Of Those Unmatchably Comical Victorians

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1800s, 19th Century, comedy, comical, Dundreary, entertainment, History, humor, John Leech, levity, nineteenth century, Obaysch, Percival Leigh, silly, The Comic Latin Grammar, velocipede, victorian, whiskers

I was tickled by a claim I read last night that was penned in 1840 by Percival Leigh in his introduction to The Comic Latin Grammar. He says that the Victorian Age ought to be known as the “Age of Comicality,” and that:

…it is only of late years that the ludicrous capabilities of the human mind have expanded in their fullest vigour. Comicality has heretofore been evinced only, as it were, in isolated sparks and flashes, instead of that full blaze of meridian splendour which now pervades the entire mechanism of society, and illuminates all the transactions of life.

Wow. What a mighty claim to smother all the chuckles that have ever been let out in all earlier periods of history, and how delightful it must be to view the world in… such a roaring blaze of comicality? But then again, considering this noble portrait by John Leech of the author, I doubt this fellow is capable of looking at life from a serious perspective.

The one and only… Percival Leigh, shown here as an ever-smiling victim of static electricity… or simply a benevolent magister.

It also doesn’t surprise me that Leigh left the medical profession to favor writing. And not any writing. He was drawn towards the mighty art of comic writing. Not to mention that he wrote for Punch.

So, what of this claim that the Victorians out-sillied all buffoons that preceded them? I should repeat that was made early on in the Victorian era — in 1840. I also think it was a pretty good prediction, because the Victorians, as I see them, were a very silly people. Some may stereotypically view the Victorians as stuffy or dour, but I strongly beg to differ. They amuse me to no end. I don’t think I could devote so much time to the 19th century as opposed to any other if it were to be devoid of silliness. That would be no fun at all.

For an example of their silliness, consider Obaysch the hippo. He arrived in the London Zoo in 1850, produced a total mania, a plethora of senseless merchandise, immense crowds that would send me into a state of total panic, and, most importantly, he inspired a dance:  The Hippopotamus Polka.

A very dapper hippo, indeed.

Such are the fruits of a comical society.

Velocipedomania was another comical occurrence, concerning various breeds of multi- or uni- wheeled, pedal-powered vehicles, which people today blandly refer to as bicycles. Ah, the rich variety of velocipedes never ceases to amuse me! Ever perused through The Velocipede: Its Past, Its Present, & Its Future by Joseph Firth Bottomley? You ought to. I’m sure you’d agree with me. Percival Leigh calls hot air balloons and railroads funny, but I say velocipedes are funnier by far… and I am particularly fond of the monocycle, the variety in which the person rides inside the wheel. Somewhat like a gerbil.

A flock of velocipedes.

And then there is the one aspect of Victorian life that out-comics them all: whiskers. I don’t think it requires any explanation other than this:

Edward Askew Sothern as Lord Dundreary… I dare you to deny the silliness of such a face.

Percival Leigh states, “The truth is, that people are tired of crying, and find it much more agreeable to laugh. The sublime is out of fashion; the ridiculous is in vogue.” Of course, we all know the Victorian era was not an age dominated by laughter and devoid of tears. It was a difficult time. But — they did know how to lighten up and be silly now and then. Besides, an era full of nothing but comedy would be mind-numbing to me, as much as Leigh would have enjoyed it. I need a healthy helping of both the sublime and the ridiculous in order to remain sane.

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NOTE: As for The Comic Latin Grammar itself, introduction aside, I do not recommend it if you want to learn Latin. You won’t. You might be amused by some of it if you already have some Latin under your belt, but I wouldn’t call it useful, and some of it is even offensive. If your goal is to learn a language, I can guarantee confusion if this is the resource you consult. My apologies to Mr. Leigh.

Of Medicinal Leeches and Sophia Hawthorne

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1800s, American literature, animals, bloodletting, Hawthorne, health, History, leeches, Medical History, medicinal leeches, medicine, nature, New England, nineteenth century, Sophia Peabody Hawthorne

“Those incomparable, lovely, delicate, gentle, tender, considerate, generous, fine, disinterested, excellent, dear, elegant, knowing, graceful, active, lovely, animated, beautiful leeches have done me a world of good.”

That’s what Nathaniel Hawthorne’s future wife, Sophia Peabody, said of leeches when she was a teenager. I don’t think I’d ever be able to speak of a leech with such exuberance, but… I’m happy for Sophia that they gave her such delightful relief, or that she at least thought they did.

Sophia Peabody Hawthorne

Sophia was an invalid of sorts, starting in her youth. Headaches plagued her. Loud noises set her head throbbing, and she was the sort to languish about with the typical 19th-century melodrama of her suffering. She tried numerous treatments — leeches among them. Pursuing art brought relief as well, and I personally believe it was this distraction from her malady that did her more good than any bucket of leeches.

I recently laid eyes upon my first live medicinal leeches at a local science museum. Knowing their significance in medical history, I was excited to see those two serpentine, blobby beasts clinging to the side of their little watery aquarium. Certain Youtube videos of the Mütter Museum’s director and his pet leeches came to mind (I admit they make me cringe to watch and make me feel somewhat faint, but I do think it’s cute that their names are Harvey and Hunter). And as I watched those real-life leeches, I was so thankful that I’m not living in the heyday of blood-letting via leeches (not that I’d want to endure any sort of blood-letting for that matter). Of course, you cannot forget mechanical leeches, either!

Leeches: Interesting enough to look at from a safe distance. But I’d rather not have them clinging to me. And no, I would not like to have one for a pet.

As for Sophia… she ought to curb her enthusiasm, or all the leeches will be after her.

Medicinal Leech: “I’ll alleviate your ills and you’ll give me dinner in payment. What’s not to like?”

Of Surgery in Melville’s “White Jacket”

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1800s, books, Cadwallader Cuticle, Herman Melville, literature, medicine, Navy, nineteenth century, novels, sailing, sea, ships, surgeon, surgery, White Jacket

I love reading surgical narratives — factual or fictional, old or new, but that of the 1800s definitely intrigues me the most, as folks who have traipsed by here already know. I was delighted to find an entertaining example of such in Herman Melville’s novel White Jacket. In fact, I think this particular scene is a literary gem, dripping with darkly comical mockery of nineteenth-century surgery in general.

Aside from the surgery, it is a very good book as a whole for those who enjoy things of the Melvillian, nautical sort (as I obviously do). I’m amused by the woes that befall the poor narrator because of his unfortunate, less-than-practical white jacket, the lavender-infused Selvagee who ought not have gone to sea, and the “fire it right into ’em” method of publishing. As for the beard massacre, however — the poor fellows! Rather distressing. There are many passages that are either informative or chuckle-inducing, much like the case with Moby Dick, except White Jacket lacks strong a driving motive like the obsessive hunt in his better-known tome. In White Jacket, the Neversink is simply…  going home.

Herman Melville

Ah, but the surgery! — and what makes it the most fun and satirical, the surgeon. His name is Cadwallader Cuticle, M. D., and he is the learned surgeon of the fleet who loves to dive in the teaching role in the midst of operations. His person is mangled. His teeth — artificial. His eye — well, he only has one. He’s bald, scrawny, and could look much more lively. As expected, Cuticle is a devout collector of medical specimens and curiosities that have a tendency to horrify everyone but himself. And although he says he likes to avoid amputations if possible, he cannot hesitate when he sees a chance to take up the saw. Besides, it’s dull work for a surgeon on a man-of-war when there are no battles. This is his first major case in three years.

And Cuticle isn’t the only surgeon mentioned in the book. One cannot forget the aptly named surgeons Bandage, Wedge, Sawyer, and Patella. And while Cuticle’s colleagues are against the operation, all it takes is one lop-sided, deferential “yes” from young, obsequious Patella to encourage him to pronounce that an operation must take place immediately — at 10:00 tomorrow morning.

There are certain aspects of the scene that make it particularly entertaining to me. The surgery is performed not on a traditional operating table, but on a death-board. And, of course, a reference is made to the surgeon’s negligence of hand-washing — Cuticle offers Sawyer to wash at a basin after the procedure since it is time to eat dinner, but admits that he never uses it. A mere wipe of a handkerchief is suffice.* A sprinkling of anatomical jargon spills forth from Wedge, much to Cuticle’s annoyance, and much to my pleasure. Plus, there is the cadaverous appearance of the toothless Cuticle coupled with the presence of a skeleton (used for an educational prop) that sends the patient into a state of terror, who has a strong tendency to faint.

I did wince when one of the younger surgeons noted that Cuticle can remove a leg in one minute and ten seconds. All I could think was, “Liston could have done that so much faster, you sluggard!” But, sadly for the majority of non-fictional patients, Robert Liston’s speed was far from the norm.

Robert Liston–swiftest saw in 19th-century surgery

Melville ended up poking fun and pointing out lamentable realities at the same time in a very skillful manner. It got me excited, especially considering that many authors of fiction from that time period would shy away from the amount of grisly detail that Melville was brave enough to portray. (NOTE: The description of the amputation itself is not for the squeamish.)

*Now, Melville was obviously disturbed by this breach in hygiene. Bear in mind this book was written in the late 1840s… And it took several decades after that for hand-washing to fully catch on in the medical profession, even though Melville’s mentioning of this makes it obvious that some contemporaries of the general public found these habits disgusting. Very interesting.