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Decadent and Delightful: A History of Dressing Gowns

 

Despite the fact that winter in the Land Down Under has barely started, we of the Antipodes were recently given a stern reminder of the fact that, despite being one of the hottest and driest countries on earth, Australia can also get bloody cold in winter time! This is due to the oft-overlooked fact that there’s no landmasses between us and Antarctica, defending us from the frigid gales, storms and icy cold fronts that routinely come blasting up from the Roaring Forties.

Waking up to below or near freezing temperatures every morning is no-one’s idea of pleasant unless you’re a penguin. And this was what prompted me to start looking into buying myself a new dressing gown. I had one when I was younger, but after it started falling apart, I never bothered replacing it. Fed up with the cold mornings, I finally decided that I had to get a new one.

Soft, fluffy and warm! Velour cotton navy blue, with a pair of waist-level patch pockets, sash-loops and sash-belt. Red would’ve been nice, too, but blue seemed to be almost all they had.

At first, I wasn’t even sure if I could replace it. After all, dressing gowns are typically seen as being rather old-fashioned these days. Apart from myself, I only know one other friend who wears them (if he’s reading this, he knows who he is!), and I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to buy one. But after browsing the websites of two or three major department stores in town, I decided that I’d head out and buy something! I was fed up of constantly shivering every morning, and the weather over the next few weeks was only slated to get even worse.

What is a Dressing Gown?

A dressing-gown, also known as a housecoat, nightgown or dressing robe, is an open-fronted, loose-fitting garment with wide sleeves, typically ranging in size anywhere from knee-length down to ankle-length. It typically comes with two waist-level pockets, a pair of sash-loops, and a fabric belt or sash, designed to hold the robe shut.

Dressing gowns are designed to be worn over the top of one’s other clothes, such as (but not limited to) underwear, sleepwear such as pajamas, or one’s day-wear when around the house. Dressing gowns typically come in two different styles – those worn for comfort, and those worn for style.

Dressing gowns worn for comfort – usually for the purposes of keeping warm – are typically made of cotton or wool in various weaves or finishes. They’re designed to be soft, fluffy, warm and pleasant to touch. Dressing gowns worn for style are usually made of silk. They’re much thinner and are worn more as a fashion accessory than as a way to beat the cold!

What is the Purpose of a Dressing Gown?

Dressing gowns are usually worn for one of three reasons: For warmth, for fashion, or for the sake of modesty. The reasoning behind these three options will be explained later, but basically they’re linked to history, societal expectations, and comfort.

The History of the Dressing Gown

Robes of any description were among the first clothes ever worn by humankind, and in one form or another, their use date back for centuries.

In prehistory, robes were the easiest clothes to manufacture, and the easiest to wear, typically made up of flat, easily measured, easily sewn panels of cloth, ranging from Chinese silk robes, to Middle Eastern robes of cotton and wool, the Japanese kimono, to European academic or judicial robes, and all the way back to ancient Roman and Greek robes such as togas, robes of all kinds have permeated global culture.

Diarist Samuel Pepys in his nightshirt, cravat or kerchief, and draped with his dressing gown (1666).

The dressing gown, and indeed, pajamas themselves, migrated to Europe at the time of the Renaissance during the 1500s and 1600s, originally coming from the Middle East. The word “pajamas” comes from the Iranian words “Pai Jamahs”, originally referring to the soft, loose-fitting pants or trousers worn by people in the Middle East (especially in Turkey, India, and Iran). The dressing gown evolved from the Turkish and Persian “Banyan”, a loose-fitting over-robe worn for the sake of modesty and comfort. In this way, both the dressing gown (and its cousin – the bathrobe), and pajamas, are of Middle-Eastern or west-Asian origin.

The European Dressing Gown

The dressing gown started taking off in Europe in the 1500s and 1600s. For much of Western history, right up into the early 20th century, shirts of any kind – tunic shirts, collared shirts, T-shirts – were seen as underwear, akin to briefs, trunks or boxer-shorts. Shirts were seen as a necessary evil. They were regarded as underwear – to be worn under one’s regular day-clothes, and to be worn in bed as sleepwear. For the sake of modesty, shirts used to be much larger than they are today, and using much more fabric than is now the case.

A film screenshot depicting Ebeneezer Scrooge (of Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’ fame) in his dressing gown, before the visitation of the Three Ghosts.

As shirts were regarded as underwear, it was considered VERY unseemly, and even rude, to appear in the presence of guests ‘in your shirtsleeves‘, as the literature of the time put it. That being the case, if it was required for you to make an appearance in front of guests in a ‘state of undress‘ as they said at the time, then the socially acceptable thing to do was to throw your dressing gown over your half-dressed body before entering a room. This not only kept you warm, but also preserved modesty.

In the 1800s, pajamas as we know them today – with a matching jacket and trousers – started to replace what was increasingly seen as being the antiquated and frankly -unhygienic – nightshirt, which was the usual sleeping garb for most people since medieval times. By now, the modern button-down shirt (in the form of the ‘tunic shirt’ with a separate attachable collar, which would later morph into the modern dress-shirt) had replaced the up-until-then, ubiquitous nightshirt as daily wear.

Despite this change in status of the humble shirt, the stigma of being seen in your shirtsleeves remained strong throughout the Victorian era, and it was still seen as a major faux pas to be seen dressed in your shirt alone. For this reason, the dressing gown remained popular as a garment, being an acceptable, and later, stylish way of preserving modesty while entertaining company in one’s own home.

The Dressing Gown as a Fashion Accessory

By the later 1800s, leading into the 20th century, the dressing gown started being seen, not only as a necessary evil, but also as a fashion accessory. This was partially spurred on by popular culture such as art, literature, and increasingly – motion pictures in the 20s, 30s, and 40s.

A character famous for his indulgence of luxurious clothes, James Bond did much to associate the dressing gown with sex-appeal and the playboy lifestyle.

It was at this time that increasingly elaborate dressing gowns with quilted fabrics, silk linings, satin exteriors, patterned silks, and carefully woven cotton or woolen fabrics became popular. As dressing gowns started being seen more as stylish sleepwear or casual, household lounging-attire, they continued to be increasingly embellished.

The ankle-length dressing gown owned by President J.A. Garfield.

Dressing gowns were often accentuated with embroidery and piping along the pocket-seams, cuffs, sash, sash-loops and around fastening-points such as straps, buttons and buttonholes. Hollywood films of the 1920s, 30s, 40s and 50s increased the popularity of dressing gowns. People were treated to scenes of big celebrities like Basil Rathbone, Nigel Bruce, Cary Grant, Sean Connery and Noel Coward, to name but a few – regularly dressed, either in photographs, or on the silver screen, in dressing gowns, lounging around in their bedrooms or living-rooms.

The late Hugh Hefner was famous for being photographed in his silk and satin dressing gowns. This did much to strengthen the associations between dressing gowns, casual lounging and wealthy, idle hedonism in the 20th century.

Noel Coward and Hugh Hefner were particularly famous for lounging around in their dressing gowns, and this gave the gown an air of upper-class luxury, seductiveness, hedonism and relaxation. These connotations have lasted into the modern era, although some might say that the dressing gown as the stereotypical outfit of the gadabout idle playboy has somewhat diminished its appeal.

Dressing Gowns as Practical Accessories

If you live in a country that routinely experiences harsh winters such as northern Europe, southern Australia, New Zealand, or the northern reaches of the United States or Canada, then you’ll readily appreciate why the dressing gown became popular as an article of household attire and sleepwear, and also, why it remained popular for such a long time.

Remember that many houses from the 1600s to the early 1900s – the era when dressing gowns were most popular – did not have any form of central heating. While bedrooms, reception rooms, and private offices or studies might’ve had fireplaces, most other areas of a house – corridors, store-rooms, servants quarters, kitchens, etc, had absolutely no heating at all in the depths of winter. A thick, heavy, well-padded dressing gown was therefore essential for holding back the winter chills – especially if you had to rush out in the middle of the night for any reason.

This was the time of the “Little Ice Age”, an era of history stretching from late Medieval times until the mid 1800s, when global temperatures were significantly colder than they are today. Clothing choices, such as three-piece suits, cloaks, capes and yes – dressing gowns – became not only fashionable, but also vital – to keeping out the cold in houses and buildings where heat was limited, and when the difference in temperatures between indoors and outdoors was negligible at best.

Dressing Gowns: Types, Styles and Elements

There are, broadly speaking, two or three types of dressing gowns.

Dressing gowns designed for warmth and comfort, and those designed for fashion.

Materials and Fabrics

Dressing gowns meant for fashion or style are typically lighter-weight and are made of silk, satin, or lightly-woven cotton fabrics. They’re used primarily just to cover up one’s other clothes so as to present a neat and stylish appearance. They’re also useful in warmer climates where a heavier garment would be uncomfortable.

By comparison, a dressing gown worn for comfort and warmth is typically thicker, and much heavier, made of heavier woven cotton or even wool fabric, ranging from thinner terrycloth, to heavier velour or even velvet fabrics. The gown might be silk or satin-lined for comfort, or may not be. To provide extra warmth, some gowns may even be quilted – that is to say – they’ll have two layers of cloth (the exterior and the lining) and have something else – usually wool or cotton padding – sewn or ‘quilted’ between the two layers like a sandwich, to add bulk and warmth.

Sizes and Styles

Dressing gowns typically come in one of two lengths: Knee- or shin-length, and (although rather rare today), ankle-length. My dressing gown is shin-length. Most which are made and sold today will be knee or shin-length. Longer, ankle-length gowns aren’t as common today, what with the advent of more effective home-heating, so If you want a longer, ankle-length gown, you’ll either have to make it yourself, or ask a tailor to make one for you.

Dressing gowns come in a variety of styles. For more structured, fitted gowns, the more casual, relaxed ‘shawl’-style collar and lapels are popular. For less structured gowns, a simple folded over collar and lapel is common. As dressing gowns were originally inspired by Far East and Middle-Eastern designs, some gowns are deliberately modeled on, or imitate the look of garments such as Japanese kimono.

Fastenings

While some dressing gowns (especially back in the Victorian era) came with buttons, straps and hooks for fastening, the accepted stance is that the vast majority of dressing gowns don’t come with any fastenings at all. If you need to keep your gown closed (for modesty, for warmth, etc), then simply fold one side over the other, and use the sash. Typically, the tightness of the sash and the friction of the fabric rubbing against itself will be enough to hold the gown shut.

Gowns which did have fastenings (usually buttons) had embroidered cord buttonholes or strapped buttonholes which were woven and sewn into the design of the robe, adding to the overall embellishment of the garment.

Pockets

Most gowns come with two pockets, usually patch pockets or similar, at waist-level. Patch pockets get their name because they’re simply square patches of matching fabric, which are sewn onto the sides of the garment. Almost all dressing gowns come with patch pockets, whether they number one, two (the most common) or three (not as common, but you can still find them).

While most gowns come with two patch pockets at waist-level, some gowns are also manufactured with a third, breast-pocket at chest level. A gown with a breast-pocket may have the manufacturer’s monogram or logo embroidered or sewn onto it as decoration. However, if the pocket is blank, you can have your own initials or monogram sewn there instead – Noel Coward was famous for doing this.

Sashs and Sash-Loops

Almost every dressing gown is considered incomplete without the soft, cloth belt, or ‘sash’ which accompanies it. The sash is a simple cloth cord, strap or belt that is designed to be wrapped around the waist and tied at the front or side, in order to keep the dressing gown closed.

To help guide the sash around the body of the robe and its wearer, and to keep the sash from sliding or falling away if it comes undone accidentally – most dressing gowns will also have two sash-loops – typically at waist-level, just above and behind the pockets. Sashes are typically made of the same type of fabric as the gown, or are made out of the fabric that lines or edges the gown, to provide a nice contrast.

Buying a Dressing Gown

So, you want to buy a dressing gown, huh? There’s a lot of things to consider.

Firstly – can you even find the style that you like? If you think you can’t, you can either get a tailor to design and make one for you – or if you have the skills – then you can do what I did – and simply make your own. I wore my own creation for five or six years before it started coming apart, but while it lasted, it was excellent!

Secondly – you need to decide why you want your gown. Is it for casual wear? Or for comfort and warmth? This will determine the types of fabrics that the gown will be made of. Gowns are typically made of silk, cotton, wool or velvet in various weaves, patterns and decorations.

Thirdly – How big do you want the gown to be? Ankle-length gowns are rather rare these days unless you can find someone to make one for you. The most important thing to consider when buying a gown is how it fits you. Remember that dressing gowns are meant to be worn over the top of other clothes – so they need to have lots of space to move around. If you’re buying your gown in-store somewhere, don’t be afraid to just throw it over the top of whatever it is you’re wearing on the day.

Fourthly – How much do you want to spend on your gown? Really luxurious handmade silk dressing gowns can cost upwards of $1,000. Whereas more reasonable gowns, typically made of wool, cotton, or less elaborate silks or in plainer styles and patterns, may be purchased for just a couple of hundred…my navy blue number cost me all of $60.00! So they need only be expensive if you want them to be, and can afford it.

Lastly – pick a gown that goes with as many outfits as possible. Think about your sleepwear – what colour pajamas do you have? What would go best with them? Would the gown look just as good draped over just anything else? If the answer to these questions is all ‘Yes’, then buy it. Classic gown colours are typically blue, red, brown, black, and grey. This is just my opinion – but I would seriously avoid buying a dressing gown in white, because then it starts looking far too much like a bathrobe…

Dressing Gowns Vs. Bathrobes

Last, but not least. What’s the difference between a dressing gown and a bathrobe?

While superficially, they look and feel very similar, the differences between the two garments are quite significant.

Bathrobes are made of toweling fabric – a thick, absorbent fabric (usually cotton), used to make floor-mats and towels. Bathrobes are designed to dry and warm the body after having a shower or bath, or after swimming. They’re not meant for long-term wear. Also, bathrobes typically only come in one very generic style, and even fewer colours!

By comparison, dressing gowns are meant for long-term wear, around the house, at night, first thing in the morning, and even during the day. They’re designed to keep the body warm, and they come in a much wider range of styles, colours, fabrics and designs.

Another key difference between a dressing gown and a bathrobe is that dressing gowns are typically meant to be worn over other clothes (either day-clothes, night-clothes or underwear). By comparison, bathrobes are almost always worn against bare flesh.

Concluding Remarks

Anyway, that about sums up this article. I hope you enjoyed reading it and that it helped you pick out what you want, or helped you make a decision about whether you want to buy a robe. I’ve always liked the look of dressing gowns and have always enjoyed how comfortable they are, as well as looking into their fascinating history and their evolution through time and fashion.

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National Foods which Aren’t National! A Tasty History

 

We all love to eat. And we all have particular foods, or dishes that we hold dear to our hearts, out of nostalgic, sentimental or patriotic reasons. Every nation and culture on earth have dishes that they regard as sacred, and as being quintessentially part of their lives. But not all is what it seems. In this posting, I’ll be talking about just a few of the dishes and foods which have surprising backstories.

Let us begin!

Food: The Hamburger
Claimant: The USA.
Origin Country: Germany.

Aah, the hamburger! The quintessential fast-food menu staple! But why are they called hamburgers when there’s…no ham…inside them?

The original “Hamburger”, a Hamburg Steak, popularly eaten in Germany for centuries. Sandwich versions of this steak became the ‘Hamburger’ we know today.

Actually, hamburgers are named after the city of their origin – Hamburg, Germany! The original concoction was a simple ground beef sandwich. When the people of Hamburg (also called ‘Hamburgers’) moved to the USA, they took their “Hamburg Steak Sandwiches” along with them. Deciding that this was an even bigger mouthful than the sandwiches themselves, Americans shortened them to just ‘hamburger’, and later on, shorter still, to just ‘burger’.

Food: Fish and Chips
Claimant: The UK
Origin Country: Various.

Ah, fish and chips! We like fish and chips! As British as bad weather, hot tea, and more accents than you can shake a stick at, fish and chips has long been seen as a staple of British cuisine!

Right?

Wrong.

Actually, fish and chips only goes back to Victorian times, barely two hundred years ago! The idea of battered, crumbed fish, deep-fried in oil (or as was common in Victorian times – beef tallow…mmm…tallow!), actually comes, not from England, but from Russia! Observant Russian Jews would abstain from doing any useful work on the Sabbath Day, except that which was absolutely essential, as dictated by their religious teachings. This includes the kindling of flames.

Fish and chips! Mmm…

Since you can’t kindle flames on the Sabbath, you can’t cook. So instead, they would batter, crumb and fry their fish the night before, so that they would have a quick, convenient and delicious food to eat the next day. This custom of frying fish came to England with the immigration of Russian and Polish Jews in the 1800s when they fled pogroms in Eastern Europe.

The idea of chunks of potato being fried in a similar manner comes from Belgium. Unable to fish during the winter months, Belgians would dice up potatoes into slabs or blocks and deep-fry them in oil or tallow as a fish-substitute. This method of cooking potatoes is also what gave rise to the “french fry”, since they were created in the French-speaking area of Belgium. That said, American-style French-fries are much thinner than British/Commonwealth-style Chips.

The first fish-and-chip shop…or as most people affectionately call them – chippies! – dates back to around 1860 in Britain. Fish and chips were a fast, tasty, filling, and relatively cheap dish. The industrial revolution allowed for the widespread construction of railroad networks which allowed for fish, potatoes, and other foods and vegetables to be, for the first time, transported in-bulk across the country in a matter of hours, rather than days or weeks. This spike in the availability of fish meant that the price dropped and it was cheap enough to be fried up and served to the working-classes as a convenient and crispy lunchtime snack.

Food: Doughnuts!
Claimant: The USA
Origin: The Netherlands.

Mmmm. Doughnuts. The staple food of Homer Simpson, Garfield the Cat and most American children, the doughnut has long since been a popular sweet snackfood. Chocolate-stuffed, jam-filled, custard-pumped, cinnamon-dusted, sugar-glazed…the list of varieties goes on forever!

But where do they come from?

Despite their popularity in the ‘States, doughnuts actually come from the Netherlands, and were brought to what would eventually become Manhattan, with the Dutch immigration in the 17th century. The doughnut is directly descendant from the Dutch Oly Koek, literally ‘Oily Cake’, so-named because it was a sweet cake or bun that was cooked by being fried in oil (much as most doughnuts are still made today).

Variations of the Oly Koek remained popular in the area around what would become New York City for centuries, and are mentioned in the writings of early American writer, Washington Irving, who said that to find the genuine Dutch original, you had to find Old Dutch families who had been living in New York for generations!

Traditional Dutch ‘Oly Koeks’ or ‘Oily Cakes’, the precursor to the modern doughnut.

The first record of a ‘dough nut’ comes from the early 1800s, when it was mentioned in an English-language cookbook from 1803. By the end of the decade, the spelling of “doughnut” or “dough nut” had become accepted, and the original Dutch snack was slowly morphing into the treat we know today.

Doughnuts at this time were not as we would currently recognise them, however. The majority still resembled buns rather than circles of sweetness. Although debate seems to rage over this, it appears that the modern holed doughnut was invented in the mid-1800s as a way to make the doughnuts cook more evenly when they were deep-fried.

Food: Chop Suey
Claimant: N/A. Supposed origin: China.
Origin: The USA.

Any film, or book, set or written back in the 1800s or early 1900s in the USA that mentions Chinese culture or food is likely to mention this dish at one time or another. It’s mentioned in the 1936 film “San Francisco”, when two characters decide to go out for a meal of ‘chop suey’.

At the time, it was believed by unknowing Americans, that chop suey was a genuine Chinese dish. It isn’t, a fact more widely known today than it once was. The word ‘chop suey’ is a corruption of the Chinese words “Za Sui”, which basically means “Bits and Pieces”. This is because chop suey was usually made out of whatever food was available and served up to hungry people looking for a cheap meal. As such, it doesn’t really have a recognised ‘recipe’. These days, ‘chop suey’ is largely seen as a historical curiosity, but there was a time when most people with limited knowledge of Chinese cuisine literally didn’t know any better.

Food: The Croissant.
Claimant: France.
Origin: Austria & Germany.

Ah! La croissant! The Crescent! Leavened dough folded, folded, folded and refolded over and over sheets of butter, before being proofed, and baked, and coming out hot, savory, tangy and crunchy and soft and oh-so-rich…mmmmm.

Who doesn’t like croissants? They’re as French as the Eiffel Tower and beheading the nobility! But believe it or not…they’re not french at all!

The East-European Kifli, or Kipferl, the precursor to the modern croissant.

The croissant actually originated in Austria, created by Viennese bakers who were creating a type of bread roll known as a “Kipferl” (literally “Twisted” or “Curved”). The idea of a leavened-dough roll or bun in the shape of a crescent migrated to France with Austrian immigrants in the 1800s, but even then, it wasn’t a Frenchman who was responsible for the transition from Kipferl to Croissant!

Zang’s bakery (on the left) in Paris, photographed in 1909, after his death.

Again, it was an Austrian, a former army officer turned civilian baker, August Zang, who moved to Paris in the 1830s. In Paris, Zang set up the “Boulangerie Viennoise” (literally “The Viennese Bakery”), where he sold modified versions of his native Kipferl, which became known as the ‘Croissant’ we love today.

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H. Hughes & Son “Officer-of-the-Watch” Telescope (Ca. 1920).

 

After selling one of my telescopes last year at an antiques fair (and making a very healthy profit on it, if I do say so myself!), I was able to splurge a bit on another ‘scope – of a particular style which I have, until now, not had the privilege of adding to my collection.

I’ve seen a number of these telescopes over the years, but they were all in absolutely terrible condition. Most of them were covered with dents, scratches, loose or broken lenses…and outrageous price-tags! I don’t know about you, but $650 for a telescope with no glass inside it sounds like a very steep price to pay for what is basically a very nice, polished metal tube covered in leather.

I got this particular ‘scope from my local flea-market and after checking it all over for flaws and damage, decided that it was worth the expense to buy it. It had one or two minor faults, all relating to the leather sheathing, but nothing that some restoration (eventually…if it ever needs it) couldn’t rectify. So, for much less than the nearly $700 that the other telescopes were going for, I decided to buy it.

What is an ‘Officer of the Watch’ Telescope?

With its long, thin profile and single draw-tube, sliding glare-shield and smooth, leather cladding, this telescope is quite different from a lot of the others that you’ll find out ‘in the wild’ as it were. Most antique telescopes that you’ll find out and about are multi-tube telescopes without any type of sliding glare-shield, and they’re usually much smaller, with a closed length of anywhere from four to six to eight inches; some slightly larger ones might be about twelve inches, but not many will be longer than that.

Telescope with the draw-tube (back) and the glare-shield (front) extended.

By comparison, an officer-of-the-watch telescope typically measures 18 inches when closed up, stretching out to about two feet when fully extended. Most other telescopes can double or triple their lengths easily when they’re extended, while this particular model does not. Exactly why it was designed this way will be explained later on.

The Maker’s details.

These telescopes are called Officer-of-the-watch/officer-on-watch (‘OOW’) telescopes because they were usually purchased by officers or captains serving in the navy or the merchant marine for use on the ship’s bridge. Such telescopes were either the private property of the officers who carried them, or else were the property of the ship, and were kept on the bridge at all times for use by the crew. Their purpose was to provide a vision-aid close to hand for officers on the bridge in the event of an emergency.

Why are they shaped like they are?

A closeup of the glare-shield.

As I said earlier, Officer-of-the-Watch telescopes are long and narrow, with single draw-tubes and sliding glare-shields over their objective lenses. Their unique shape is due to the constraints of their working environments. Since these telescopes were usually kept (and used in) the bridge of a ship at sea, they had to be compact. A shorter, two-foot telescope was lighter, easier to carry and easier to use in the confined space of a ship’s wheelhouse, compared to a more conventional naval telescope (some of which could be three or even four feet long!). Try swinging that around inside a wheelhouse without cracking the helmsman in the head! He won’t thank you for it!

How Old are these Telescopes?

Officer-of-the-watch telescopes date to the early 20th century and appear to have been made exclusively in Britain. They were manufactured starting ca. 1900 up to the middle of the century. and were originally manufactured for the Royal Navy, but their use drifted into regular merchant-marine use as well due to their practicality of design.

So, what is an Officer of the Watch?

In the ship’s crew, an officer of the watch (or ‘officer on watch’) is the officer in charge of watchkeeping. Every officer on the ship, generally from the captain down to the lowest-ranking officer, covers watchkeeping in shifts. Traditionally, a watch was four hours long. During that four-hour shift, an officer stood watch on the bridge. Here, he could oversee the ship’s navigation, the weather, the speed and direction of travel, and could respond swiftly to emergencies. The officer of the watch had to be good at navigation, reading the weather, and at assessing dangerous situations such as storms, reefs, rocks and other hazards. In the absence of the captain (who might be sleeping, working, having dinner or be otherwise engaged), the officer of the watch was in charge of the ship’s immediate handling and navigation.

The “HUSUN” trademark on the glare-shield, comprised of the ocean and the rising sun

Typically, the officer of the watch was joined by at least two other sailors – a forward lookout or two, and a junior seaman known as a quartermaster, whose job was usually that of controlling the ship’s direction by manning the helm or the ship’s wheel. Officer-of-the-Watch telescopes were usually mounted on the wheelhouse walls, secured in place by brackets or rings to stop them rolling or sliding around.

In the event of something posing a hazard or threat to the ship (such as an oncoming storm, a coastline, rocks, a lighthouse or other ships), the officer of the watch could use the telescope provided (or one which he himself had purchased) to assess the situation ahead.

The bridge of the RMS Queen Mary. The semicircular devices on pedestals are the ship’s engine-order telegraphs

Since it could be dangerous to leave the wheelhouse during rough or stormy weather, a slimmer, more compact telescope which could be used easily indoors was preferable to the much longer, thicker, and heavier telescopes usually used at sea. Once the hazard had been identified, the ship could take appropriate action, either changing course, or else ordering the ship to stop or slow down, usually done by operating the engine-order telegraphs on the bridge, to send or ‘ring’ orders down to the engine-room below (each telegraph was equipped with a bell that dinged with each movement of the telegraph-arm so that the engineer could hear the change in orders from the bridge, over the drone of the engines).

What Features do these Telescopes Have?

To begin with, one of the most noticeable features of these telescopes is how thin they are. Typically not more than about three inches wide (if that!). A useful feature, since it would make the telescope easy to grip and hold – even if it’s winter on the Atlantic, and you’re wearing gloves to stop frostbite, but you need to spot an iceberg right ahead!

Another useful feature is the leather, non-slip cladding on the barrel. This was partially done for style purposes, but it also makes the telescope easier to grip with wet, cold hands in an emergency.

The third most noticeable feature that you’ll find on every officer of the watch telescope is the sliding shield at the front. Variously called ‘dew shields’ and ‘glare shields’, their purpose was to keep rain, seawater, spray and sunlight off the main lens (known as the ‘objective lens’). By sliding the shield out ahead of the lens, it prevented the sun’s rays from reflecting off the glass and potentially blinding the user, and it also kept the glass clear of raindrops or sea-spray in heavy weather, and was a popular feature on maritime telescopes.

Are These Types of Telescopes Common?

They are fairly common, yes. I’ve seen about four or five before I eventually bought this one. Most of them were in terrible, unusable condition due to their age and the lives they led, but you can find working examples for not too much money, if you’re patient. They’re typically made of brass (which may or may not be nickel-plated. Mine is plated) and are typically 18 inches long, extending out to about 24 inches in open length. Living in Australia, a country which until the late 20th century was accessible only by ship, finding maritime antiques isn’t that difficult. Barometers, ship’s clocks, telescopes, binoculars and sextants are pretty common here.

If you’re thinking of buying an antique telescope, then you need to check for things like dents, cracks, scratches and warpage. Damaged lenses can be hard to replace, and so should be avoided. Dents on the barrel (but even moreso on the draw-tubes) should be avoided as much as possible. Dents will misshape the profile of the tube and make it harder to draw in and out of the telescope. Dents on the draw-tubes will cause the telescope to jam.

If you have the right tools and enough patience, you can press and roll out (or at least reduce) stubborn dents, but you should be careful not to warp the shape of the tube. I was able to use a heavy, wooden rolling pin to roll out the dent inside the glare-shield on one of my favourite telescopes with great success. It wasn’t entirely eliminated, but it was reduced significantly – enough that it was no longer causing the shield to jam every time I opened or closed it.

The eyepiece shutter (closed) on the end of the telescope.

You should check that the sliding eyepiece shutter over the eyepiece lens is in good condition. If loose, they can be tightened by screwing them back into place. If they’re too tight, loosen the screw slightly. If the screw works itself loose repeatedly after tightening, every time you open and close the shutter, then a DROP of oil on the shutter will provide enough lubrication to allow the shutter to slide open and shut, without the friction that would also loosen the screw.

Simply tighten the screw as much as possible, apply a dab of oil and work it in. I’ve had to do that with a couple of telescopes in the past and provided the oil doesn’t dry out completely (unlikely), then it’s a very effective little fix.

Last but not least, you should check the telescope for its lens cap. Not all telescopes were designed to have lens-caps, but most did. This one does not have a cap over the objective lens, and never did. Instead it has a leather hood that drops over it, but most telescopes are meant to have them, to protect the objective lens from dust, water and damage. That said, it’s rather common to buy antique telescopes without their lens-caps included.

Anyway, that wraps up my posting about my rather different and interesting addition to my collection. For more information about antique telescopes, I can strongly recommend the blog of Nicholas Denbow, at The Telescope Collector. His posts are both entertaining, informative and fun to read!

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A Fantasy Fulfilled – Acquiring Quizzers!

 

If you’re like me, and have had to grow up with appalling eyesight, then you’ll know that you can never have too many magnifying glasses. Ever since the day I started highschool, I’ve always wanted a pocket magnifying glass. Something which I could carry around with me and use whenever I needed to read small text, or magnify something which I couldn’t see clearly.

These days, there’s all kinds of magnifiers available. They come with lights, folding lenses and protective cases, they’re downloadable apps on your phone which you can customise to your needs, they have sensors and zoom-functions and all the rest of it.

And almost all of them are made of some cheap plastic stuff, usually in garish colours and god-awful patterns, and with weird, whacky designs that make them look more like toys than anything else. And this is the main reason why I have never bought one.

Instead, for many years, I held out, hoping to find something a little nicer, a little more refined and elegant, something useful that didn’t look like just another mass-produced vision-aid. Deciding to take a page from the book of history, I started hunting for a quizzing-glass.

What’s a Quizzing Glass?

“A what?”, I hear you say.

A quizzing-glass, I repeat, a quizzing-glass.

Alright…and what is a ‘quizzing-glass’?

I am so glad you asked, because this post is going to be all about them!

My sterling silver quizzing-glass, complete with silver albert-chain.

First, a bit of background – struggling with a heady mix of myopia and astigmatism (the eyes’ inability to both focus, and stabilise an image) – my eyesight has always been awful. Don’t get me wrong, I can see well enough to do just about anything – with enough time, patience and swearing, I can thread a needle if I really have to – but because of my conflicting vision-conditions, I’ve always suffered from terrible nearsightedness – hence the need for a decent magnifying glass.

To this end, I’d spent a long time – at least 10 years – searching for a decent quizzing-glass to use as a magnifier. Unfortunately, quizzing-glasses are both rare, and expensive. Despite visiting countless fairs, shops, and dealers, I’d never been able to find one, or afford one, or buy one which I liked enough to spend money on – when a glass costs upwards of $600 retail, you want it to be the best possible…and even then, I didn’t have $600 to blow, being a poor university student at the time.

Anyway, enough backstory – what is a quizzing-glass??

Quizzing-glasses, or ‘quizzers’ as they’re also called, are small, pocket-sized handheld magnifying glasses with single lenses. The lenses are about the size of a large coin, and the frames and rims are typically made from gold, silver, or Pinchbeck-Brass (more about that later). Quizzers typically came with a handle or ring under the frame to hold in the hand or fingers, and the same handle or frame also served as an anchoring point for a chain, ribbon or cord, that affixed to the user’s clothing or went around the neck, to prevent damage or loss during the course of a day’s usage.

Quizzing-glasses were very common in the 1700s and 1800s. At a time when eyesight conditions were typically corrected with crude lenses and eyepieces such as Nurnberg spectacles and handheld lorgnettes, high society was looking for something more elegant and refined.

‘Nurnberg’ spectacle-frames, named after the town in Germany where they were invented – the most common type of spectacles in the 1700s. They would eventually evolve into the French ‘Pince-Nez’.

Quizzing-glasses were a lot more than just eyepieces to help you read stuff, in the 1700s, they were also flashy fashion-accessories! It was very common for a man – or even a woman – of means, to sport a quizzer as a fashion-accessory, even if they didn’t even need one! Peering at something through a quizzer became an upperclass affectation – one might, or might not, be genuinely interested in whatever they were looking at – but if they did look at it, then it was usually through the lens of a quizzer! In the later 19th century and even into the 20th century, this action was usually replaced by the more well-known monocle (yes, there is a difference, I’ll talk about that later, too!).

For gentlemen in the late 1700s and early 1800s, stereotypical accessories were the walking-stick and tricorne hat. For ladies, a parasol and fan were the most common accessories – but both sexes carried, and used quizzing-glasses.

Why Use a Quizzing-Glass?

I suspect the main reason why they were so popular is partially because they were cheaper. Spectacles – even relatively simple ones, needed so much work done to them – two identical lenses, two rims, screws, springs, a bridge, nosepads…and if you wanted them, then also temple-arms – and if you did want them, then that meant adding hinges, more screws, finials, and maybe even a protective case to go with it…it’s getting expensive now, isn’t it?

My Pinchbeck brass quizzer, from the early 1800s.

On the other hand, if you weren’t the type who desperately needed or used spectacles every day, and instead only did a casual amount of reading or close-work, then a quizzer, with its simpler construction, fewer parts, and smaller size, was generally considered to be a better, and cheaper, selection!

What’s the Difference Between a Quizzer and a Monocle?

Ever since I started carrying and using my quizzers (which is on a daily basis, thanks to my aforementioned eye-condition), I get people who come up to me and say ‘Oh wow! A monocle, I didn’t know anybody used those anymore…‘.

I grin, and smile and nod…and do my best not to correct their misinformation – because – it’s not a monocle!

Alright, so what’s the difference, then?

A quizzing-glass and a monocle both have a single lens fitted into a frame or rim. Both lenses serve as magnifiers, or otherwise help to correct vision.

That is where the similarities END.

A quizzing-glass is a handheld device – the frame is held by the ring or handle up to the eye, like a magnifying glass, and is attached to the user’s clothing by a chain, cord or strap of some variety. When not in use, it sits in the pocket of the user’s coat or jacket or waistcoat, or hangs on a cord or ribbon around the neck, usually resting at chest-level.

On top of that, a quizzing-glass lens can be almost any shape – round, oval, hexagonal, octagonal…even square! Since it doesn’t have to fit into the user’s eye-socket, the shape or even the size of the lens and the frame around it really doesn’t matter. By comparison, a monocle’s lens is always a perfect circle – it has to be, in order to fit into the user’s eye-socket, which is how a monocle is worn.

Monocles fit into the user’s eye-socket through friction. You pop it in, and the friction of your eyebrow resting and pressing against the top of the monocle holds it against your cheekbone, keeping the monocle in place. In cheaper monocles, which are just plain glass, the edge of the lens is smoothed off to make it more comfortable to wear.

On more expensive monocles, which come with frames and rims, seating the monocle in the eye-socket is done with the aid of two protruding shelves or ledges affixed to the edge of the frame, called ‘galleries’. A monocle has two galleries – one for the top of your eye-socket, and one for the bottom. You raise your eyebrow, pop in your monocle and then relax your facial muscles. The tension of your eye-socket pressing or resting against the monocle-galleries should be enough – if the monocle is sized and fitted correctly – to hold it in place.

The End of the Quizzing Glass

While monocles and quizzing-glasses were, for a time, equally popular, quizzing glasses died out in the 1800s, and by the turn of the 20th century, were a complete anachronism. Their demise is due chiefly to the fact that they were a fashion accessory, rather than being an actual vision-correction device, such as a monocle is designed to be. As fashions changed to be less frivolous and flamboyant to more straitlaced and tidy, people with eyesight problems chose to use lorgnettes or even modern-style temple-glasses to correct their eyesight, rather than fiddling around with a quizzing-glass. Monocles and modern spectacles had the advantage that while worn, they could leave both hands free to work.

By comparison to the demise of the quizzing-glass, the monocle remains in use today. Although it’s largely seen as a quaint holdover from the Edwardian era, the stereotypical eyepiece of well-bred, public-school-educated upper-class men, you can still buy – and even have prescribed for you – monocles which are brand-new. Most wearers are people who have poor vision in just one eye, and for whom a pair of spectacles isn’t strictly necessary.

I want to Buy a Quizzing Glass!

Quizzing glasses can be hard to find. After all, they haven’t been manufactured in the best part of nearly 200 years! They’re typically made of silver, gold, or pinchbeck (a type of really shiny brass). They were most common from the early 1700s up to the mid-1800s (when various types of spectacles and monocles replaced them in popularity). So, if you want to buy one, what do you need to look out for?

First thing’s first – you need to check the lens. The lens should be clean, clear and without cracks, scratches or chips. Test it for magnification power and see if you’re comfortable with the strength provided. Unless you have the facilities, contacts or the money to pay for someone to grind you a new magnifying lens, discard any quizzers with overly-scratched/chipped lenses.

Next thing to check is the condition of the frame or rim. In general, these should be alright, but you can find some (as I certainly have, in the past) which were bent or damaged. This can cause the lens to sit improperly, or even fall out, so rivets, screws and the edges of frames should all be checked for integrity. While you’re at it, examine any holding-loops or handles for issues like dents, cracks, warping or bending, and loose fitting parts. Just keep in mind that some holding-loops are meant to pivot and swing around, so don’t worry if they swivel back and forth.

How Much do Quizzing Glasses Cost?

Due to their rarity, quizzers are fairly expensive. Although some historical reenactment companies do manufacture modern quizzers in antique style, to purchase an actual Georgian-era quizzer will set you back quite a bit, anywhere from $100 – $300 for a silver one in variable condition (which is not too bad a price to pay) up to $400 – $600+ for one in solid gold. And that’s provided you don’t have to pay for the lens to be replaced, or for the frame to be repaired.

Quizzers were typically attached to the body of the wearer using a silk ribbon or lanyard. Since I wear mine in my upper waistcoat-pockets, I use simple pocketwatch chains (which is an option, if you choose to wear them that way). To stop them from swinging around and damaging the glass, keep your quizzer tucked out of the way (under your shirt or in your jacket pocket) when not using it.

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Restoring a Junker: Breathing Life into an Old Pocketknife

 

A few weeks ago, I attended the annual Melbourne Pen Show, the oldest continuous collector’s and dealer’s fair of writing equipment, writing accessories and antiques in the southern hemisphere. This year was our 20th anniversary!

I sold quite a few things at the show – not just pens, but also silverware and antiques. Eager to see what else was on offer, I left a friend to guard my sales table, and went off to have a look around. Ironically, for something labeled as a pen show, I didn’t find any pens which excited me enough, in a price-range I was comfortable with, to actually buy. But while poking around through all the related offerings of inkwells, ink bottles, leathergoods, diaries, desk accessories and assorted antiques, I did find a row of rather crusty old pocketknives.

None of them were particularly appealing, but after sifting through all the detritus, I came across a rather handsome specimen with nickel-silver bolsters, and clad all over in lovely shimmering, glossy mother of pearl scales. Like all the other knives, this one was crusted and grimy and dare I say it, rather overpriced, but I perceived that, with a bit of effort, it could be turned into something both elegant, and useful.

A good bit of haggling managed to chip the price down and I bought it feeling happy for myself. Within just a few minutes of walking off with it and settling back behind my own sales table at the fair, I whipped out the knife and started thinking over what would need to be done to the knife to restore it to something resembling working condition…because it certainly wasn’t!

The knife was a standard, palm-sized slipjoint penknife, somewhat on the smaller end of medium, with two opposing blades contained within a pair of brass liners and a single backspring underneath, ornamented with nickel-silver bolsters and thick slabs of mother of pearl between, on either side. It could be a very attractive knife – if only the blades would open without ripping your fingernails out by the roots, and could cut anything worth a damn, without giving you tetanus at the same time, from all the surface-rust on the steel.

Who made the Knife?

The maker’s mark: Ed. Wusthof.

The knife was manufactured in the capital of European cutlery – the German town of Solingen – by the centuries old firm of Wusthof. Established in 1814, the Wusthof cutlery firm is still owned and operated by the Wusthof family, over two centuries after it was founded! Although more famous today for making kitchen-knives, it was common in the old days for cutlers to make all kinds of blades from scissors to razors, pocket-knives to silverware. Specialising in one particular type of blade (like what most companies do now) is a relatively recent phenomenon. Being a Solingen knife, I knew I’d bought something of unquestioned quality – it would have to be, if the company’s still family-run after 200 years!

Cleaning, cleaning, and…more cleaning

In my many years of collecting and tinkering with antiques, it’s long been my experience that the vast majority of antiques that are purchased from someplace – be it a fair, online, at an antiques shop, or from someone’s barn in the middle of nowhere – only require ‘restoration’ or ‘repairs’, and are ‘broken’ or ‘don’t work’ – not because they ARE broken, or don’t work, but rather, because they simply haven’t been cleaned. In decades!

Watches, clocks, sewing machines, typewriters, fountain pens, cars, record-players…anything, really…that’s been used rough and put away wet, as they say…will tend to seize up and not work after several years of use and absolutely no maintenance. The same goes for pocketknives.

Once I got the knife home, I opened it up and flooded it with oil. I stuffed it full of tissue-paper and started rubbing and scraping away at the inside of the knife. Even this half-hearted attempt at cleaning the knife yielded amazing…and…frankly…revolting…results! After their brief spelunk into the dark cavities of the knife, the tissues returned to the surfaceworld clagged up and caked in filth! Black, brown, sludgy GUNK all over!

Now came the really messy bit…removing all this grime.

Working out the Grime

Unless you have all the right tools, removing 60 years of encrusted grime and gunk (the accumulated decades of dust, pocket-lint, dead skin, coagulated oil and god knows what else) from the inside of a pocketknife can be a long, slow, sticky, oily and very, very, VERY messy process. Most people don’t have these tools…like me…and so you gotta restore the knife without them, the long way around…and this can take days.

The only way to do this is to repeatedly flood the knife with oil (I suggest sewing machine oil, but if you can stand the smell, WD-40 works as well, but keep in mind, you will be using a LOT of it, so best to get a lubricant that doesn’t smell…) and then work the blades open and shut, over and over and over again.

The oil seeps into the deepest nooks and crannies of the knife and dilutes the grime and crud that’s stuck inside the springs, pivots and liners. Opening and closing the knife the literally thousands of times that this will require, works the grime loose and it seeps out the bottom of the knife through the backspring with each working of the blades.

Get some tissues, paper-towels or toilet-paper. Fold it thick and lay it on a hard surface like a tabletop. Rub the knife – spring-side down – against the paper. Press it hard into the paper and rub it vigorously back and forth. The capillary action of the oil seeping out of the knife into the paper draws out all the grime stuck inside the springs and pivots. Now lift up the knife and stare in horror and revulsion at the THICK BLACK GREASY LINES on the paper. This is the grime that’s inside the knife which you MUST remove if the knife is to work properly.

Ever wondered why your pocketknife keeps jamming? This is why! All this gunk and grime, flushed out from between the springs and pivots with copious amounts of oil, represents just 15 minutes of cleaning, in a process that took EIGHT DAYS to complete.

“But this takes DAYS!!” I hear you say. “Can’t you just lubricate the pivots and have done with it!?”

Sure. You can. But you’re only lubricating the grime that’s stuck inside the knife. Once the oil dries up, the grime dries up, sticks to the springs and pivots all over again, and turns to glue. It fuses the blades shut through sheer friction and you’re back to square one all over again. The only way to get the knife working properly is to get ALL that crud out. And the only way to do that is to flush it through with oil.

“Can’t you speed it up somehow?”

Not unless you can rip the knife apart, clean it, and then competently put it back together. Using an ultrasonic cleaner does help somewhat, but it’s only effective once the grime has already been loosened. Ultrasonic cleaners work by vibrating and generating thousands of tiny bubbles that burst and explode against anything they come in contact with (like a knife placed inside an ultrasonic bath).

These thousands of explosions flush out and dislodge any grime and gunk they come into contact with. But it only works if the bubbles can reach the grime – in this case, the grime is trapped deep inside the knife. For the cleaner to be effective, you need to work the grime loose, first.

The knife is clean once all this grime has been removed from all the pivot points, gullies, crevices and chokepoints inside the spring mechanism. When the oil coming out of the knife is clear (or as clear as you can get it), and the blades swing open and shut smoothly with little (if any) resistance, then the knife is clean. If the blades keep jerking open and shut, then it needs more cleaning. You do not want jerky, unpredictable blades in your pocketknife AFTER you’ve sharpened those same blades – they become a serious safety risk!

Removing the Chip

As elegant as the knife was (or as elegant as I perceived it would be, after I was done with it), there was no hiding the fact that the blade had a tiny, but noticeable chip along its length. It was a tiny chip – probably less than a millimeter, but it was a chip, nonetheless, and I knew that it would be pointless to try and sharpen or use the knife if the chip wasn’t dealt with. The chip is a weak-spot in the blade, but it’s also an annoyance and a safety risk. And it prevents you from cutting anything properly, since you don’t have a straight, clean edge.

The chip in the blade (circled in blue) was tiny – barely a millimeter deep, but its presence was enough to effect the cutting ability of the knife, and so had to be removed.

The only way to remove the chip was to grind the blade down to the same level as the end of the chip. That’s right – you have to physically remove metal from the blade. Obviously, the bigger the chip, the more metal you have to remove, so ideally, any knives you buy should have no chips at all, or if they do, then they should be tiny chips like this, where grinding down the blade doesn’t affect it so badly.

Out came the sharpening stones!

I picked out the roughest sharpening stone I had. I laid it down and started grinding the blade back and forth, heel to toe along the stone in a sawing or slicing action. The aim was to slowly grind down the metal until the edge of the blade met the top of the chip, thereby eliminating it. Obviously to do this well, the blade needs to be level on the grinding stone, or else you end up with a wonky-looking blade. So if you do have to do this, make sure the blade’s edge is level against the stone as you grind. Stop every few strokes to check progress and stop grinding entirely when the chip is ALMOST gone.

Once you reach that stage, regular sharpening of the now dulled knife-edge should remove the rest of the chip and restore the blade to its proper profile.

The same spot on the blade, after the chip was ground out on a stone. Nice and straight again!

Keep in mind that, because the only way to remove a chip or nick in the blade is to remove the metal around the chip, smaller chips are easier to remove from blades than larger chips. A knife with a big chips in the blade should generally be avoided.

Polishing the Blades

Knives which are this old are typically made of carbon steel. That means that they’re very susceptible to rusting. Back in the old days, the way to stop this was to give the blades a protective coating. 60 or 70 years ago or more, this was accomplished by plating the blades in a non-corrosive metal…like nickel. Nickel not only gave the knife a sheeny silver shine, but it also prevented the blades and other steel parts of the knife from corroding.

50, 70, 100 years later, and all that nickel-plating is gone. The blades will probably be growing rust and starting to pit, by now. Heavy rusting and pitting on blades should be red-alert signs that the knife is not to be touched, let alone purchased, but light surface rust can generally be removed by careful polishing.

To do this, you’ll need fine-grit sandpaper of varying degrees of roughness, and a polishing compound of your choice (or if you don’t want to use a metal polish, the oil that you used to loosen out the grime inside the springs and pivots can also be used).

With enough persistence, and the right degrees of abrasiveness, a combination of fine sandpaper and a lubricating/polishing liquid can restore a knife’s blades to a stunning shine. If you really put effort into it, you can even get a glossy, mirror finish, but don’t forget that your main task is to remove the rust.

Sharpening the Blades

Once you’re done removing the grime from the springs and pivots and got the blades opening and closing smoothly, once you’ve removed any chips from the blades and have given them a good polish, the last step is to sharpen the blades. I always leave blade sharpening as the last step to prevent any nasty cuts during the cleaning process.

There’s a million articles on the internet about how to sharpen everything from corkscrews to axes, so I won’t go into the intricacies of the action, but I will say that a pocketknife has been sufficiently sharpened when you can slice cleanly through a sheet of paper or cardboard from point to shank, without the blade sticking to, or tearing up, the paper or card as it makes the cut.

The main blade.

Hold the edge of the sheet of paper or cardboard in the thumb and index finger of your left hand, three or four inches from the corner. Holding your knife in your right hand, slice downwards, from the edge of the paper ahead of your fingers, from one side of the sheet to the other. A sharp knife will cut cleanly into the edge of the paper, through the middle and down to the bottom, the whole length of the blade without stopping. You should be able to do this really fast. If the blade sticks, jams, catches or fails to cut in any way, or if it tears the paper in half while this happens, then it’s not sharp enough.

Once the blades have been thoroughly sharpened, then your knife is ready for use!

The smaller pen-blade.

This is the process that I went through to restore this knife back to working condition. It was a long, drawn out process that took over a week (removing 60, 70 years of grime was never going to be easy!), but it was worth it. Now I have another beautiful vintage pocketknife to add to my collection.

Keeping it Clean and Sharp

Once you’ve finished the arduous task of restoring your pocketknife, it’s important to keep it in good condition. Don’t force the blades, always keep your knife dry, and every now and then (not often, once or twice a year should be enough, if you use it regularly), flush out the springs and pivots with oil again to keep the action smooth and free of grime. And don’t forget to sharpen it – ideally after any heavy use, if you feel that the blades are starting to lose their edges. Used correctly, a sharp knife is safer than a blunt one.

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Seven Day Straight-Razor Cased Set (Sheffield, 1910)

 

For a lot of aficionados of traditional wet shaving, mastering the use of a classic cutthroat straight-edge razor is often seen as the zenith of one’s learning-curve and the peak of one’s skill-acquisition when it comes to reverting back to this more relaxed, eco-friendly, and most masculine of grooming rituals. Often perceived as being phenomenally dangerous, once mastered, the use of a cutthroat razor is both relaxing, enjoyable, and dare I say it – far more fun than shaving with a toss-out plastic cartridge razor. Cutthroat razors shave smoother, cleaner, and due to the significant length of the blade’s cutting-edge, remove more stubble with fewer strokes, than conventional modern razors. This means that they also shave much faster than modern razors.

Kept sharp, smooth and dry, stropped smoothly and honed correctly, a cutthroat razor will last for decades – even centuries, before it has to be thrown out. If ever! This, along with all its other attributes, is why the traditional straight razor is coming back into fashion with a vengeance!

Three of my antique straight razors, ivory, horn, and ivory. The strop and the toothpaste jar are also antiques. The razors are from the 1880s/1890s, the toothpaste jar is from about 1875.

I’ve been using a cutthroat razor for the past eight years. I typically shave every other day, strop each razor before and after each use, and touch up the blades every six to eight weeks, to keep them sharp. In my time, I’ve come to appreciate the amazing variety which is available when you turn to the art of using a straight razor, over that of a cartridge monstrosity. The different blade-shapes, point-styles, scale-materials, razor-sizes, blade-widths…the amount of variation found in razor to razor, even within a single manufacturer – is almost endless. This is why a lot of straight razor users claim to suffer from a condition known as “R.A.D.” – Razor Acquisition Disorder! And it’s not hard to see why – these beautiful, useful, long-lasting tools come in an almost infinite variety of sizes, styles, designs, materials and finishes.

In my time I’ve owned razors made in Germany, Britain and France. I’ve had razors from Solingen, razors from Sheffield, razors from companies that don’t even exist anymore, and razors from manufacturers whose names have gone down in history as famous cutlers. I’ve had razors with scales made of horn, snakewood, celluloid, stainless steel…even ivory!…I have two of those!

But from the very earliest days of attempting to master the use of the straight razor, of all the razors I’ve collected, sharpened, stropped, cleaned, sold or kept on, of all the razors I’ve cut myself with (Thank goodness, not many!) – there was one type of razor that I’ve always wanted…and never managed to get my hands on. Until about a month ago.

Seven Day Razor Sets

Among users and collectors of straight razors, there’s always various types of razors which people love to try and collect. The thinnest blades, the widest blades, ivory-scaled, horn-scaled, silver-scaled (yes, silver scaled razors do exist. They’re rare, but they do exist), two-razor sets, four-razor sets, the oldest, the newest, the most beautifully decorated…the list of variations, and of collecting goals and of ‘grail acquisitions’ go on, and on, and on.

And, for a lot of collectors, one of their goals is often the procurement of a classic ‘seven day set’. And that was one of my goals until a few weeks ago, when I finally got my hands on one!

What is a ‘Seven Day Set’?

A seven day set refers to a boxed set of seven identical cutthroat razors, one razor for each day of the week. Such sets were (and still are) sold as luxury male grooming accessories, and their price reflects that. Whether antique or modern, such sets often cost inordinate amounts of money. A modern seven day set, with decorated scales and handsome, wooden case, made by a well-respected company in modern times, currently retails for $3,500. By comparison, the average price of a secondhand straight razor at a flea market is anywhere from $5.00 to $50.00, depending on how old it is, its condition, and where and by whom, and of what it was made. So yes, when I said that seven day sets were expensive, I mean they’re REALLY expensive.

The full set, all lined up in its box.

And they can be rare, and if they’re antique, they can also be in questionable condition, and if they’re not, then they cost a mint to purchase. Because of all these reasons, such sets are often out of the reach and price-range of most collectors.

But, I digress.

Seven day sets date back to the earliest days of straight razors. Back when most people were unable to sharpen their razors themselves (that’s if they owned a razor at all), it was often the duty of the local barber to maintain the razors of his customers by periodically freshening up the edges. To lengthen the gap between sharpenings, men often kept two or three spare razors around to use while their main razor was being touched up at the barbershop. The practice of occasionally swapping out razors and changing them around meant that apart from needing less frequent sharpening, the bodies of the razors’ blades themselves, would last a lot longer.

The blades. They’re 5/8 extra hollow, with a rounded point. The edges are so thin that they’re almost ‘singing’ blades, meaning that they let off this high-pitched ‘sching!’ when they’re struck or rubbed on something…like when they’re being used to shave with!

Catching onto this trend, it became the fashion for cutlery firms which manufactured and sold razors, to start selling them in sets. Two- and four-razor sets are relatively common, the idea being that you could chop and change razors as you worked your way through the week, preventing excessive wear or overuse on any one blade. For those who could afford it, however, manufacturers started coming out with the much flashier-looking ‘seven day sets’ – with one razor for each day of the week. By using each razor only once every seven days, the edge of each razor’s blade was preserved and would last a lot longer between sharpenings.

Are such sets common items?

Not really. Most men only ever owned one or two razors, and simply sharpened, stropped and cleaned that one, or those two razors, for the rest of their lives. Seven day sets were often seen as luxury items, usually purchased by wealthy gentlemen who had money to burn, and who had the servants (such as a personal valet) whose job it was to maintain his master’s wardrobe and personal grooming accessories, and whose duties included sharpening and stropping their master’s seven piece razor set at regular intervals to keep the blades clean, smooth and sharp. But since such sets are generally rarer, but also of higher overall quality, they’re also highly collectible, and high-quality antique seven day sets from famous cutlers and retail establishments can fetch several hundred, or even thousands of dollars.

My Seven Day Set

As you may have surmised from what you’ve read so far, I’ve been chasing one of these sets for a long time. The better part of eight years! And after a long and exhausting hunt, I finally have one! The reason it’s taken so long for me to find one should now be pretty self-evident. They’re not exactly common, finding one in good condition can be tricky, and they’re also very, very expensive! But the gods of good fortune smiled on me, and I finally managed to get my hands on one!

The original manufacturer’s guarantee paper that came with the set. It’s 120 years old and still in such fantastic condition! Pretty incredible, huh? I’ve since laminated this slip of paper in a sheet of clear adhesive plastic, to prevent it from being torn and damaged or water-marked. I wanted it to last another 120 years, after all!

The set which I purchased – at a local flea-market – was made in the English city of Sheffield in about 1900. Sheffield, like Solingen in Germany, has had a long and proud history of manufacturing cutlery of all kinds, from scissors to pocketknives, straight razors to silverware. If you’ve purchased a bladed implement of any kind, which has the names of either of these two towns marks on it, then you can be assured that they are blades of quality!

The scales on the razors which make up my set are certainly nothing flashy – plain black celluloid plastic. Although to be honest, if the scales were made of anything else, I doubt I would be able to afford a set of any kind at all! The blades are 5/8, extra-hollow ground, with wafer thin, almost ‘singing-blade’ edges. For those who have never heard of something like this, that means that the blade edges are so thin that they vibrate and flex when the razor’s being used, causing it to emit high-pitched rasping noises. Such blades can be tricky to use just due to how thin and flexible they are, but if you can pull it off, they give the most amazing shaves…

The case itself is made of wood and covered in red Morocco leather on the outside, and soft, purple felt and velvet on the inside, with the maker’s name and model of the razor stamped on the underside of the lid in beautiful gold leaf. Although not easy to read, the spine of each razor-blade is actually marked with a day of the week on it.

The case, closed. Wine red moroccan leather, with gold leaf border around the edge.

Is it a top of the range seven day set? Probably not. Something like this was likely more in the “plain but serviceable” range of merchandise. But regardless of that, it was in great condition when I bought it. It required all the usual things done to it – clean the blades, sharpen the edges, strop the razors, blow out the dust, etc, but the razors and the box that they came in didn’t have any real issues, beyond one or two cosmetic flaws – the result of being, at a pinch, nearly 120 years old!

Along with all that, it even came with a little bonus – the original product warranty slip inside the box!…probably way out of date by now…but it is interesting to read about what constituted a product warranty or guarantee 120 years ago! Fascinating to read. One wonders if such things will happen with old iPhones in 120 years? I doubt it. Most of them barely last 120 days…

Restoring the Set

Honestly, restoring this set was pretty easy. It really didn’t need that much attention. A bit of glue to stop the leather from coming off the wooden case, blowing out the dust and lint, and the usual cleaning, polishing and sharpening and a bit of rust-removal on the blades of the razors was all that was required. I spent ages at the market just looking at the set, weighing it up and scrutinising every part of it in minute detail before I ever decided to buy it, so I was very certain that there wasn’t anything wrong with the set that I wouldn’t be able to sort out myself. Thank goodness I was right!

I want to buy a seven day set! Help me…?

Seven day razor sets are pretty easy to find – just check eBay or any of the major straight razor manufacturers which are still in business – but not so easy to buy. As I explained already, they can be prohibitively expensive…especially if you’re buying one brand-new!

Given that state of affairs, perhaps you decide that buying a secondhand set might be more within your price-range? If so, then there are a few more things that you need to consider.

First, you need to be sure that all the razors actually match. The whole point of a seven day set is that all seven razors are identical! Every razor in the box should look exactly the same (except for the days of the week, should your set have these included).

The beautiful gold leafing on the interior liner reads “The Legion (Reg’d.) Razor”. Tested Finest Grade Steel. Sheffield, England.

Check in particular for things like warped or cracked scales, chipped or cracked blades, excessive rust, blade-wear and water-spots. Antique razors are made of carbon steel, not stainless steel. This means that they can rust very, very easily. Check for “frowning” or “smiling” blades (blades with too much wear in the middle – frowning, or on either end – smiling) – this is a sign that the razor was poorly maintained and sharpened incorrectly.

Light rust can be polished or sanded off with ultrafine sandpaper or steel wool, and a touch of metal polish. Heavy rusting which would impact the structural integrity of the blade should be avoided.

The next thing to do is to check the condition of the box or case. The majority of seven day sets were sold in handsome, wooden cases, some were plain wood, some had glass lids (although this is more of a modern innovation), and some were covered in beautifully decorated Moroccan leather, with gold-leaf edges. Check for any rips, tears or wear in the leather, and any damage to the box. Minor things which can be fixed with glue and a bit of patience shouldn’t put you off. Major damage like faulty hinges, catches, or cracks should be approached with caution. If you have the skills to repair such damage, then go ahead and buy it, however.

Interiors of these boxes are usually lined in silk and velvet, if they’re lined at all (some had simple, plain wooden interiors). Make sure that the linings are undamaged and that seams aren’t split or worn (especially around the hinges). Any gold-leaf decoration should be crisp, whole and legible. In some cases, it can be touched up slightly with a gold-paint pen if you can find one of the right shade, without ruining the overall look of the box.

Of particular importance – make sure that the box’s closure mechanism is sound. You’ll be in for a nasty (and possibly very painful) shock if the box falls open accidentally when you’re carrying it or picking it up, scattering your razors all over the floor – or even worse, all over your feet! Spring-loaded catches should snap shut securely, and clasps should close firmly. A case that’s held shut with a rubber band is a case to beware of.

Fortunately, my razors and the case which they came in were largely free of issues like this, so I was able to buy them and enjoy them without investing much time and effort into their restoration and repair. There really wasn’t much to worry about, and it’s been a lot of fun writing about them, and being able to share them with the world.

 

 

 

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Antique Russian Niello Silver Cigarette Case (Moscow, 1873)

 

As my blog hits its 9th anniversary (yeah that’s right, the end of October, 2018, is its NINTH year!), I decided to post about something a little different. And this year, the little different thing is something I picked up at my local market – the first time I visited the market after getting home from a recent overseas holiday.

Finding stuff at flea-markets is very hit-and-miss. Sometimes you can find amazing stuff for great prices…and sometimes all you discover is overpriced junk or cheap trash that really makes you wonder why you bothered to wake up so damn early in the first place!

Anyway, the posting for this anniversary is the beautiful, quirky little silver case or box which I picked up this week just gone. Originally a cigarette case, I decided to repurpose it for holding my peppermints – a function for which it is surprisingly well-suited! So what is this item, and what’s its history?

So, what Is It?

I bought this beautiful silver cigarette or cigarillo case at my local Sunday flea-market. It had no dents, no scratches, marks, scrapes or any other major damage. There was some loss to the decorations applied to the silver surface of the box, but was about it! The catch and spring were good and strong, the hinges were in excellent condition, and the hallmarks were sharp and crisp. A bit of haggling and arm-twisting saw a decent discount, and I became the proud owner of what is now – my second piece of Romanov-era Russian silverware!

Measuring approximately 3.5, maybe 4 inches across, and about 2 inches wide, this cute little Russian cigarette case just jumped out at me because of its distinctive decorations, which I’ll go into more detail later on. The four square little tabs or hooks on the inside of the case (for holding the straps that kept the cigarettes or cigarillos in place when the case was opened) are still there, and replacing the strap should be pretty easy, if anyone ever decides to!

The Hallmarks

As with most antique European silverware, this piece comes with hallmarks. The Russian hallmarking system is very similar to other major European hallmarking systems, so in that respect it’s pretty easy to read. It differs in that they sometimes use the Russian or Cyrillic alphabet, instead of the more conventional Roman alphabet which is common elsewhere, but still – if you know what you’re looking at, the marks are pretty easy to read.

The case came with two sets of hallmarks – one on each half of the case. As with most European hallmarking systems, the Russian layout comes with four hallmarks:

The date-mark, the purity mark, the maker’s mark, and the assay mark.

The date-mark tells you when the piece was assayed.

The purity mark tells you what purity the silver is (how much silver and how much copper is in the alloy).

The maker’s mark tells you who made the piece.

The assay mark tells you where it was assayed, and – almost unique to Russian silver – the name of the assay-master of the office where it was certified.

Part of the hallmarks. The date is ‘1873’, ’84’ is the zolotnik purity standard and the symbol at the end is the assay-mark for Moscow, Russia.

The marks on this case are the two Cyrillic letters which are the maker’s initials. This is followed by the double-mark of assay-master, and date-mark stacked on top of each other. In this case, the assay master is Veniamin Vasilyevich Savinsky, and the date of assay is 1873.

The next mark along is [84], which refers to ’84 Zolotnik’, the Russian system of grading silver-purity. A zolotnik was an old Russian coin. The name was recycled to be used as the name for the silver-grading system in the 1700s (it’s like saying that “$50.00” = 95% silver, and “$40.00” = 80% silver, etc).

In this case, ’84 Zolotnik’ = 87.5% silver purity.

The final mark is the assay-mark for the city of Moscow. Cities with assay-halls existed throughout the Russian empire, including in Kiev in the Ukraine, and of course – St. Petersburg, where the famous House of Faberge, jewelers to the Romanov Court, had their headquarters.

Niello Decoration

When it comes to antique silverware, there are many, many different types of decorating: Repousse, engraving, chasing, cloisonne, enameling…and niello. If you’ve never heard of niello (“n’yellow”), then that’s probably not too surprising, since it’s not really that common these days as a decorative technique.

So what is ‘niello’?

Niello is a fine powder or paste made up of crushed sulphur and silver, with copper or in the past – lead – added to it. Ground into dust, the powder (or sometimes, paste) is applied to engraved decorations on a piece of silverware. The piece of silver, with the niello powder applied to it, is then heated. The powder softens, melts and runs into the grooves of the engraving or any other areas hollowed out by decorating tools. When it cools, the powder hardens and is baked onto the silver underneath. It’s like a crude form of enameling.

After polishing, the applied niello turns a distinctive black or midnight-blue colour. In this way, the decorated piece of silverware takes on a contrasting two-tone dark-light or ‘black-white’ appearance, with the niello’d areas turning black or midnight-blue, and the non-applied areas retaining their silvery sheen.

The underside of the case.

Niello as a decorative technique has been around for centuries. It dates back, with stops and starts, to at least the Ancient Romans and examples of nielloware have been found in various metals (brass, bronze, copper, silver, gold etc) for thousands of years. Famous Roman author, Pliny the Younger, who gained everlasting fame for his eyewitness accounts of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79AD, left a recipe for creating niello powder, which includes using silver sulphide, copper and crushed silver powder.

Niello reached a peak in the Medieval and Renaissance eras around the 1200s-1500s, lasting into the Early-Modern era of the 1600s up to 1800. A person who was competent in doing niello decorations was called a niellist.

Goldsmiths, silversmiths, engravers and niellists were important figures in the 1400s and 1500s – as workers of fine metal, they had the skills to engrave, carve and shape the pieces of type required to cast the hundreds of little blocks required for the new movable-type printing-press which came on the scene starting in the 1450s.

Russian Nielloware

Niello allowed for creativity in decoration, but it had one major drawback – just like the Ford Model T – it only came in black!…or very very very dark blue…if you angled the piece against the light…just right. Because of this, in most countries, niello started losing out in favour against other decorative techniques such as guilloche, or engine-turning, and enameling. For one thing, enameling could be transparent, and it came in all kinds of colours, patterns and styles.

While most countries in the 1800s started switching over to enamel decoration on silverware – France, Britain and most other European countries in particular, Russia held onto niello and Russian silverware is famous for its considerable use of niello decoration at a time when most silversmiths in other European countries had abandoned it for much more versatile enameling.

Niello was applied to all kinds of things by Russian silversmiths and goldsmiths. Pocketwatches, card-cases, boxes, cigarette cases, spoons, napkin-rings and especially – jewelry.

Closing Thoughts

Admittedly, niello has never REALLY been my thing. I didn’t really buy this piece because it was niello. I bought it more because of the colour, the pattern, the condition, and the fact that the case was made in Imperial Russia! I don’t know a great deal about antique Russian silver, so this is a bit of a learning experience for me. This brings my collection of antique Russian silverware up to the heady number of…

…two!

Two is a collection…right?

My other piece of antique tsarist Russian silver. This beaker was also assayed in Moscow, but back in about 1855.

Either way, I’m glad to have it, and glad to share it, and its history, with the world!