Category: Victorian

Vintage Recipes – Brown Windsor Soup

Post author By Estelle
Post date July 16, 2015
2 Comments on Vintage Recipes – Brown Windsor Soup

Brown Windsor Soup – surely the stuff that the British Empire was built on? I know of it through Tony Hancock ordering it in an unappetising 1950s canteen, the Carry On team being served it for dinner it like unadventurous Brits in Carry on Abroad, and, well, in numerous other comedy settings from the 50s to the 70s. It’s famously the dull embodiment of dreary British cuisine and looks a bit like sludge. Although I can’t remember the ingredients ever being specified, I imagined it as a kind of thin, liquidised beef stew.

So it rather blew my mind to learn on Wikipedia that, in all likelihood, Brown Windsor Soup never actually existed as an actual, real thing from Victorian or Edwardian times. It was first included on the odd menu in the 1920s and 30s and thereafter apparently mainly used as a jokey kind of reference to terrible, dull British food.

Michael Quinion has investigated, and makes the claim that Brown Windsor Soup is first mentioned in print as late as 1943 – in the book The Fancy by Monica “great-granddaughter of Charles” Dickens. He has a few theories as to where the name came from. Firstly, there was White Windsor Soup, an undeniably real Victorian dish. Secondly, Brown Windsor Soap was also a definite, very famous, type of soap. And so there might have been some kind of confusion between these two items, or possibly a deliberate mashup of them both, for satirical purposes or otherwise.

I decided I wasn’t going to take Wikipedia’s word for this. I was going to uncover some true Brown Windsor Soup, as enjoyed by Queen Victoria. Wading through The British Newspaper Archive, the extensive search results that immediately popped up looked promising. However, on closer investigation, it was a quirk of the reading software of the Archive, which isn’t always entirely accurate on account of the age of the papers scanned, and the tiny typefaces that can be used. Every result referred to Brown Windsor Soap, not soup.

However. There is another type of Victorian soup that may have been the Brown Windsor in all but specific name – the vague-sounding “Brown Soup”.

In basic form, this could be “Beef Tea” – either in invalid cookery form or as a kind of Bovril drink, like this one, “Bouillon Fleet” from 1889:

Or here on this restaurant menu in 1890, which was probably a more substantial version:

And it was served as a starter at the New Year’s Dinner at a “Home for Old Men and Women” in Glasgow, 1895. This stereotypical Victorian menu consisted of brown soup, beef-steak pie and plum pudding.

Talking of pudding – look! A recipe for “Brown Windsor pudding” in 1897. It’s a spiced fruit steamed pudding which sounds gorgeous. I’m guessing that this was a reference to the aforementioned soap, which was also advertised as containing spices such as cinnamon. If there was spiced food based on the soap, then maybe “Brown Windsor Soup” should properly also be cinnamonned, gingered and cloved, a bit like Mulligatawny soup?

Here’s a 1913 recipe for brown soup. It’s made of beef and vegetables, but made extra brown with the addition of Bovril and browning. None more brown.

And one from 1916, with instructions on how to make the soup extra brown, by browning the flour in front of the fire.

The People's Journal, 4th November 1916 — The People’s Journal, 4th November 1916

And another one. It all sounds quite nice to me.

The first actual mention of “Brown Windsor soup” I found, on a Hartlepool menu from 1928. It was from Binns’ Restaurant – perhaps they invented it?

A 1928 recipe for Brown Soup here, using vermicelli to thicken, if wished.

Brown Windsor still being served at Binns’ in Hartlepool in 1931:

A prize-winning brown soup recipe from 1931. I suspect that the winner, Mrs G. Walker, had seen the “Everything That Is Good” recipe above, in 1928. Veeerry similar.

Windsor soup was finally commercially available in the 1940s. Batchelor’s version is here, although it wasn’t called “Brown”. Tinned foods were handy in wartime, it’s “A meal in itself” and could be heated “at the minimum of fuel cost”. Although “quantities are rather limited and a little patience may be needed,” in order to obtain some. Emphasizing its potential scarcity makes it sound more desirable, of course.

Finally, the last reference I found. Because The British Newspaper Archive only goes up to the mid-1950s, so far. I love the Britishness of the “If you must eat out…”

I wonder when the very last bowl of Brown Windsor soup was eaten? Maybe there are people still making it out there, although what their recipe is, who knows? I couldn’t find anything specifying what makes “Brown Soup” different from “Brown Windsor”, if there even is a difference. And so, now I feel the need to invent my own version – a very gently spiced, very brown, beefy, vegetabley kind of concoction. Watch this space.

Update – thanks to Steve in the comments below, who let me know that there was now a date of 1926 as the first reference on Wikipedia. This is it:

Portsmouth Evening News, 24th February 1926

And after some more research I’ve found a 1926 reference to Brown Windsor in Binns’, earlier than the 1928 version above. Still a few months later than the one in the Portsmouth Evening News though.

Tags brown soup, brown windsor soup, carry on films, food, The British Newspaper Archive, Tony Hancock, Vintage recipes

Victorian Women

Advice to Wives, 1895

Do you do anything deliberately that annoys you, for fun? I’m not sure why exactly, but getting aerated about some bugbear of yours, in a safe kind of way, is quite cathartic in the same way that crying can be.

It’s why I read the Daily Mail’s Sidebar of Shame and it’s why my husband watches “The Big Question” on a Sunday. We would be disappointed if suddenly either one was populated with reasonable points of view that coincided with our own.

And, being completely honest, it’s why I initially started researching old marital advice columns for an intermittent series I will be doing on the blog, and which started with this post. I was heartened to see that much of the advice was actually quite wise and even applicable now, sometimes with a bit of tweaking. But, yes, I was irrationally disappointed that huge swathes of outrageous archive sexism weren’t as widespread as I expected.

Apart from this one. It’s from the Isle of Man Times in 1895, and, you know, nothing against the Isle of Man and everything, but….

I’m a feminist. I would be a card-carrying one if that was possible and I don’t really understand why any woman wouldn’t identify as one, although I know some that don’t. It’s all about being treated equally to men, socially and economically, and I’m not sure why anybody wouldn’t want that for themselves. So this article is the Euro Millions jackpot for outraged feminism. I love it, while being sincerely glad I never met the author.

Although I rather suspect there’s more than a few individuals who might agree with its sentiments even today – just witness the experiences of various well-known women on Twitter these days. It’s so outrageous – “He’ll probably think you an idiot; but that’s inevitable anyway,” – that I couldn’t work out if it was actually serious. But the author anticipates this – “don’t think this is a Joak,” he tells us. I still can’t decide whether it really is, though. I suspect not – this was a topical issue, after all, and attitudes like this were no doubt why The National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies was founded two years later, in 1897.

A final note – I would rather like to see my husband’s face if I’d made some delicious hash for dinner, only to eat it myself and give him his own dinner of green turtle instead.

Advice to Wives

Don’t argue with your husband: do whatever he tells you and obey all his orders.

Don’t worry him for money, and don’t expect a new dress oftener than he offers to buy you one.

Don’t sit up till he comes home from the club; better be in bed, and pretend to be asleep. If you must be awake, seem to be glad that he came home so early. He’ll probably think you an idiot; but that’s inevitable anyway.

Don’t grumble at him because he takes no notice of baby; men weren’t built to take notice of baby.

Don’t mope and cry because you are ill, and don’t get any fun; the man goes out to get all the fun, and your laugh comes in when he gets home again and tells you about – some of it. As for being ill, women should never be ill.

Don’t be mad because he smokes in bed, and goes into the best room with his dirty boots: your’s is the only house in which he can do these things, and you mustn’t be disagreeable.

Don’t talk to him of his mother-in-law; he’ll like it better if you talk to him of yours.

Don’t give him hash for dinner, eat the hash yourself and get him green turtle and chicken.

Don’t answer back, don’t spend money on yourself, don’t expect him to push the perambulator, don’t expect him to do anything he doesn’t want to do, don’t do anything he doesn’t want you to do. Then if you’re not a happy woman, your husband will at least be comfortable, and his friends will all be mad with envy.

And don’t think this is a Joak. It isn’t; it’s gospel, and the only way to have a happy home.

Tags 1895, advice for wives, feminist, Isle of Man, The British Newspaper Archive, women

Victorian Women

The Shocking Ignorance of Young Ladies, 1843

Post author By Estelle
Post date June 24, 2015

Oh, the youth of today, they don’t know they’re born! Says every generation at some point. This is taken from Punch, so it’s not entirely serious, admittedly. It’s a follow-up to an article on “the amount of ignorance of domestic affairs prevailing among young men generally.” This one covers the ignorance of young ladies and is printed “at the risk of creating a fearful panic in the marriage market.”

I don’t know if this article is based on real interviews with young ladies, or even if these young ladies actually existed, but it sounds like it was based on reality to me, and it’s an entertaining read, nonetheless.

Firstly, there’s Miss Mary Anne Atkins. She “has an idea she ought to know something of housekeeping; supposes it comes naturally.” She can sing, play, draw and embroider, but she’s never darned a stocking. She knows how much Brown Windsor Soap is, but not the yellow variety. She doesn’t know how much furniture is (and why should she really?) – she “should ask mama, if necessary”. She doesn’t know how much her dress cost or what the family’s annual butcher’s bill is, either. Shocking stuff.

Next up, we have Miss Harriet Somers. She “would not refuse a young man with £300 a year.” She can needlework, and she can make face washes (I like the sound of that) but “cannot tell how she would set about making an apple-dumpling.” Neither can I, but it sounds delicious. She would expect her potential husband to be ill sometimes, but would shamefully send out to the pastrycook’s for his recuperative “calves’-foot jelley” as “it never occurred to her that she might make it herself. If she tried, should buy some calves’ feet; what next she should do, cannot say.” At this point, she need only refer to any cookery book – Invalid Cookery was a hot topic in all of them at this point. She “likes dancing better than anything else” which is much the same as many young ladies now, really.

Miss Jane Briggs “looks forward to a union with somebody in her own station of life”. Of course. She “really cannot say what a ledger is,” and “has never ironed a frill”. Neither have I, and I intend to keep it that way. She has eaten fowl, but never trussed one, and is in the dark as to how you make stuffing for a duck or goose.

Miss Elizabeth Atkins “has no idea whether she is a minor or not” and “cannot say whether she is a legatee or a testatrix”. Idiot. Doesn’t know how much milk or starch cost. “Her time is principally occupied in fancy work, reading novels, and playing quadrilles and waltzes on the piano.”

Sixty more ladies were apparently interviewed in this way, and more shocking statistics follow – only three knew how to corn beef, six knew what a sausage consisted of (does anyone really know this for sure?), and a mere four could make an onion sauce. None of them could brew alcohol. Punch “shudders at the idea” of what is to become of their future husbands. The poor onion-sauce-less, crumpled-frill-wearing husbands, ill in bed with their non-homemade calves’ feet jelly.

I love this line – as true of teenagers today as then (and quite right too) – “They mostly could tell what the last new song was; but none of them knew the current price of beef.”

NB. Incidentally, you might have noticed that Brown Windsor Soap is highlighted in the article. More of this in a future post – as I’m trying to determine whether Brown Windsor Soup (SOUP, that is) is an actual, real Victorian thing, or a later invention, and mainly used for comedy purposes.

Tags 1843, Punch, West Kent Guardian, women

Adverts Pharmaceuticals Victorian

Dr Ricord’s Essence of Life, 1851

Post author By Estelle
Post date June 22, 2015

Oxford University Herald, 21st September 1851

“Dr Ricord’s Essence of Life” – there’s a product that promises a lot. Even going by the standard Victorian pharmaceutical predilection to claim that their medicine will cure half of the ailments in a medical dictionary.

It promises “The vigour of youth restored in four weeks” but what does that mean?

“This wonderful agent will restore manhood to the most shattered constitution, whether arising from self-pollution, excesses, nocturnal emissions, the effects of climate, or natural causes.”

OK, so it’s Victorian Viagra for those who’ve broken themselves with too much “self-pollution”?

“The time required to cure the most inveterate case is four weeks; and, if used according to the printed instructions (which are very simple), failure is impossible.” Of course, one thing that all Victorian pharmaceuticals seem to have in common is that they all “never fail”. Or, as this advert puts it, “Success in every case is as certain as that water quenches thirst.”

But hang on! What does it actually do? Because – “This life-restoring remedy should be taken by all about to marry, as its effects are permanent.” What “effects” are these? Is this why Prince Albert got a prince albert?

“It is acknowledged by the medical press to be the greatest discovery ever made.” Strangely, I can’t find any evidence of this.

Unfortunately, I can’t find any analysis of what was in this remedy – the British Medical Association’s Secret Remedies book doesn’t investigate that particular product, but maybe when that book was published, in 1909, it wasn’t available anymore.

Looking at other Dr Ricord’s adverts, which were widely placed in local newspapers over the 1850s and 1860s, they don’t often seem to mention the “self-pollution” and “nocturnal emissions” bits although the wording is otherwise the same. But then, this advert was in a university newspaper, so maybe this was a special student version.

Tags 1851, advert, Dr Ricord's Essence of Life, Oxford University Herald, pharmaceuticals

1900-1949 1950-1999 Victorian

Were You Richard Herring?

I am a fan of Richard Herrings. By which I mean all the people called Richard Herring throughout history. All of them.

Well, mainly I am a fan of the comedian Richard Herring, to be fair. But I was in the mood for a bit of history-surfing on The British Newspaper Archive. I like taking something small – an unknown fact, little antique item or newspaper clipping and using that as a jumping-off point to see where it takes you. I always find out a lot more than I imagine – there are so many resources and online archives out there that I’ve stumbled upon, which I would never have thought to look for specifically. So today’s post is a little skittish ramble through the outskirts of history.

The good thing about the BNA is that it’s pretty new – there’s new papers being made available nearly every week, and so the potential for discovering something interesting and potentially unknown (or long-forgotten) is quite high. Nothing gives me a buzz like history detective work. My two contributions to Wikipedia – on the “Half Man Half Woman” Josephine Joseph and the Grand National – were brilliantly thrilling rides.

Anyway, back to today’s post – searching for my own name on the BNA brings up nothing at all. If there’s been any Estelle Hargraves in the past, they kept quiet about it. My family’s names are all similarly sparsely represented. I suppose you’re generally only in the papers if you’re very good at something, very bad at something else, or the victim of something tragic. It’s pretty easy to slip under the radar of appearing in the local papers if your life is just a bit humdrum.

Looking for namesakes of people I knew, I was reminded of that Dave Gorman programme from a few years back, “Are you Dave Gorman?” , where he searched the world for people who shared his name. And so, on a whim, I thought I would have a search for people in history who also had the name of the aforementioned Mr Herring. I wasn’t hopeful to be honest – it sounds like a pretty unusual name to me. But no, “Richard Herring” turns out to be a crazily popular name in the world of people who’ve had local newspaper articles written about them. I found out some interesting stories along the way.

So let’s begin – and I think I’ll do this in chronological order.

The first one I found, way back in 1799, was Richard Herring the clockmaker, looking for an apprentice. Not much of a story here though.

The criminal career of the Richard Herrings begins in 1815 with this one being capitally convicted for burglary – i.e. sentenced to death. He is very much not the only naughty Herring.

Then in 1825, there’s a livelier story of another young hoodlum. Young Dick and friends painted their faces black, and burgled “an old and respectable farmer” near Buckingham – quite interesting to me as Buckingham is where I grew up as a teenager. They were found guilty – in 1825, what would the punishment be? Potentially transportation to Australia, or even hanging. I don’t know.

There’s another young Richard Herring living the thug life in 1833, which I am pretty sure is a different one to the 1825 one. This one has the benefit of being “a good looking young man” at least, even though he committed a serious fraud of collecting a vet’s accounts and keeping the money.

Another Richard Herring was the victim in 1833. This one is my favourite. It’s the inquest of poor Richard Herring, cow-keeper. After suffering “a giddiness in the head”, he milked the cows and was subsequently found dead in a well by his son, his feet sticking out of the top. This was all a bit mysterious – the opening of the well was very small, there was no bucket nearby and the deceased was not in the habit of drawing the well water anyway. His son was giving evidence to the inquest when a man ran into the pub where the inquest was being held, shouting for the son to come back and milk the cows. The coroner was not impressed. It became clear that Mrs Herring was outside and wanted the boy (her step-son) to get on with his work. The coroner had held back from requesting her evidence “from a feeling of delicacy” but changed his mind and called her before him, although she argued against it. She scandalised the inquest with her flippancy and by and large did quite a good impression of a fairytale-style wicked stepmother. The coroner “reprimanded her in severe terms” and was only sorry there was no evidence to convict her of murder.

Former farrier Richard Herring suddenly died in 1835, although he was aged 85 which was pretty good going at that time. A farrier is someone who looks after horses hooves, by the way. I do like the phrasing here – “he went into his house, and sat down, apparently in his normal state of health: very shortly afterwards, however, he was a corpse.”

Such a sad story this one. A mother and daughter were charged in 1863 with killing the daughter’s newborn baby and throwing it down the well, where it stayed for at least ten days with the unwitting neighbours continuing to use the water. Richard Herring here was the neighbour who managed to get the baby’s body out.

Nottinghamshire Guardian, 9th October 1863

The brains of the Herrings here with a new invention for improved telegraph messages:

No story here, just an ex-Herring. Oh F*ck I’m 40, indeed.

York Herald, 14th May 1879

This one I particularly enjoy as the 1881 version of Richard Herring is “very angry with the post office”. Something not a million miles from the current regeneration. He’s a bit of a nutter constantly writing in to express his displeasure with the world in general. Writing to Queen Victoria to tell her that “she was not as well acquainted with her duties as he was,” takes some nerve though. In conclusion – “the general effect of Mr Herring’s assault on the powers that be is a little confusing.”

Sheffield Daily Telegraph, 16th September 1881

A Herring with an idea for a new invention for the House of Commons. It’s an electronic system for the MPs to vote – a bit like the audience vote in Stars in Their Eyes. I’m going to assume this was also the chap with the telegraph invention. He was ahead of his time.

More criminal activity in 1892 – this Richard Herring is one of “three of the most notorious vagabonds in London.” His fellow notorious vagabonds pushed the policeman arresting Herring into a “chest of eggs”, allowing him to escape. Although they caught him again quite quickly.

Exeter and Plymouth Gazette, 4th May 1892

A bankrupt Herring here is officially a “Leeds Failure” in 1907.

This young Richard Herring fell into the wrong crowd and was hanging around gambling with his friends. The Mayor of Leamington Spa thought the lads “appeared to be earning too much money.” No problem though, his mum confirmed he had joined the Royal Engineers. The First World War will sort him out!

Leamington Spa Courier, 5th November 1915

The criminal activities and cow-keeping of the Richard Herrings continue with this one convicted of watering down milk in 1932, although it was the act of revenge of one of his employees.

Nottingham Evening Post, 6th October 1932

A tragic Herring in 1952 gave his mother a boiled sweet, which she choked on and died.

Leamington Spa Courier, 19th September 1952

Finally, the most recent Herring I found was this boy wonder in the mid 1950s, again from Buckingham. He was constantly in the local press with his fishing and table tennis achievements, but he was also a prize-winning leatherworker. He appears to have been attacked by a pike in the first article – probably for being annoyingly good at everything. He also managed to find what sounds like a dinosaur egg while fishing.

Egg! Like a bird’s egg!

So that’s it. A lot of Herrings. I am going to make the conclusion that many Herrings are drawn towards the water – two tragic well incidents, one fisherman, and one involved in a milk-watering-down scheme. It’s a general mix of criminality and tragedy, but then again, that’s mostly going to be the case with those who stick their head over the parapet of local newsworthiness. Having said that, there’s still quite a surprising amount of criminals. What will time bring for the Richard Herrings of the future, I wonder?

Tags Richard Herring, The British Newspaper Archive

1900-1949 Adverts Victorian War

Rude Archives

Firstly, sorry for this post.

Actually, this is the kind of thing that annoying hashtag #sorrynotsorry is for, I suppose. But sorry to those on my mailing list who may be looking at this at work, and also for those not keen on swearing. For you, I will leave a decency gap, and a little extract from Blackadder III’s “Ink and Incapability” that pretty much sums up my investigations for today. But it’s my birthday today so indulge me.

Samuel Johnson has just written his Dictionary and the Prince Regent has been looking up some words in it….

Samuel Johnson: So, ahem, tell me, sir, what words particularly interested you?

Prince Regent: Oh, er, nothing… Anything, really, you know…

Samuel Johnson: Ah, I see you’ve udnerlined a few (takes dictionary, reads): `bloomers’; `bottom’; `burp’; (turns a page) `fart’; `fiddle’; `fornicate’?

Prince Regent: Well…

Samuel Johnson: Sir! I hope you’re not using the first English dictionary to look up rude words!

Blackadder: I wouldn’t be too hopeful; that’s what all the other ones will be used for.

Yes, I’ve been looking up rude words in the British Newspaper Archive. Obviously, being newspapers, they aren’t chock-a-block with intentional swears. But there’s a few anachronistic words that appear in a non-sweary way, at the time. “Wanker” being one. Here’s a few clippings that made me giggle quite a lot.

Well, this is sad – an article about casualties from the First World War. But it’s livened up a bit by the fact that one of the casualties is called General Wanker von Dankenechweil.

Then there’s this proprietor of glasses in 1863 – “Wankers”. They are keen to help innkeepers provide the correct measures and avoid prosecution.

But, my favourite – this 1924 account of the trial of a Frenchman called Vaquier. He was accused of murdering a pub landlord by poison. Hopefully not because of his short measures.

He was unsuccessfully appealing his death sentence. His response – “I protest because I am French”.

It was revealed that the alias he used while buying the poison was “Wanker”. Whether this was because “Vaquier” isn’t a million miles away, or the fact that the landlord’s pub was called “The Blue Anchor”, or that he really just was openly proud to be a wanker, we’ll never know.

Best sub-header ever.

Tags 1863, 1914, 1924, Blackadder, swearing, The British Newspaper Archive, wankers

1900-1949 1950-1999 Adverts Victorian War Women

Edwards’ Harlene Hair Products, 1897-1951

Post author By Estelle
Post date June 5, 2015
1 Comment on Edwards’ Harlene Hair Products, 1897-1951

A special request today from Tasker Dunham – a look Edwards’ Harlene hair products and, as Mr Dunham put it, the “impossibly luxuriant hair and beard growth” they used to illustrate their advertisements.

Launching straight into the 1897 campaign below, you can see what he means. Hair of Rapunzel-like proportions is promised from Harlene by a woman in a dress that seems slightly indecent by Victorian standards. Plus, there’s miracle preparations for curing baldness and restoring grey hair to be had. “Scurf” is also cured by this wonder product – not a word you hear much these days, but as far as I can see it seems to mean much the same as “dandruff”. Perhaps there were subtle distinctions between the two?

Also in 1897, there was this rather artistic advert, which reminds me a bit of Holman Hunt’s painting, The Awakening Conscience. Except, it’s all proper and decent in this advert as it’s merely a long-tressed maiden advising a vicar on a baldness cure.

Moving on to 1916 – Edwards’ had a series of war-themed adverts to bring them bang up to date. Here, “a war-time gift to the grey-haired” is promised in the form of a free sample of the colour restorer “Astol” for their hair. Note, that “dye” is a dirty word – these products are claimed not to be dyes, but true restorers of whatever colour your hair was originally. I’m sure I remember that the “Just For Men” hairdye used to claim something similar even in the 1990s – can anyone else vouch for this? Your hair would magically restore itself to any colour you like as long as it was “tobacco brown”.

Here Edwards’ plays its part in making women feel insecure about their natural ageing. Grey-haired women look on in envy at their brown-haired sister.

Astol is not a dye or a stain, remember. This kind of cosmetics advertising is satirised in the book “The Crimson Petal and the White”, incidentally, which is an absolutely wonderful novel that immerses you in a Victorian world. I haven’t read anything apart from Dickens that has made me feel so actually part of the nineteeth century.

Edwards’ then introduced a new method for hair-improval. Here in 1918, we see the “Harlene Hair Drill” advertised, which went on to be used in their advertising for many years afterwards. The “Hair Drill” consisted of a series of steps to be done each day, which apparently took no longer than two minutes – although as you had to send off to see what they actually were, I have no idea what it consisted of. All I know is that you had absolutely no excuse not to be following “the lead of the navy, the army and the air force” , who were all at it, of course. Incredibly, the claim is made that “Even in the trenches our soldiers like to keep their hair “fit” by the “drill”.”

“Dandruff makes your hair fall out.” Really?

You’ll never snag a soldier with that grey hair, ladies.

More free offers in 1918, and more flowing mermaid hair to boot. This offer is being made “in view of the present prevalence of Hair Defects.”

More amazing hair here.

And here Edwards’ Harlene steps right into a lawsuit, if the Trade Descriptions Act had existed in 1920 (but it didn’t until 1968). Somehow mid-length frizzy hair is transformed into waist-length ringlets as if by magic. Although the friend with the bobbed hair is much more fashionable – I bet Edwards’ were seething at the 1920s fashion for shingled hair.

They were good with their free gifts, though.

Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 30th January 1921

Moving onto the 1950s now – and Edwards’ Harlene advertising has become much more realistic, using an actual photograph this time, of achievable hair. However, scurf was apparently still a thing in the 1950s.

Yorkshire Evening Post, 3rd September 1951

The proprietor of the company, Reuben George Edwards (originally Reuben Goldstein), had died in 1943, and in 1963 the company was taken over by Ashe Chemical. I see that Ashe Chemical were also the makers of “Gitstick Concentrated Crayon Insecticide” – and hello, future blog post!

Tags 1897, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920, 1921, 1951, advert, Edwards Harlene, Hair products, women

Victorian Women

The Black Beetle Pie Case, 1863

Post author By Estelle
Post date May 17, 2015

Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper, 23rd August, 1863

“Disgusting charge against a lady” runs one of the headlines regarding “The Black Beetle Pie case” of 1863, and that just about sums it up.

Whilst fruitlessly looking for more information about the real Dr Frankenstein of 1863, I came across this riotous story. Dashingly-dressed Mrs Elizabeth Wilton of Brixton was charged with making a pie filled with black beetles and then giving it to her servant to feed to next-door’s coachman, for some reason. The unfortunate recipient of the pie, Edward Gardiner, “swallowed six or seven mouthfuls, but finding the taste exceedingly unpleasant, he looked and saw that the pie was filled with black beetles.” A mere six or seven mouthfuls to find that out?

Mrs Wilton said she’d made it “for a lark” but was charged with “intent to aggrieve and annoy” Mr Gardiner. She claimed she never thought he’d actually eat the thing and he would realise immediately it was a joke – but hang on, she’d not only filled the pie with beetles, she also put 30 grains of gamboge in it too. Gamboge being a yellow tree sap used as a laxative, the addition of which would seem to be unnecessary if it wasn’t intended to be eaten. Mr Gardiner said “…it was nasty stuff resembling mustard, but it was not mustard.” He took the uneaten pie to the police station, where the sergeant on duty said “…anything more filthy and disgusting he had never seen. The stench was so intolerable that he had to open all the Station-house windows to get rid of it.”

Her pie-madness didn’t stop there however. The article goes on to say that she voluntarily brought a new pie to the police station, “intended for sale at a bazaar, but which she wished to leave for approval.” I think we can guess what was in it, but it was even stranger than the first one. Inspector Smith decided to investigate and found inside “a painted toy pear quite full of black beetles.” Where was she getting all these beetles from?

The case was briefly notorious, with crowds outside the court shouting “Who made the black beetle pie?” and inside “the court was crowded to suffocation”.

The court heard that Mrs Wilton had had a dispute with this neighbour, on account of the bands she engaged to play loud music at her house two or three times a week until the early hours. She had also been spotted throwing bricks at the neighbour’s windows. One of the articles mentions that she also baked a pie for one of these bands, but this time instead of beetles it contained ladies knickers, which the performer put on and then proceeded to dance in front of her door for a bit.

Somehow she got off the charge, her practical joke defence having worked.

However, “the crowd in front of the court was so immense, and the feeling against her so strong, that it was not considered safe for her to leave. She in consequence felt it prudent to send home her carriage and take her station in the gaoler’s room, where she remained with her friends, and having been supplied with some creature comforts, departed in an hour in a street-cab, accompanied by a stylish young man, and thus ended the black beetle pie case.”

Exeter and Plymouth Gazette, 10th July 1863

And yet it wasn’t the end, quite. She got into trouble again a month later, for getting drunk and knocking off a policeman’s hat. Which ranked extremely highly on the shocking crime scale in 1863. Asbo-material, she was.

One thing continually mentioned in the reports is that she was Mrs Elizabeth Wilton, “alias Hyde”. Well, if you’re going to have an alias, isn’t Hyde the best one to have? However, this was 20 years before “The Curious Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” was written. In my imagination, a 13-year-old Robert Louis Stephenson read the widely circulated reports of this case, and the alias of a madwoman stuck in his subconscious mind.

I was delighted to find out after reading all this that there was a folk song written about Elizabeth Wilton. Of course there was. And even more delighted that a version of it, Black Beetle Pies, was recorded very recently by Bellowhead – see below. It reminds me of brilliantly strange circus music, and that’s just about one of my favourite things.

Bellowhead’s John Spiers said of the song “It’s about this woman who set herself up as an altruistic helper of the poor. So she started her own soup kitchen and boarding house, but despite appearances to the contrary she had complete contempt for the people she was purporting to help and would put all sorts of horrible things like black beetles into their food to see how hungry they were.” I’m guessing this was a fictionalised version of the truth, or at least I can find no mention of this particular angle on The British Newspaper Archive. But then again, I wouldn’t put it past her, quite frankly.

Tags 1863, Bellowhead, Black Beetle Pie Case, Jekyll and Hyde, Robert Louis Stephenson, The British Newspaper Archive, Victorian

1900-1949 Adverts Pharmaceuticals Victorian

Pink Pills for Pale People, 1917

Post author By Estelle
Post date May 11, 2015
1 Comment on Pink Pills for Pale People, 1917

The Lancashire Daily Post, 16th November, 1917

“Dr Williams’ pink pills for pale people” – a gloriously named pharmaceutical that sounds to me equally likely to have come from the past or some kind of Philip K Dick-style future.

The pink pills were, however, quite a big deal around the late 19th and early 20th century. George Taylor Fulford bought the rights to the pills in 1890 and launched a huge marketing campaign for them, covering 87 countries and spending a dazzling £200,000 a year on advertising in 1900 – in Britain alone.

As the “pale people” description indicates, these were iron supplements for anaemic people. And unlike the wild claims of various cure-alls, these were genuinely medically helpful to many people, as anaemia was a common condition of the time.

A strange little postscript to the story is that George Fulford died from a car accident in 1905 – he, his chauffeur and his business partner Willis Hanson were ejected from their car as it collided with a streetcar in New York. This was not a common cause of death at this point in time, and indeed Fulford is reported by Wikipedia to be the first Canadian on record to die by automobile accident.

Tags 1917, advert, Dr Williams pink pills for pale people, new york, pharmaceuticals, The British Newspaper Archive

Adverts Food & Drink Victorian

Queen Victoria and the Forbidden Fruit, 1841

Post author By Estelle
Post date April 29, 2015

Here’s an advert from a Liverpool greengrocer publicising his recent present to Queen Victoria.

“Her Majesty the Queen has been graciously pleased to order the acknowledgement of the box of FORBIDDEN FRUIT, &e., forwarded by MR MIDDLEWOOD, of this town, which arrived in the most perfect state, and was very much approved of at the Royal table.”

Well, if it’s good enough for the Queen it’s good enough for you, Mr Middlewood is telling Liverpool here. But what was forbidden fruit?

The advert says they are “selected the best in Nassau”, and forbidden fruit was actually the first name given to the natural hybrid fruit of the Bahamas, the grapefruit, first discovered in the mid-18th century. Later on it was termed “grapefruit” after the way the fruits grew in clusters on the tree, a bit like grapes. Bit of a name downgrade though.

Mr Middlewood also sells “shaddocks”, which are the citrus fruits now more commonly termed pomelos – although confusingly, both “pomelo” and “shaddock” also used to be names for the grapefruit, and pomelos are one of the ingredients of the cocktail “Forbidden Fruit”.

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ddock really doesn’t sound like the right thing to call a fruit. It just reminds me of that strange creature, the “Shadmock”, in the horror film “The Monster Club”, but then again he’s a hybrid too….

Tags 1841, Bahamas, food, Grapefruit, Queen Victoria, Victorian