Aug 122020
 

In my last blog I mentioned ‘the other’ Samuel Johnson  and the help given to me by Naomi Heap. She has kindly agreed to tell me more about her ancestor. Over to you, Naomi:

Ever sat and pondered the scribblings of a previous occupant? No me neither, let’s face it public toilets are not a place to tarry in the modern age. Even so, these days a necessary encounter with shared facilities is not likely to provide much in the way of reading material. The ubiquitous and poorly shaped phallus is a more likely artistic offering, or alternatively, you might find stylised tags that are entirely illegible to anyone but the ‘artiste’. This was not always the case, and it seems that in the 1700’s the bog-house wall (or glass window if you happened to have a diamond about your person) was an excellent spot to leave your thoughts. The surety that those to follow would be in-situ long enough to enjoy your attempts at verse, was quite literally ‘taken as read’.

‘Merry Thoughts: or the Glass-window and Bog-house Miscellany’ is a collection of such graffiti found in conveniences, tavern windows and public places in the 1700’s. It was published in four parts by one Hurlo Thrumbo – a pseudonym which I will later explain.

First however, here is an example of toilet humour from the time. This cartoon (held by the British Museum) entitled ‘Sawney in the Boghouse’ shows the likely conditions of early public conveniences. As an aside, the joke of this picture is that the Scots Man has his legs in the bottom holes and is sitting on the lid. The words below the picture insinuate that the Scots were so wild they wouldn’t know how to answer the call of nature if it involved indoors facilities.

Sawney in the Boghouse. © The Trustees of the British Museum

You will notice that our Scottish friend is surrounded by various leaflets and flyers. In the dedication of Merry Thoughts, this practice of advertising in the loo is cited as the very reason for Hurlo Thrumbo’s collection. I paraphrase the author, who considered that the collection of “lucubration” should not be lost as “bum fodder” or be painted over by landlords who would rob the world of such “sparkling pieces” – but they should be kept for posterity in the form of a publication, and so was born Merry Thoughts: Or Glass Window and Bog House Miscellany.

Not only did people leave their thoughts for others to read, it seems that their audience would commonly respond. To use a modern metaphor, they would ‘post’– and you thought that Face Book was a new idea! Of course it’s not surprising that bodily functions feature extensively in the subject matter, as do food and sex, here are some examples. First up, a complaint about the lack of loo paper:

From costive Stools, and hide-bound Wit,

From Bawdy Rhymes, and Hole besh – – t.

From Walls besmear’d with stinking Ordure,

By Swine who nee’r provide Bumfodder

Libera Nos— 

Keeping to the lavatorial theme:

In a Bog-House at the Nag’s-Head in Bradmere._

Such Places as these,

Were made for the Ease

Of every Fellow in common;

But a Person who writes

On the Wall as he shites,

Has a Pleasure far greater than Woman.

For he’s eas’d in his Body, and pleas’d in his Mind,

When he leaves both a Turd and some Verses behind.

 

Underwritten.

  You are eas’d in your Body, and pleas’d in your Mind,

  That you leave both a Turd and some Verses behind;

  But to me, which is worst, I can’t tell, on my Word,

  The reading your Verses, or the smelling your Turd.

Not all the verses are crude. Next up, one written on the Wall at the George in Sandy-Lane, in the Bath Road, a Place famous for Puddings:

  The Puddings are so good in Sandy-Lane,

  That if I chance to go that Way again,

  I’ll not be satisfy’d, unless I’ve twain,

  The one stuck thick with Plumbs, the other plain.

Here is another:

Bog-House at Ludlow._

  Two pitiful Dukes at our Race did appear;

  One bespoke him a Girl, the other new Geer,

  And both went away without paying I hear,

  For the Cheat lov’d his Money, and so did the Peer.

Underwritten.

  You Rogue, Taylor shan’t catch me, while your Legs they are cross’d.

  Don’t cry, my dear Girl, since you have got more than you lost.

One of the entries concerns a woman who is fed up with her husband for getting her pregnant so often:

  A poor Woman was ill in a dangerous Case,

  She lay in, and was just as some other Folks was.

  ‘By the Lord’, cries she, then: ‘If my Husband e’er come,

  Once again with his Will for to tickle my Bum,

  I’ll storm, and I’ll swear, and I’ll run staring wild’;

  And yet the next Night, the Man got her with Child


Merry Thoughts is for me a recommended read, not because I have a particular interest in graffiti, vandalism or public loos. Rather because the curator of the verses is likely to have been Samuel Johnson of Cheshire – no, not the lexicographer, but the dancing master and play writer who was also my distant ancestor. Here by circuitous route we come back to Hurlo Thrumbo. There is some dispute as to whether this pseudonym was used by the publisher because of the popularity of Samuel Johnson’s play ‘Hurlothrumbo; or The Supernatural’ which ran at the Haymarket for 30 consecutive nights in 1729. However, in my opinion (I would like to say ‘informed opinion’ because I have studied Sam for over a year now) Merry Thoughts Part I is his collection and compilation, the later books are likely collaborative with some of the verses being sent to him by friends.

Anyway, if you have the time and the money I would recommend searching out a copy of Merry Thoughts. One online source is The Project Gutenberg; an academic team who offer a transcription of parts II, III and IIII. Part I may require an order from AbeBooks.”

Thanks for that Naomi. The Gutenberg transcription supports your contention that Samuel Johnson was the author of the Merry Thoughts and sets out the following endorsement of the value and significance of graffiti:

“modern graffiti is surprisingly like that of earlier periods: scatological observations, laments of lovers, accusations against women for their sexual promiscuity, the repetition of “trite” poems and sayings, and messages attributed to various men and women suggesting their sexual availability and proficiency. And if the political targets have changed over the years, many of the political attitudes have remained consistent. Graffiti is an irreverent form, with strong popular and anti-establishment elements. As actions common to all classes, eating, drinking, defecation, and fornication find their lowly record in graffiti-like form”.

Here are a few more examples contained in Merry Thoughts and contained in an interesting article by Dr. Maximilian E. Novak of the University of California, Los Angeles and entitled Loos, Lewdness and Literature

Rich or poor, we are all the same….

Some of the entries are more romantic than others….

Thank you Naomi for drawing this book to my attention – I knew that the Georgians were a scatological lot, and caricaturists such as Gillray and Newton loved fart jokes, potty jokes – indeed everything and anything lavatorial!

 

 

Jul 032020
 

I must admit I know very little about Richard Tickell – and what little I did know was linked to his appearance in the Tête-à-Tête  section of the Town & Country Magazine. This scurrilous feature specialized in gossip, and suggested that he was having an affair with a woman known as Mrs Barnes – described as “the Barn-door Fowl”

So I was delighted when I heard from a reader of this blog called Angela Humby, who introduces herself with the words: “I’ve been interested in all things from the 18th century for about 4 years now, with a keen interest in the Georgian Theatre. Also reading about 18th century aristocrats/ gentlemen and the crazy things some of them got up to. I love to visit historic places in the UK to see country mansions, gardens and follies/grottoes.  I am a member of the Folly Fellowship. I am (trying!) to learn Latin in order to read 18th century inscriptions and monuments. Based near Portsmouth and married”.

Angela has researched Richard Tickell and has kindly agreed to do a guest blog for me – so, over to you Angela!

Richard Tickell by Thomas Gainsborough, c 1778

“I first came face to face with Richard ‘Anticipation’ Tickell in January 2019 in Bath, England.  That is to say with the original handsome portrait of him on loan to The Holburne Museum in Bath as part of the ‘Gainsborough & the Theatre’ temporary exhibition being held there at the time.

As the exhibition only ran from the end of 2018 to 20 January 2019, I nearly missed the chance to see this fine portrait, finding out about its inclusion in the exhibition only on 6th January 2019!

Richard Tickell was born in 1751, it is said in Bath. He was originally married to Mary Linley whose famous father Thomas Linley was an English bass and musician and taught his children music – including Mary and her sister, Elizabeth Linley.

Sisters Mary and Elizabeth Linley – the future Mrs Tickell and Mrs Sheridan –  by Thomas Gainsborough, shown courtesy of Dulwich Art Gallery

Elizabeth married the playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan – thus Tickell and Sheridan became brothers in law. Both Tickell and Sheridan were very competitive with each other as Richard Tickell was also a playwright. This competitiveness also showed itself in their family life with both Richards being fond of practical jokes. Sheridan got the better of Tickell once when he took every plate in the house and stacked them up in a room which allowed only a small narrow way through. Sheridan showed Tickell the way through and got past the plates with no problems. However, when Tickell tried to follow him all the plates started to topple on him causing him to receive some severe cuts and bruises. Tickell was naturally very angry at this and vowed to get even with Sheridan (which no doubt he did!)  but was said to have commented to Lord John Townshend “but how amazingly well done it was!”


Richard Tickell was clever, and wrote a pamphlet called “Anticipation” which came  out several days before the opening day of Parliament in 1778. He wrote it anonymously but when it became a great success and was attributed to Tickell it earned him the name of ‘Anticipation Tickell’. One of the presentation copies sent out was to the actor David Garrick whom Tickell was known to. Accompanying the pamphlet, Tickell wrote: “Dear Sir, Pray like Anticipation – I shall not regret any literary effort, if it happens to please those whose taste and good opinion I most wish to cultivate”.

1781 was the pinnacle of his success as Lord North awarded him a place in the Stamp Office and a set of rooms in Hampton Court. Very sadly, his first wife Mary died in 1787 leaving him inconsolable. However, two years later he had re-married  to Sarah Ley, a beautiful girl of 18! Richard was 38 at the time….

Sarah Ley by George Romney, c 1789. Both images shown courtesy of the National Trust.

Sarah (after Richard Cosway) by Jean Condé. (The NT attributes it as being a portrait of first wife Mary).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was during this second marriage that a bond which Tickell had given was called in,
leaving him in serious financial difficulties. He wrote to his friend Warren Hastings asking for a loan of £500 which was granted to him as shown by a second letter he wrote back to Hastings saying:

“Dear Sir, I feel it impossible to express by any words how deeply I am impressed with every sentiment of respect and gratitude for your spirited and noble manner of acceding to my request. It will ever be the pride and pleasure of my life to remember your goodness to me with the most perfect attachment and request. Believe me, Dear Sir, Your most obliged and faithful, Richard Tickell”.

Tragically, five months later Tickell met with his death on the 4th November 1793, by falling from the parapet by his window at Hampton Court Palace. Here he had been in the habit of sitting and reading. It has been suggested this was in fact not an accident but suicide, however this remains unproven. His brother-in-law Sheridan convinced the authorities it was an accident, allowing Richard to be buried in the crypt in St.Mary’s Church in Hampton.

Richard Tickell’ s memorial plaque

Richard Tickell’s portrait is now back in private ownership so I feel very lucky to have seen it as it has inspired me to find out more about the man and his works.”

Thanks, Angela, for filling me in about an interesting satirist and playwright – one of those peripheral figures whose name crops up in connection with the greats such as Garrick and Sheridan.

Jan 082018
 

Today I am delighted to offer Naomi Clifford, one of my favourite  authors who writes about life (and particularly crime) in Georgian Britain, a guest post. Her chosen subject: Five  husband murderers. Over to you Naomi !

***

At just after eight in the morning on Monday 17 September 1827, 40-year-old Mary Wittenback was taken from the condemned cell at Newgate in London where she had passed a restless night. Horace Cotton, the prison’s Anglican chaplain and Mr Baker, a Dissenting minister, had persuaded her to confess to her crime, poisoning her abusive and unfaithful husband, she had attended the condemned sermon and she had said her final goodbyes to her three daughters, but now as her death came near she became highly distressed, calling out to God, moaning and groaning.

She was half-carried by the Sheriff’s men to a chamber and here she was tied into a small black chair-like “machine” to which two long ropes were attached. This was part of her special pre-mortem punishment, being dragged to the place of execution, was additional to her hanging, and was given only to those guilty of the most heinous of crimes, treason.

She had not challenged the authority of the king, but of her husband. By murdering him she was up-ended the natural order of society. Women owed obedience to their husbands – their lords and masters – in the same way that subjects owed it to the monarch. And whereas a threat to the king was high treason, Mary’s crime was petty treason. Almost needless to say, a man could not be charged with treason against his wife; although servants of either gender could be charged for murdering an employer and clerics, always men, for murdering an ecclesiastical superior. In practice, women were the usual recipients of this special charge and its punishment and until 1790 they were also burnt at the stake, mercifully usually after they had been discreetly strangled.

Gallows, once sited outside towns as a warning to thieves and murderers, were increasingly, through the late 18th century and until public hanging was ended in 1868, moved near to the place of incarceration. Some gallows, as at Newgate, were temporary structures built right up against its walls, erected when required and taken down and stored until needed again. This close proximity of prison and gallows meant that there was no distance over which to drag the condemned prisoner. The more usual practice was to tie the prisoner to a hurdle or wicker fence and pull this behind a horse. The prisoner’s final journey, low to the ground and facing backwards, was not just ignominious, a word used often to describe the shame of execution, but abject. Those guilty of petty treason were the lowest of the low.

As Mary was placed upright in the black chair for this approximation of the act of dragging, Mr. Baker, the Dissenting minister, offered her religious consolation. She couldn’t answer, shouting only “Oh, my God! oh, my God! oh, oh!” while her arms were pinioned – bound to her body – at the elbow, a configuration that was designed to allow her to raise her hands in prayer but not to struggle. After this the hangman and his assistant each took a rope and pulled her, on the machine, out of the room into the lobby leading the scaffold and from there lifted her up the stairs to the platform.

Hangings outside Newgate
                              An execution scene outside Newgate, after Thomas Rowlandson.                                                               Courtesy of Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.

A massive crowd assembled in Old Bailey, the lane by Newgate, watched as a white cap was drawn over Mary’s head. Then the rope was adjusted, the signal given, the lever pulled, and she dropped. Her violently convulsions lasted for a full two minutes, after which her body was left for the usual hour to ensure life was extinguished and cut down, stripped and delivered to the Royal College of Surgeons. This final post-mortem punishment, abolished in 1832, was also special, applied only to murderers.

Petty treason, denounced as a double standard by William Wilberforce among others, was abolished in 1828. From then on the courts, ostensibly at least, treated murder as murder.

My new book Women and the Gallows 1797-1837: Unfortunate Wretches includes chapters on some of the capital crimes women committed, and it also gives all the stories of women who were hanged. Here, I have chosen the cases of five husband murderers, four of whom were charged with petty treason.

MARTHA ALDEN

Drawn on a hurdle and hanged at Norwich Castle on 31 July 1807, for the murder of her husband Samuel (petty treason).

Samuel Alden’s body was found by his neighbours in a pond on the common at Attleborough in Norfolk. One of them saw ‘the two hands of a man appear, with the arms of a shirt stained with blood… His face was dreadfully chopped and his head cut nearly off.’ Martha had taken up a billhook and attacked her husband, who was comatose after an evening in the pub, because he had threatened to beat her during an argument earlier that evening. She offered no defence at her trial. Her house was destroyed by villagers after her death.

Condemned sermon
Prisoners under sentence of death were obliged to attend a Condemned Sermon, for which tickets were sold to the public. They sat around a black empty coffin. Thomas Rowlandson’s print shows the Rev Horace Cotton giving the sermon. Image © Naomi Clifford

SARAH HUNTINGFORD

Drawn on a hurdle and hanged in Winchester, Hampshire on 8 March 1819, for the murder of her husband Thomas (petty treason).

On the night of 23 October 1818 71-year-old Thomas Huntingford, a man of ‘remarkably quiet and inoffensive disposition’ who had worked for 60 years in the Royal dockyard at Portsmouth, and his 62-year-old wife Sarah, who ran a grocers shop, went to bed in their garret in Orange Street, Portsea as normal. In the middle of the night another resident, Samuel Bately, saw Sarah Huntingford, visibly shaking, going up to her room with a lighted candle. ‘I am murdered and robbed,’ she told him. With the landlady, Bately and Sarah opened the door to the Huntingfords’ room. Thomas Huntingford was on the bed ‘covered in clotted blood’. Blood spatters were all over the floor and the wall above his head. His skull had been caved in. Sarah claimed that two men, their faces blackened with soot, had been there and demanded money but no residents had heard them and the doors had not been forced. It was obvious that Sarah was lying. A bloody billhook was found at the foot of the stairs, her pockets and petticoats were bloodstained, and Thomas’s body showed signs of rigor mortis – he had died some hours before Bately heard the noise on the stairs. There was evidence that Sarah was an alcoholic and had pawned Thomas’s best coats. Before her hanging she refused to speak of the crime, and although she was ‘fully alive to the consolations of religion’ she declined to confess, saying that ‘she would confess to God alone – and the act of dying was only momentary’. She was reported to have displayed ‘firmness’ at her execution. A crowd of over 10,000 watched her die at Gallows Hill, where the old-fashioned horse and cart method was used, during which the victim is slowly strangled after the horse pulls the cart from under her. The unruliness of the spectators led to a decision to draw up plans for a New Drop, a stable structure that can be dismantled and stored. The couple had been married for 40 years, and Sarah had borne sixteen children, only two of whom survived.

GRACE GRIFFIN

Hanged in Berwick upon Tweed, Northumberland on 26 July 1823, for murdering her husband John.

Grace and John Griffin kept an unlicensed house in Berwick selling small beer and spirits. Their marriage was known to be unhappy and Grace had previously threatened to kill her husband. John died after a drunken night during which Grace had described him to her neighbours as a ‘beast’. The next morning he was found groaning and retching, but managed to say that his wife had murdered him before dying. An autopsy found no visible external injuries but his bladder was ruptured and there was a black mark near the sacrum. Grace was accused of assaulting him with a fire poker. After a trial lasting into the early hours, Grace was cleared of petty treason but found guilty of murder. She greeted the death sentence with no display of emotion.

MARY WITTENBACK

Drawn on a hurdle and hanged at Newgate, London on 17 September 1827, for the poisoning murder of her husband Frederick (petty treason).

On 21 July 1827 at Brill Place, Somers Town in north London, Frederick Wittenback, a builder’s labourer, ate most of the suet pudding Mary, his wife of 20 years, had prepared for lunch and soon became very ill. Mary showed the remainder of the pudding to a neighbour and asked if she thought it had been poisoned. Despite this, shortly afterwards, she ate some of it herself and also became ill. A doctor pumped Frederick and Mary’s stomachs but Frederick was in a severe condition and died a short time later. His symptoms – sickness, pain in his legs and blindness – were consistent with arsenic but a postmortem examination did not conclusively identify this as the cause. Nevertheless, after the inquest, Mary was taken to Newgate to await trial. The Wittenbacks’ marriage had been unhappy and erratic. Frederick had often ‘misconducted’ himself and the couple had split several times, with Frederick going off to live with other women. After a period of relative stability, they had been once more on the verge of parting. When sentenced, Mary fainted and her ‘violent, hysterical screams’ could be heard throughout the sessions building after she was removed from court. The couple had had seven children, three surviving, all girls in their teens and twenties. They visited her the day before her hanging: ‘the scene of parting was affecting in the extreme.’ On 17 September she was tied into a ‘machine’ (the equivalent of a hurdle) in a passage leading to the vestibule outside which the scaffold had been erected. This was then dragged outside, where she was transferred to the gallows. A huge crowd, mainly of women, had gathered. At that moment, a temporary stand collapsed and eleven spectators fell on to the people below, although no one was seriously injured. After she dropped, Mary’s ‘convulsive struggles’ lasted for two minutes.

Gallows at Newgate.     Mary Wittenback exited Newgate through Debtor’s Door (behind the screen on the right) and was carried up to the platform on a chair. Courtesy of Wellcome Library, London.

MARY HOLDEN

Hanged in Lancaster on 19 March 1834, for the poisoning murder of her husband Rodger.

Trapped in an unhappy marriage to Rodger Holden, a weaver, and possibly involved in an affair, 27-year-old Mary Holden took a reckless course. She ordered sixpence worth of ‘flea powder’ from a local shopkeeper and put it in the teapot. When Rodger came home from work and said he was thirsty, she pointed at the teapot. She may have thought that the fact that she had not given him tea or told him to drink it was a defence. At least one witness gave evidence that Rodger had treated Mary badly but the judge did not accept that as an excuse and admonished her for sending her husband ‘out of the world unprepared to meet his maker, with all his sins upon him’. After sentencing, Mary said, ‘My Lord, have mercy on me’ but walked out of court ‘with a firm step’; she later broke down and was ‘overcome with grief’. Mary, a Roman Catholic, was attended by a priest and while awaiting her hanging ‘behaved herself in a very becoming manner’. On the morning of the execution she was taken in a sedan chair to chapel to ‘prevent the rude gaze of the debtors, as she had to pass through their yard’ and then became ‘suffocated with grief, and was dreadfully agitated’. On the scaffold she was ‘calm and collected’. After the rope had been fastened to the chain around the beam, she said, ‘Lord relieve me out of my misery!’ She was praying aloud with the priest when the drop fell and thereafter ‘struggled violently for some minutes’. The Liverpool Mercury described her as a ‘decent-looking person of middle stature, rather of muscular frame, and though not of prepossessing appearance, yet there was nothing in her countenance indicating a ferocious disposition’. Mary’s body was removed for interment within the precincts of the prison. The hanging did not attract a large crowd but it was observed that many spectators were women and that there were a ‘great number of children’.

***

Naomi Clifford is blissfully happy rooting around in libraries and archives for human stories from the late Georgian era.

Women and the Gallows 1797-1837: Unfortunate Wretches is her second book for Pen & Sword. The first, The Disappearance of Maria Glenn, a true crime story from the Regency era, was published in 2016. The Murder of Mary Ashford will be released in May 2018.

She blogs at naomiclifford.com and tweets as @naomiclifford.

© Naomi Clifford

Jun 232017
 

I am delighted to offer a guest post to an author who has just brought out a book entitled ‘An Unsuitable Duchess’, set in the Georgian era. Her name is Kathleen Buckley and as she says in her biographical details on Amazon, she now lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico  which, compared to her former homes, is warmer than Alaska and  drier than Seattle! She had the very good sense to buy a copy of my book The Journal of a Georgian Gentleman a few years back, and I asked her if she would like to explain the process of writing a historical novel. I knew that she has done a Master degree in English literature, but that is not the same as being able to write a period novel…..

 

 

 

 

 

God and the Devil are both in the Details:     Writing Accurate Historical Fiction

“About four years ago, I set out to write a historical romance set in England in 1740. I had studied a number of 18th century novels, like Smollett’s Expedition of Humphrey Clinker, Richardson’s Pamela, and Clarissa—all five volumes of it. I knew a good deal about 18th century dress and cooking but quickly became aware of gaps in my knowledge. How do you play basset? What did a Lowlands Scots cottage look like? Where in London would a genteel person live?

Writers are often advised not to “waste time” on “too much” research. This may have been good advice forty years ago, when the only source for most information was books, and limited to what was in accessible libraries. But with the Internet, there is no excuse for a Georgian lady to wear lace panties under her high-waisted muslin gown, or for gas street lamps in the 16th century (!). I hardly knew where to look for sheer embarrassment…

Thomas Rowlandson’s A Peep at the Gas lights in Pall Mall, brought out in 1809 to mark the first street lights powered by gas, following the discovery by William Murdoch.

What is “too much” now? The Internet led me to The Journal of a Georgian Gentleman, as well as N. Bailey’s Universal Etymological Dictionary (1721), John MacDonald’s Travels (Memoirs of an 18th Century Footman), The London Guide (ca. 1782), A Trip from St. James’s to the Royal Exchange (1744), and a plethora of period books, newspapers and magazines, images, and websites featuring period slang, etiquette, and what books and plays were popular in the spring of 1740.

It took three years to write An Unsuitable Duchess (the working title was A Ducal House but the editor made me change it; she said it sounded like a serious historical study), but most of that time was spent in learning how to write a historical romance, a genre I had not previously attempted. When I found myself wondering what Vauxhall Gardens looked like, I stopped writing and used my browser.

Vauxhall Gardens in 1751 showing the Orchestra and Organ buildings

And much of my research was useful in the first draft of my next novel, A Cargo of Muskets (The editor will make me change that title, too: “It sounds like a boys’ adventure story!”), completed ten days before An Unsuitable Duchess’s release. I now know how much a Charleville 1717 musket weighs, how many freight wagons would be needed to haul 2500 of them, and how to load one. Granted, I’ll probably never use those things again, but for that book, I did need to know.

Chareleville Musket, shown courtesy of The Specialists  Ltd

Maybe readers don’t care about accurate details—except for the one reader in several thousand whose hobby is 18th century French arms—but I do. Which brings us back around to “How much is too much”? For me, it was coach steps. A step could be let down so that one did not have to leap out, skirts billowing like a parachute. I don’t know how those steps were deployed, in spite of trying to work it out on paper, like a geometry problem. The Internet was silent upon this point. If anyone knows, please tell me.

If you don’t need to know it for the story, you may not need to research it. But you still need to be aware of the gaps in your knowledge so that your character doesn’t light his way with a kerosene lantern rather than a candle lantern.”

 

Thanks Kathleen, some useful pointers for us all! You can find ‘An Unsuitable Duchess’ on Kindle  here and as a Paperback here.