continued to reduce, the latest trend in female dress being that of ‘littleness – little beads, little handkerchiefs, little aprons, little caps and little hats …’, possibly striking fear into the fainthearted with a report that, as bonnets were no longer as deep as previously worn, ‘the eye brow is scarcely arched over, so that the poor female nose is of course left to the rigid mercy of the March winds’.
Engraving of a Parisian day dress, Lady’s Magazine, 1802. (Author’s collection)
As if that weren’t enough Lady Elizabeth Lambert’s new hat was called from its extreme flatness a ‘pancake’ hat, while another woman ‘of taste’ pointed out her headdress resembled a fritter, so small was its shape. ‘Thus for the sake of fashion …’, the paper continued, ‘are the ladies to carry pancakes and fritter upon their heads?’. Continuing in the same vein, another lady swore she would ‘for next spring’ set a new trend of wearing different coloured shoes to see if the women, like sheep would follow the ridiculous fashion unquestionably.
There is no doubt that this new trend of near nudity suited Napoleon Bonaparte. With an eye on the French economy his plans to revitalise the French textile industry included a ban on trade with England. This would aid French production of fine fabrics such as tulle and batiste and it was rumoured he even had the fireplaces of the Tuileries blocked up to keep the ladies of the court chilled and therefore encourage them to wear more of such delicate fabrics. The description of these particular ‘barely there’ dresses which left arms uncovered and little to the imagination was at first referred to as having an ‘impure waist’. The term ‘Empire line’ or ‘Empire silhouette’ did not come into being until early in the twentieth century.
With the waist rising to the highest point it would attain in this period, fashion became svelte and streamlined for the first time since the Middle Ages and it could reasonably be assumed there would be little room for deception. Unsurprisingly, the Regency period was as counterfeit as the preceding centuries but this time it was male fashion that was to exploit a smaller waist and a well-turned calf, especially as Napoleon decreed that gentlemen wear white satin breeches for formal occasions. With men finding fashionable extremes both ridiculous and unsustainable common sense prompted the introduction of the trouser as we know it today.
It was George Bryan Brummell, more commonly known as ‘Beau’ (1778–1840), who epitomised the masculine ideal of the Regency period. The adoption of the frock coat, or coat, in the preceding Georgian period had with its corresponding waistcoat and britches in effect unified the male body within what we would recognise today as a three-piece suit. With the Guardian newspaper stating in 1713 that ‘to keep to the propriety of dress the coat, waistcoat and breeches must be of the same Piece …’, these garments remained constant for almost a century, the cut and materials used in their construction the only things that rang any changes. Britches, however, left the lower part of a man’s legs encased in stockings or hose which for the fashion conscience meant a well-turned calf. Such were the pressures for men both young and old to display a shapely limb that false calves were purchased. But once a falsehood becomes the norm to be without the deception is to fall short of expectations. Such anxiety accompanied one young man soon after he had secured the affections of one young lady, to disastrous effect. Once in her bedchamber he managed to secret his false calves under the pillows before the object of his desire returned to the room from her antechamber. Unfortunately, his anguish was such at the thought of having to replace them in the morning – unseen by his love – ultimately ruined all attempts at lovemaking leaving both parties quite unsatisfied.
George Bryan ‘Beau’ Brummell (7 June 1778–30 March 1840). He established the mode of dress for men that rejected overly ornate fashions for one of understated, fitted and tailored garments.
Brummell is arguably responsible for the introduction of the male ‘trouser’, a garment that if it had been adopted by the aforementioned gentleman would have saved him much embarrassment. Brummell’s tailors were Schweitzer & Davidson, in Cork Street, as well as a German gentleman named Meyer, who lived in Conduit Street, London. Between them the ‘trouser’ which was open at the bottom of the leg and closed by buttons and loops was invented. It was, nevertheless, a change in men’s clothing that was both accepted and disowned in equal measure.
Dandies Dressing, Cruikshank, 1818. (Library of Congress)
In 1821 it was reported in the newspapers that gentlemen who adhered to the new stylish trousers were denied entry into certain fashionable clubs and society venues, one patroness of a venue refusing entry to gentlemen ‘who not complying with the rules laid down respecting tights, present themselves in shapeless trowsers, vulgarly call’d whites’. This included the Duke of Wellington in one instance. The paper also added, ‘Tis rumour’d that in consequence large orders for false calves’ were made ‘to grace the spindle shanks of those whom nature made by halves’.
This discrepancy over fashion was the subject of both humour and derision in political circles, providing opportunities to lampoon those in power. With talk of ‘false calves’ still a current topic despite being out of fashion in 1828, the reference was used to try and discredit prominent politicians, Lord Palmerston being a case in point. ‘Some of Palmerston’s political acquaintances …’, dared report one satirist of the then Foreign Secretary, ‘declare that he has a false tongue. We know that he carries about him false hair, false calves, false teeth, false eyebrows and other false articles, but a false tongue is rather too great a stretch of the power of art over nature.’ Yet, in 1858 when Palmerston was 68 and England’s Prime Minister he was still being accused by his opponents of not being what he seemed. Charging him with being envious of the legs of his own footmen, they put about the rumour that he still enlarged his calves with cork. This was particularly cutting as by now, the middle of the nineteenth century, stockings and shapely calves had been relegated solely to servant’s attire and so did nothing to endorse Palmerston’s prestige.
But it was not only trousers that Brummell had introduced to the unsuspecting male populous. From the mid-1790s, Beau Brummell’s celebrity status popularised wearing clean clothing and bathing. It was much needed in an era where many people including notaries and aristocrats, such as Charles James Fox and the Duke of Norfolk (Charles Howard 1746–1815), were notoriously filthy. When the Duke was complaining one day to a gentleman that he had tried everything possible to cure his rheumatism Brummell supposedly replied, ‘Pray, my Lord, did you ever try a clean shirt?’
Tall and fair with a rakish broken nose due to a fall from a horse, Brummell was the son of the private secretary of Lord North and became the benefactor of his father’s will, including an inheritance of £20,000, aged just 16. After a brief time in the military, he decided to give up his captaincy, took a house in Chesterfield Street, Mayfair, avoided all extravagance such as gaming and kept only one pair of horses. Essentially what was to become known as a dandy, his love of dressing well and personal cleanliness became legend with him setting the trend for other Regency gentlemen. Being a dandy was much admired, though the term has become derogatory today, and his style turned the tide against what had up until now seen men overdressed, over made-up, effeminate, powdered and be-wigged. In short, a ‘fop’. Such men in the years leading up to Brummell’ s introduction into society were loath to relinquish their eighteenth-century shirt, very much visible and adorned with lace, especially at the wrist which necessitated large sometimes overblown hand gestures to keep the fabric out of the way and keep it clean. A fop’s whole body language had evolved to cater for the outmoded form of dress and rendered him an object of ridicule in the face of Brummel’s clean-cut elegance. Men emulating the new trend now had plain starched cuffs, allowing only an inch or so of material to be visible below the edge of their coat sleeve. It was at about this time that ‘shooting one’s cuffs’ came about as men would regularly pull down or adjust their cuffs to ensure they extended properly. It wasn’t only shirts that Brummel influenced as he reined in colour and cut, introducing the monochrome palette and clean lines. It was he that laid down the first Ascot dress code by decreeing that black and white should be the basis of the male ‘morning suit’, while ladies should regard the occasion as ‘a competition of elegance, as much so as a court ball’.
To watch Brummell dress was a privilege indeed and he opened his house most mornings for those (including the Prince Regent, later to become George IV) who wanted to watch him wash and clothe himself. Possibly his trademark innovation to the fashion of the time was the neck cloth (neckerchief) over which he was meticulous. Previously, the cloth at a man’s neck was unstiffened, causing it to sit untidily in front of him. Brummel introduced starch to the fabric then went about fashioning his neck cloth until it was the epitome of elegance, a model that was imitated by all fashionable gentleman.
It was said that his valet one day descended the stairs while Brummel was dressing in his room with a large ‘quantity of tumbled neck-cloths under his arm’, and being asked by one of those who had come to watch Brummel dress was simply told ‘Oh, these are our failures.’ Such was Brummel’s way of practising to make perfect. A friend, privy to these trials, tells us of the amusing way Brummel ensured the success of the accessory:
The collar which was always fixed to his shirt, was so large that before being folded down it completely hid his head and face; and the white neck-cloth was at least a foot in height. The first maneuver made with the shirt collar was to fold it down to its proper size, which Brummell, then standing before the mirror with his chin poked up to the ceiling, by the gentle and gradual declension of his lower jaw, creased the cravat to reasonable dimensions the form of each succeeding crease being perfected.
By 1810 the folding and tying of neck-cloths had become such an art, Beau Brummell declared it took him upwards of an hour each morning to perfect his knot!
Unfortunately, Brummel fell out of favour with the Prince, his voice which was described as ‘very pleasing’ eventually directed one too many inappropriate remarks at his royal patron. After gambling his way to ruin, he fled to France where despite his lack of money continued to live beyond his means. Eventually becoming feeble-minded, he fell as far from his iconic self as it was possible to go. A book on his life written in 1844 by a Captain Jesse gives us a glimpse of his terrible fall from grace.
I have deferred writing for some time, hoping to be able to inform you that I had succeeded in getting Mr Brummell into one of the public institutions, but I am sorry to say that I have failed. I have also tried to get him into a private house, but no one will undertake the charge of him in his present state. In fact, it would be totally impossible for me to describe the dreadful situation he is in. For the last two months I have been obliged to pay a person to be with him night and day, and still we cannot keep him clean. He now lies upon a straw mattress, which is changed every day. They will not keep him at the hotel, and what to do I know not. I should think that some of his old friends in England would be able to get him into some hospital where he could be taken care of for the rest of his days. I beg and entreat of you to get something done for him, for it is quite out of the question that he can remain where he is. The clergyman and physician here can bear testimony to the melancholy state of idiocy he is in.
The man who had singlehandedly ousted the fop and trailblazed the dandy to an over-indulgent and tired Georgian world died in 1840 in the madhouse of Bon Succour.
As the trouser was adopted and men’s legs effectively lengthened women were also coming to terms with their new-found freedom of dress. Some were delighted with the new Empire line while others were more circumspect, seeing it as ‘odd’ and believing they had literally ‘lost their waist’. The transparency of fabrics also caused concern as they were described in the press as being both ‘too adhesive’ to the body and ‘too transparent and unsuited to our climate’. With the extensive use of sarcenet and muslins it was also thought that the whole fashion was ‘ill calculated to protect against damp, cold and fog’.
An original hand-coloured Paris fashion plate from La Mode gents’ outfits, April 1834. (Author’s collection)
Caricature depicting Mrs Fitzherbert standing at her dressing table, about to tie a pad on her breasts to make her very buxom figure even plumper! Her stays are pushing her bust upwards to form the characteristic ‘shelf’, where the chin is sometimes hidden between the ‘invading mounds’! (Courtesy of the Victoria and Albert Museum)
A short-lived fashion introduced itself in the spring of 1805. ‘Several of our young dames of distinction …’, reported the Salisbury and Winchester Journal of April 1805, ‘now sport muslin trousers, under a white petticoat, short enough to exhibit them to full view. It is, however, a moot point at present, whether this new fashion be intended to conceal indifferent legs or to draw the gazers eye more attentively to good ones.’
With focus away from the waist it was now the turn of the breasts to be celebrated once more, and for the first time receive a purpose-made undergarment employed exclusively in the task of moulding them. Needless to say, breasts soon became the focus of the press’s attention regarding their whereabouts and exposure. The Morning Herald published a scathing piece on the ‘new’ position of the breast saying:
The bosom, which Nature planted at the bottom of a woman’ chest, is pushed up by means of wadding and whalebone to a station so near her chin that in a very full subject that feature is sometimes lost between the invading mounds. The stays – or coat of mail – must be laced as tight as strength can draw the cord, Not only is the shape thrust out of its proper place but the blood is thrown forcibly into the face, neck and arms … and were it not for the fine apparel of our ladies we should be at a loss at the first glance to decide, by their redundancy and universal redness, whether they were nurses or cooks. Over this strangely manufactured figure a scanty petticoat and as scanty a gown are put. The latter resembles a bolster-slip rather than a garment.
Regency ‘short stays’. For the first time a lady’s undergarment began to support and shape the bosom as opposed to compressing it. (Photograph Tessa Hallmann)
What is evident from our understanding of the Regency bosom is that it was located as high under a woman’s chin as it was possible to go. Corsets and stays in previous centuries were designed primarily to trim the waist. To be comfortable a woman had to manoeuvre her assets in such a way that when lacing took place and her figure rendered into a cone shape her breasts were not pressed downward but flattened against the bodice. As a consequence, the top half of her bosom appeared rounded and depending on how tight she laced her waist and how low the neckline of her dress, her cleavage could either be ample or modest. Even so, the result was usually a ‘heaving bosom’ due to vice-like lacing which compressed the ribs and so shortened breathing causing the chest to rise and fall rapidly giving every woman the appearance of a giddy girl in a constant swoon over whatever a gentleman might say.
The softer long stays and new short stays of the nineteenth century were much easier for a woman to wear with the introduction of darts to sculpt the garment. This underpinning now catered for the woman’s shape effectively supporting a woman’s bust yet inadvertently creating another problem. Depending on just how a lady wished to present herself, she now had the option of offering up her delights to a staggering height. The new silhouette was known later as the Great Regency Shelf.
As with every other fashion from time immemorial, opinions were voiced as to propriety and morals and the effect of short stays was no exception. A male writer observing the fashion of exposing the bosom wrote, ‘A woman, proud of her beauty, may possibly be nothing but a coquet: one who makes a public display of her bosom, is something worse.’ Others simply enjoyed lampooning the fashion as with this tale of two gentlemen conversing over a lady at a ball. Upon seeing how she had somehow managed to hoist her bosom so high under her chin as to render her chin barely visible, they then wagered whether the lady could possibly be able ‘to rest a dish of tea’ upon the resulting ‘rising moons’ and not spill a drop!
Outdoor wear, 1807. (Author’s collection)
A small book aimed at giving advice to women as to the correct way to dress and behave called The Mirror of the Graces by A Lady of Distinction also commented, ‘Let the youthful female exhibit without shade as much of her bust as shall come within the limits of fashion, without infringing on the borders of immodesty. Let the fair of riper years appear less exposed. To sensible and tasteful women a hint is merely required.’ Another book, The Arts of beauty; or secrets of a ladies toilet: with hints to Gentlemen on the Art of Fascinating by Madame Lola Montez, Countess of Landsfeld, also advised:
The bosom, which nature formed with exquisite symmetry in itself, and admirable adaptation to the parts of the figure to which it is united, has been transformed into a shape, and transplanted to a place, which deprives it of its original beauty and harmony with the rest of the person. This hideous metamorphose has been effected by means of newly invented stays or corsets which, by an extraordinary construction and force of material, force the figure of the wearer into whatever form the artist pleases … In consequence we see, in eight women out of ten, the hips squeezed into a circumference little more than the waist; and the bosom shoved up to the chin, making a sort of fleshy shelf, disgusting to the beholders, and certainly most incommodious to the bearer.
Newspapers were instrumental in guiding both ladies and gentlemen towards what fashions were on the horizon, with updates every month as to what to embrace with a passion or avoid like the plague. The public, only too willing to be led, were eager to oblige. On Tuesday, 4 April 1809 the Hull Packet, a four-page publication that had made its debut in 1787 and sold at an expensive 7 pence, informed the ladies that their Full dress should be of white satin with long sleeves slashed at the top, a mantle of purple, edged with swansdown, gold net cap with white feathers, white shoes, gloves and fan topped off by a necklace, earrings and other ornaments ‘in gold’. Her Walking Dress was also described in great detail, mentioning a tunic of silk, a cloak of the same colour, bonnet and boots, a raised spotted muslin underdress with loose sleeves bound at the arm and wrist, gold necklace and York tan gloves. Such newspapers were the fashion magazines of the day and general observations thrown in for good measure give us a glimpse of the new neo-Grecian dresses complete in their scandalous diaphanous fabrics along with comical comments. Speaking of how one particular colour did not suit everyone, the Hull Packet continued: ‘Red cloaks are at length completely abandoned and we congratulate our lovely readers on their own emancipation from the most despotic dress colour that ever was introduced by the whimsical and arbitrary goddess of fashion. Our promenades presented us with an assemblage of pallid and ghastly spectres who appeared to be literally robed in flame.’
Green, for that spring of 1809, was not about to fare any better than its fiery cousin, as reported in the Chester Courant on Tuesday, 11 April 1809:
Pea-green is a colour generally introduced in spring – for what reason we know not – except it be intended to harmonise with the verdure, with which at this season, all nature is beginning to be clothed. We entreat our fair readers not to adopt a colour so directly in opposition to good taste and in which no face of form can ever appear with advantage and effect.
On the other hand, some colours were definitely to be worn, ‘lilac, purple all the variations of blue, with the still variations of grey, are open to their choice. If green must be selected let it be the deep and rich hue of Spanish fly rather than the worst and vilest of colours, pea-green.’
A fashion plate from 1824 showing a lady’s travelling costume. The hem is widening and the waist is beginning to descend. (Author’s collection)
Newspapers alone were not sufficient to satisfy the voracious appetite ladies had for fashion news and the late eighteenth century saw a blossoming of periodicals for women, some with more than a passing interest in fashion. The Lady’s Magazine, full title the Lady’s Magazine ‘or Entertaining Companion for the Fair Sex Appropriated Solely for their Use and Amusement’, was first published in 1770. It continued well into the 1830s, its fifty-five pages concerned with improving women’s minds with biographical and historical essays, instructional pieces on natural history, geography, botany, short or serialized fiction, poetry as well as reviews of new books and plays. After 1800, one hand-coloured fashion print was included and after 1815 there were two. Retailing at sixpence for the first twenty-five years, in 1805 it doubled its price to a shilling. Its highest ever price was 2 shillings and sixpence in 1828 and it proved to be a popular general interest publication marketed as a product that would suit both ‘the housewife as well as the peeress’.
In 1806, John Bell, publisher of the Morning Post newspaper and many other books and periodicals, launched La Belle Assemblée, or Bell’s Court and Fashionable Magazine addressed particularly to the Ladies with each monthly issue selling for 3 shillings sixpence for forty-eight pages. As well as providing mind-improving content, as did the Lady’s Magazine, he offered more fashion coverage with quality illustrations and detailed advice on dress. Several columns were given over to ‘General observations on Fashion & Dress’ which commented on who was wearing what and how in public but being ever polite it never named names but used references such as ‘a lady of rank’. A staple feature of both magazines was the observational accounts of ‘The Royal Drawing Room’ twice yearly in January and June. This was in honour of the king and queen’s birthdays and described in meticulous detail what was being worn by the lords and ladies at court. A popular feature, this successfully appeased the voracious appetites of Regency women for the latest news, fashion and gossip.
Ackerman’s Repository of Arts, Literature, Commerce, Manufacture, Fashions and Politics (1790–1829) was an expensive publication out of the reach of all except the upper classes. Selling at 4 shillings for 64 pages, its circulation was approximately 2,000 copies per month with 6 hand-coloured engravings, 2 of which were on fashion, and in its early days it also included small swatches of fabric from sellers who advertised with them. An engraver by trade, Ackerman was born in Germany, moving to England where in 1796 he opened a print shop which by 1809 was the largest in London. From the outset Ackerman’s publication provided beautiful fashion plates with the highest quality engravings and most delicate hand colouring.
Other magazines had their place including the highly successful Lady’s Monthly Museum, or Polite Repository of Amusement and Instruction: being an Assemblage of what can tend to Please the Fancy, Instruct the Mind or Exalt the Character of the British Fair, a publication with a title almost as long as its sixty-two pages! There was also Le Beau Monde, 1806–10. La Miroir de la Mode was a short-lived, expensive and large quarto-sized magazine, while the Magazine of the Female Fashions of London and Paris, 1799–1806, was the second magazine to be devoted entirely to fashion with distinctive prints that often featured real women, such as Emma, Lady Hamilton. The first such magazine was Nikolaus von Heideloff’s Gallery of Fashion. Subscription-based and costing a prohibitive 3 guineas per year, the equivalent today of almost £120, this early magazine (1794–1803) had a most distinguished clientele. At that price it is not surprising there were only 450 copies printed, though one distinguished subscriber was the queen.
By 1817 the stark neoclassical outlines of Empire gowns at the turn of the century had given way to a fancier outline, with decoration added both at the top of the gown and at its hem. Fabrics were still very fine with muslin, cotton fabrics, linen and lawn favoured overall. The waist was still firmly located under the bosom but by now the outline of the skirt was becoming most definitely ‘bell-shaped’. A description from the July edition of La Belle Assemblée of 1817 describes a typical day outfit:
Round dress of cambric, with two embroidered flounces, divided at about half a quarter of a yard, with rows of small tucks. Collerette body of fine cambric, ornamented round the bust and at the bottom of the waist to correspond with the border of the dress. Leghorn bonnet ornamented with puffings of pink satin. Lyonese shawl of grass-green with a narrow variegated border. Pink kid shoes, and Limerick gloves.
The London’s Morning Post in 1819 mentioned how evening dresses were becoming less classical and although ‘plain white transparent gauze frocks were to be worn over a white satin slip’, the skirt now could be ‘surrounded by rows of the most novel and tasteful trimming we have seen for a considerable time’. The article described an afternoon gown as a ‘Round dress of fine plain India muslin, with triple flounces richly embroidered …’, and also mentioned the latest garment to keep a lady warm in the face of all that diaphanous fabric, namely an open ‘Spencer’ of ethereal blue.
Originally, the Spencer jacket was worn by men in the 1790s as an extra warm layer over a tailed coat. Frequently decorated with military frogging, it is thought that Earl Spencer created the garment unawares when he stood too close to a fire and the tails of the jacket were badly singed. Cutting them off he was left with a long-sleeved tail-less jacket which was later adopted by females and became the ‘look’ of the Regency period and immortalised by the books and writings of the author Jane Austin. Just as a cardigan is worn today, the Spencer was a garment for both indoor and outside use, every day and special occasions. When worn with an evening gown it was usually made of silk or kerseymere (a fine woollen cloth with a fancy twill weave) and called a canezou. The Spencer became a mainstay of women’s fashion during the twenty years that the waistline remained elevated and was highly decorated in military fashion, embracing braids, buttons, quilting and cording, only becoming longer when the woman’s waist itself descended once more.
‘A correct view of the new machine for winding up the Ladies.’ This cartoon by William Heath is a parody of the fashion for tightly cinched waists and hugely padded sleeves of the time, c. 1829. (Courtesy of Yale University)
As a consequence of a lady’s waist returning to where nature had originally intended, fashion dictated that women again adopt the fussy full skirts and preposterous sleeves of previous centuries and once more visibly corset herself, putting an end to the freedom of mind and body she had so briefly enjoyed.
