Thursday Cameo: G&S - possibly the best combination since the G&T

Love musicals? Who doesn't! Today's Victorian agers of note are a duo I think of as "Andrew Lloyd Webber, the Prequel (This Time, It's Whiskered)". No doubt you've heard of the operetta-writing pair Gilbert and Sullivan (and if you haven't, make yourself comfortable!).

W.S. Gilbert & A. Sullivan

These guys are pretty much the patron saints of light operettas. In the mid-nineteenth century, they took the old-style opera, dressed it up in bright colours, and kicked it up the bum. 

Begone, tedious operas dwelling endlessly on a single plot device! Farewell, high-pitched singing in a language I don't know and never care to learn! These two paved the way for the modern musical we know today: if it weren't for their influence, we'd be queuing up in New York for tickets to Les Chats, or straining to understand the storyline of Il Starlight Espresso (see what I did there?). Even the cast of Les Miserables would be speaking French - sacre bleu!

Gilbert, left, and Sullivan, right. In real life their heads were less bobbly.

So what did they write? Well, a bunch of great operettas, which are still being performed today, and a whole lot more average ones, which have disappeared into history. But most noteworthy are HMS Pinafore, The Mikado, Trial by Jury, The Pirates of Penzance, and The Gondoliers (which happens to be featured in my novel Unseemly Conduct, imagine that).

Pretty picture time:

The Mikado, a political satire, was the most successsful of the G&S operettas

The Gondoliers is set in Venice and pokes fun at the (English) class system

Their first international hit, HMS Pinafore satirised 'management by mediocrity'

Because their lyrics were catchy, cute, and (above all) in English, Gilbert and Sullivan appealed to a wide range of theatre-goers. Everyone could remember and sing along to their songs, and their political messages were not so subtle as to pass over anyone's heads. What's more, they contained enough slapstick humour and sexual innuendo to keep even the most jaded dandy entertained.

So popular were they, that the entrepreneurial producer Richard D'Oyly Carte actually built a theatre so that he had a venue good enough to present their works. And not just any theatre, either - The Savoy Theatre in London. Yes, I can hear you scriptwriters salivating from here.

Can't remember the last time anyone built anything this fancy to do justice to my creative genius...

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and after several years of producing operettas in the Savoy, an argument arose between Gilbert and their producer D'Oyly Carte. It was not an artistic difference, as one might imagine - it was a rather tawdry squabble over a rug. D'Oyly Carte had recarpeted the Savoy, and there was a difference of opinion over who should pick up the tab. Gilbert had previoulsy become suspicious about D'Oyly Carte's book-keeping, and the incriminations were enough to break up the working trio (Sullivan seemed to side with D'Oyly Carte). 

It was one of those spectacular rifts that had everyone in London talking, and though Gilbert and Sullivan reunited some years later for another run, they never produced anything as popular as in their wonder years.

Over a century later, Gilbert and Sullivan operettas remain a favourite of theatre goers around the world, and their influence on popular culture is still obvious. You might remember Sideshow Bob singing the HMS Pinafore score in the Cape Feare episode, or Stewie from Family Guy with his own version of "I've got a little list" (actually entitled "As Some Day It May Happen" from The Mikado).

Though related to a peer

I can hand, reef, and steer

And ship a selvagee;

I am never known to quail

At the fury of a gale,

And I'm never, never sick at sea!

What, Never?

No, never!

What, Never?

Well, hardly ever!

-Captain Corcoran in HMS Pinafore

Thursday Cameo: Roll Up, Roll Up

Today’s Victorian-ager of note is known as the world’s “First Show-Business Millionaire”, the American circus owner Phineas Taylor (P.T.) Barnum.

Nowadays when we think of circuses, we imagine big tops, acrobatics, freak shows, clowns, wild animals and curiosities. But this quintessential “circusness” did not spring fully formed from the earth – for the most part, it was the brain child of the nineteenth-century American entrepreneur P. T. Barnum. Anybody who hasn’t lived their entire life under rock will have heard of Barnum’s Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus – it’s still running, after more than 100 years.

 Phineas Taylor (P.T.) Barnum

Barnum was a man of extremes. He wasn’t just a big thinker: he was a huge thinker. From importing a freakin’ African elephant into the country for his circus, to building the outrageously huge mansion “Iranistan” (which would eventually bankrupt him), to paying unprecedented figures to his star performers, he did nothing by halves. This week, I’d like to pay homage especially to some of the people and exhibitions who are part of the Barnum legacy.

Feejee Mermaid

People had long believed that strange, half-fish people existed in the outer regions of the seas. The Americans enjoyed a good freak  as much as their Victorian England contemporaries, and they were willing to pay an entry fee to see one. Cue the Feejee (Fiji) Mermaid. The ghastly creature was, of course, fake: it was made of a torso and head of a baby monkey, sewn to the back half of a fish and covered in paper-mâché. But it was realistic enough to fool the circus-goers, especially when Barnum trotted out the “doctor” who supposedly caught the creature.

Well, Ariel it ain't...

Tom Thumb

In 1842, Barnum discovered Charles Stratton, a child dwarf. The boy at the time was four years old, but in order to intensify the marvel, Barnum claimed he was eleven. Naming him General Tom Thumb – The Smallest Person that ever Walked Alone, he set out to train the boy to become an entertainer. Barnum had two points of good fortune: first, little Tom Thumb had a natural aptitude for mimicry and was a fast learner, and second, child exploitation laws in those days were virtually non-existent. Within a few years, the lad was drinking wine and smoking cigars for the public's amusement. Of course, he didn’t have to worry about it stunting his growth. (Yes, I went there.) Throughout his life Tom Thumb was immensely popular – he even had audiences with Queen Victoria and the Czar of Russia. 

Barnum’s exploitation seems appalling to modern-day readers, but from all accounts Charles Stratton lived a happy life as Tom Thumb. It really was a life most could only dream of – and especially so for a man who would never grow to more than four feet tall.

And now for something completely different - Jumbo

We’re so used to thinking of “Jumbo” as a cute word for something enormous, that you’ve maybe never wondered where it came from. Lucky for you, I live to enlighten! “Jumbo” is, in fact, the name of the hugely popular African elephant that Barnum imported from England for his circus. Barnum bought the elephant for the then-staggering sum of $10,000. Perhaps even more impressive than the price he paid was his skill in drumming up public interest in the creature, even before the elephant left the shores of England. Barnum started a rumour that the British people were mutinous over the sale of Jumbo, and that thousands of schoolchildren had written to the Queen, begging that Jumbo wouldn’t leave England. In response, the American public became outraged that they might miss out on seeing the incredible beast. By the time Jumbo had arrived in the U.S., his popularity was already similar to modern-day Justin Bieber. Barnum made his money back within the first weeks of exhibiting the animal, and the English language gained a new word: jumbo, for anything of unusually large size.

The Swedish nightingale

You can think of Jenny Lind as Barnum’s “Jumbo II – this time, it’s musical.” Popular in Europe, the Swedish opera singer was engaged by Barnum before he’d even heard her performances. It was a calculated gamble – after all, even if she didn’t have the voice, he had the public relations department. 

And it paid off: by the time Jenny Lind arrived in the U.S., so much public excitement had been created about her that 40,000 locals greeted her ship at the dock. She toured the States with Barnum, and became phenomenally successful, even spawning a line of “Jenny Lind” merchandising. In fact, she was so successful that she earned $250,000 over the course of just under 100 concerts – an amazing amount at the time; especially considering that the artist in question was a woman.

Apparently, Jenny inspired Hans Christian Andersen's tale "The Nightingale"

“Siamese Twins” Chang and Eng

Chang and Eng Bunker were born as conjoint twins in Siam (now Thailand). They had previously been exhibited as a curiosity in a world tour with British merchant Robert hunter. In 1860, having married and retired to a plantation in North Carolina, the twins came out of retirement, and did a six-week stint in Barnum’s Museum (one of “those” museums). Although the Bunkers were not Barnum's discovery, "Siamese" twins were to become a mainstay of circus sideshows for decades. (Until we realised that it's rude to stare.)

Cameo: Prince Albert in a Nutshell (but NOT in a Can)

Today’s Cameo celebrates a very important, but often overlooked, stalwart of the Victorian Age: Vicky’s husband Albert, Prince Consort. As husband to the Queen, and not himself heir to the English throne, he would never bear the title of King of England. However, Prince Albert bears a special place in my heart for his many attributes: lover, man of science, reformer, peacemaker, and family man! All this, and he still agreed to walk six paces behind Victoria when they were in public. Where do the rest of us find such a husband?

Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Prince Consort and general dreamboat

Albert, Prince Consort of the United Kingdom

The many faces of Albert

 

Paramour: we might look at pictures of the po-faced Queen Victoria and think she was a bit of a cold fish, but history tells us otherwise. In his book, A. N. Wilson notes that Albert made Victoria a very happy woman: 

From the first ‘gratifying and bewildering night,’ as she described it to Lord Melbourne, the Queen was crazy about Albert.... as she wrote to her cousin... ‘You cannot imagine how delightful it is to be married. I could not have dreamed that anyone could be so happy in this world as I am.’ 

Renaissance man: Albert was an impressive musician, speaker of several languages, and well-taught in philosophy and art history. He was also a bit of a dreamboat, if you like pork-chop sideburns (and I do). All the sorts of attributes you need if you are going to be ever-so-close to, but not quite, at the head of an Empire.

Man of Science: An innovator, and interested in modern thought, Albert was a driving force behind the Crystal Palace, built in Hyde Park to house the Great Exhibition. For years, the great glass edifice stood in Hyde Park, hosting marvels from around the world. The public could enter for a small fee (some days as low as one shilling entry).

Albert also forwarded the cause of a knighthood for Charles Darwin, whose book, The Origin of the Species, had impressed the Prince Consort. However, Parliament voted this down on the grounds that Darwin had said they momma be lookin' like a monkey.

Bringer of the Christmas tree: Next December, as you’re trying to vacuum the pine needles out of the carpet, spare a thought for dear old Albie. It was he who brought the Christmas tree tradition to England from his homeland of Saxe-Coburg (in modern-day Germany). Before that, the English had to make do with mistletoe, and wreaths of ivy, and holly sprigs, all of which tended not to get lodged in the rug.

Family Man: In case you’re thinking, “Well, he may have been great in bed/incredibly intelligent/forward thinking, but I bet poor old Vicky never saw him during the daylight hours” – you’d be quite wrong. Prince Albert was all about family: he was an active part of the lives of his nine children. He devised a rigorous six-hour-a-day lesson plan for his eldest son, who would later inherit the throne. (Apparently Albert was beside himself when his eldest daughter, the Princess Royal, moved to Prussia after her marriage to German Emperor Frederick III. Aw, bless him. You can just imagine the father of the bride tearing up, can’t you?)

Flash in the Pan: as if to prove that only the good die young, dear old Albie shuffled off this mortal coil at the tender age of forty-two. This sent poor Victoria into an extended period of mourning, lasting from 1861 to her death in 1901. Yes, apparently he was that good a husband...

 

Things that are named after Prince Albert

The Victoria and Albert museum in London. It’s the two things all married couples dream about: being joined forever in death, and housing dusty old antiques.

...melding the two things couples care about most

 

Prince Albert piercing. First, let me warn you that searching for this on Google will get you images which are not suitable for work. It involved a piercing through a part of a man’s anatomy that he would normally jealously guard from any sort of puncture or mutilation. Er. That’s all the description I’m really happy to give on a non-restricted blog. There is no real certainty why it was named after Albert; the piercer who popularised the “prince albert” claimed that Prince Albert had such a piercing in order to keep his wild and abundant manhood under control when it was encased in tight-fitting trousers. Is this true? Only Vicky could tell us. However, judging from the information on their love life, I wouldn’t be at all surprised about the “wild and abundant manhood.”

But, surprisingly, not Prince Albert tobacco – the genesis of the old “Prince Albert in a can” joke. The tobacco was actually named after Edward VII, the son of Albert and Victoria. As you say, “Huh? It’s not called Prince Edward in a Can!” let me explain: Victoria’s eldest son was christened Albert Edward, but upon assuming the throne was entitled Edward VII. 

Prince Albert, King Edward - not confusing at all

Cameo: (Mrs) Dr Frankenstein

Welcome to Thursday’s Cameo, where I introduce an esteemed (by me) personage of the Victorian age. Be they hero or fiend, these are the people who captured the spirit of the age – the Victorian zeitgeist, if you will. (And I will: zzzzzeitgeist. I might use that again some time...)

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Introducing author, poet, philosopher and scandal-maker Mary Shelley...

Mrs Dr Frankenstein

By far most famous of Mary Shelley’s work is her Gothic novel Frankenstein: or, the Modern Prometheus. 

It's... ALIVE!!!!

The popularity of the book, based as it was on galvanism and occult themes, had a lot to do with the early 19^th century zeitgeist (see what I did there?). 

The early Victorian imagination was fascinated with pseudo-science, and like Michael Crichton novels today, many of Frankenstein’s readers would have been turning the pages, saying, gosh, this could really happen!. (Remember, this was the same age in which people could intelligently discuss Darwin’s theory of Evolution, but still passionately insist that fairies were alive and well and living at the bottom of the garden. Yes, I’m serious.)

Cameo: Mrs Beeton - move over, Martha Stewart

Welcome to Thursday's Cameo!

Thursday is the day where I tell you about a weird and wonderful person from the Victorian age. They may have  invented a steam ship, protested slavery, written a great novel or just died in a spectacularly cool way – but whatever they did, it was done with true Victorain style and aplomb, and I think they deserve some modern kudos.

Mrs Isabella Beeton

Imagine your apartment after a long, boozy dinner party. Now imagine your table cloth, splashed with a lurid red wine stain. What do you do? You call your Mum, of course.

Now imagine your telephone was some sort of time-travel transmitting device, and you could actually call your great-great-great-grandmother. Do you know what she would do about that wine stain (assuming she didn’t die from shock when you explained who you were)? Why, she’d reach for Mrs Beeton’s book, of course.

Dear old Mrs Beeton was the Martha Stewart of the 19^th century. A married woman, she wrote a series of magazines called The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. As popular as it was (and with that scintillating title, how could it miss, right?), the first three years (1859-1861) were condensed into a hard cover book, entitled: 

The Book of Household Management

And because the Victorians liked the titles lo-oo-ong, it was subtitled:  

Comprising information for the Mistress, Housekeeper, Cook, Kitchen-Maid, Butler, Footman, Coachman, Valet, Upper and Under House-Maids, Lady’s-Maid, Maid-of-all-Work, Laundry-Maid, Nurse and Nurse-Maid, Monthly Wet and Sick Nurses, etc. etc. (why settle for one “etc” when you can have two?)

And as if that wasn’t enough, it was additionally subtitled: 

also Sanitary, Medical, & Legal Memoranda: with a History of the Origin, Properties, and Uses of all Things Connected with Home Life and Comfort.

Seriously, with a book of that magnitude on your shelf, there was very little you couldn’t do... including giving a burglar serious concussion when you used it as a weapon.

Some of the fun parts of Mrs Beeton’s advice included:

Huge dinners. Enormous dinners. Gastronomically, astronomically, astounding dinners. Here is Mrs Beeton’s idea of the dishes required for a dinner party (of up to 18): two different soups, six kinds of fish, fourteen miscellaneous meat and fish dishes, three kinds of game, and seven puddings. Dig in.

How to treat your babies for illness:

• Chicken pox: warm baths and laxatives (not at the same time, I'm hoping.)
• Measles: put the child in a cool room and use leeches on him. You'll cure the measles, but he's going to need years of therapy...
• Typhus: dose the infant with wine and spirits. Finally, a cure I can relate to! (Not sure about using this on infants, though.)
• Whooping cough: laxatives and leeches, whilst “keeping up a state of nausea and vomiting”. Considering the age of the child, I suppose you could reach for those wines and spirits again....

And a few extra facts you may be interested in:

Dying of things we don’t die of any more. Two of her sons, each called Samuel Orchart Beeton, died in their infancy, one of croup and one of scarlet fever. Not to be outdone, at the ripe old age of 28, Mrs Beeton herself gave up the ghost: she died of puerperal fever, which is a serious form of septicaemia contracted during or shortly after childbirth.

Naming children things we don’t name them anymore. besides the ghoulish tradition of naming the next child after one which just died, Mrs Beeton also gave her sons excellent examples of Victorian names: her surviving boys were called Orchart and Mayson Moss. Brilliant.