THE LESSER KEY OF SOLOMON ... by Susan Stokes-Chapman

The eighteenth century in Europe saw a burgeoning fascination with the occult, a mystique born from a rich blend of Renaissance magic, medieval mysticism, and the inquisitive spirit of the Enlightenment. Among the most notorious grimoires of this era was The Lesser Key of Solomon, or Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis. This enigmatic text, a compilation of earlier magical manuscripts attributed to King Solomon himself, was believed to hold arcane secrets for summoning spirits, commanding demons, and unlocking divine wisdom. Though its roots trace back to the seventeenth century — and even further to writings from two centuries prior — its influence endured well into the 1700s, captivating secret societies and individual scholars eager to explore the realm of forbidden knowledge.

The Secret Seal of Solomon

The Lesser Key of Solomon is composed of five distinct books: Ars Goetia, Ars Theurgia-Goetia, Ars Paulina, Ars Almadel, and Ars Notoria. Each explores different facets of spiritual and supernatural interaction, weaving together strands of medieval demonology, Renaissance angelology, and astrological doctrine, elements that continued to captivate 18th-century esoteric practitioners.

The most renowned section, the Ars Goetia, catalogues seventy-two demons, detailing their ranks, powers, and the precise rituals required to summon and command them. From mighty kings to lesser spirits, these entities were believed capable of bestowing knowledge, wealth, or other supernatural boons ... provided they were properly invoked and bound. Though Goetic magic was condemned by religious authorities, it survived in secret, with some scholars maintaining that such spirits could be harnessed for purposes both benevolent and malevolent.

The 72 Demon Sigils

The Ars Theurgia-Goetia addresses a different category of spirits, often seen as more neutral than those catalogued in the Ars Goetia. These spirits were believed to inhabit the elements and could be summoned to offer guidance and aid. Eighteenth-century demonologists such as Antoine Augustin Calmet (1672-1757) debated their precise nature, with many considering them intermediaries bridging the realms of angels and demons.

Named after the Apostle Paul, the Ars Paulina organizes spiritual beings according to planetary hours and the zodiac. The first section details angels governing various hours of the day, while the second describes zodiacal angels linked to specific astrological influences. Given astrology’s central role in eighteenth-century mysticism, this portion provided practitioners with a structured framework for invoking celestial forces.

The Ars Almadel instructs magicians in the creation of the “Almadel,” a wax tablet used to communicate with angels from the four cardinal directions. These angels were believed to bestow divine wisdom and guidance, rendering this section more closely aligned with religious mysticism than with the demonic arts.

Finally, the Ars Notoria departs from spirit summoning, focusing instead on prayers, meditations, and sacred orations designed to enhance memory, wisdom, and eloquence. In the eighteenth century, this book was especially esteemed by those who sought intellectual enlightenment without venturing into perilous occult practices.

Because of the secretive nature of occult studies and the stigma attached to demonology, direct citations from these scholars are scarce. Nevertheless, it is widely believed that The Lesser Key of Solomon was either referenced by or at least known to prominent eighteenth-century figures such as Emmanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772), Alessandro di Cagliostro (1743-1795), Ebenezer Sibly (1751-1799), Martinez de Pasqually (1727-1774), and Francis Barrett (1774-unknown).

Francis Barrett was my first occultist inspiration for my sophomore novel THE SHADOW KEY, an idea I’d nurtured since 2006. While Barrett himself did not ultimately appear in the novel, his seminal occult work The Magus (London, 1801), along with his references to The Lesser Key of Solomon, were crucial in shaping the occult elements of my story. This led me to create an eighteenth-century scholar of my own, Julian Tresilian, who owns a copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon among his extensive library. Though THE SHADOW KEY is, of course, fiction, collectors like Julian often kept the Solomonic grimoire close at hand. Despite its reputation as a dangerous book of black magic—or as a misunderstood spiritual text—its influence endured throughout the eighteenth century and beyond. Even today, this grimoire continues to inspire literature, art, and popular culture. In the 1700s, as now, the quest for hidden knowledge — whether divine or demonic — remained a powerful force in human history.

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I explore 18th century occult thinking in my second historical novel The Shadow Key, publishing in paperback in February 2025. You can order a copy by clicking the image below:

www.susanstokeschapman.com

Instagram: @SStokesChapman

​A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF 18THC GWYNEDD ... by Susan Stokes-Chapman

‘To understand it,’ Linette begins, ‘you must know our history. Many of the Welsh estates have dwindled dreadfully in recent years, to the detriment of those who relied on the landowners for their care. I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s little to entertain here – many of the gentry took to the cities. As a consequence they left their estates under the care of agents who leeched money from tenants and the land into the purses of their employers, who then squandered it. Some could curtail their spending, like our neighbours Lord Pennant and Sir John Selwyn, but many others were plunged into debt and passed their estates on to English gentry. My grandfather was one of these men. He preferred the delights of London and spent so freely there it put Plas Helyg on the edge of ruin.’ ~ Extract from: The Shadow Key

Harlech Castle, from Twgwyn Ferry, Summer's Evening Twilight (1799) - Joseph Mallord William Turner

Gwynedd, a county stretching across North-West Wales, is defined by its dramatic mountainous landscape and an extensive western coastline that gazes out over the Irish Sea. Renowned primarily for Snowdonia National Park — recently restored to its original Welsh name, Eryri — this region is home to Wales’s highest peak, Yr Wyddfa, more commonly known as Snowdon. Rich in history, boasting countless castles, stunning beaches, abundant wildlife, and vibrant culture, Gwynedd is today a celebrated destination for travellers and tourists alike.

However, the eighteenth-century Gwynedd was a very different place.

At that time, the area was known as Meirionydd, a land largely isolated from the rest of Wales and England by the rugged mountains of Eryri and a scarcity of easily navigable routes. Travel was predominantly on foot or horseback, following ancient drovers’ roads—pathways used to move livestock across the hills. Many of these routes traced back to medieval times or even earlier, winding treacherously through rocky terrain and offering little in the way of safety or comfort. As a result, the people of Meirionydd were often viewed as living in a remote backwater, with customs and ideas deemed ‘backward’ by outsiders.

This perception was actively reinforced through the spread of English culture by landowners who sought to ‘tame’ their Welsh tenants. Many estates, having fallen into disrepair due to irregular income, were acquired by absentee English proprietors who treated these properties merely as summer retreats. By the mid-eighteenth century, only a handful of the great Welsh estates remained in the hands of their original families. The incoming English gentry imposed sweeping modernisations on these estates, often with little regard for the impact on local tenants. Many native inhabitants were displaced, left without work or even shelter.

Unsurprisingly, this bred considerable resentment, particularly as language barriers compounded the difficulties in communication. Throughout the eighteenth century, English was the language of power, governance, and opportunity — an essential tool for anyone wishing to ‘advance in life.’ Consequently, the remaining Welsh gentry adopted English, while many among the lower classes faced the enforced imposition of a foreign tongue, fuelling discord and occasional uprisings, especially in matters of church and religious reform.

This linguistic and cultural divide lingers in some communities even today — a lingering echo of a troubled past where the Welsh endured harsh treatment at the hands of the English, making such tensions all the more understandable. [For further reading, see Hope and Heartbreak: A Social History of Wales and the Welsh, 1776– 1871 by Russell Davies, Welsh Gothic by Jane Aaron, and The Remaking of Wales in the Eighteenth Century edited by Trevor Herbert and Gareth Elwyn Jones]

The primary sources of income in the region were varied: shipbuilding thrived in Barmouth, fishing flourished along the coast, farming sustained the inland communities, and the mining of slate, copper, lead, iron, and gold fuelled industrial growth. Mining, in particular, experienced rapid expansion during the Industrial Revolution, and eventually, North-West Wales became home to some of the largest mining quarries in the world. These sites have since been recognized as World Heritage Sites and are renowned internationally. Notably, the famous jewellery brand Clogau traces its origins to the gold mine nestled in the hills just outside Dolgellau.

Yet, it is important to acknowledge that these mines were typically owned by the gentry, while the men who laboured within them endured grueling conditions. Miners were often compelled to purchase their own tools from their meagre wages and worked over ten hours a day — six days a week — with only Christmas Day as respite. The work was brutal and unforgiving, carried out in hazardous environments that resulted in a frighteningly high death toll.

Moreover, the influence of the Pennants of Penrhyn Castle serves as a stark reminder of the darker side of this wealth. The Pennants were involved not only in mining but also in the slave trade, owning several plantations in Jamaica. This connection underscores how the Welsh gentry amassed their fortunes through the exploitation of those they deemed ‘the lesser man.’

Despite these harsh realities, Meirionydd remained (and still is) a breathtakingly beautiful corner of Wales that drew visitors from near and far, helping to put the county firmly on the map for future generations. Among those captivated by the region was another member of the Pennant family, the naturalist Thomas Pennant. Between 1778 and 1781, he undertook an ambitious journey across Wales, culminating in the publication of two volumes celebrating his travels. His The Journey to Snowdon, featured in Volume II, offers a richly detailed and lyrical eighteenth-century portrayal of his native land, capturing the essence of Wales with both affection and keen observation.

Wales also drew many pilgrims of a literary and spiritual nature. Among them was the Reverend Richard Warner of Bath, who documented his travels in A Walk Through Wales (1799) and its sequel, A Second Walk Through Wales (1800). Even the renowned Romantic poet William Wordsworth harboured a deep affection for the country. During his first visit in 1791, he traversed much of North Wales, an experience immortalized in his Descriptive Sketches. Wordsworth vividly recalled ascending Snowdon by night to witness the sunrise, a moment so powerful that echoes of it can be found within his seminal work, The Prelude:

[...] When from behind that craggy Steep, till then
The bound of the horizon, a huge Cliff,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Uprear’d its head. I struck, and struck again
And, growing still in stature, the huge Cliff
Rose up between me and the stars [...]

Gwynedd/Meirionydd is a county steeped in history. We often celebrate its rich tapestry of myths and legends — like those immortalised in The Mabinogi — and its pivotal Medieval chapter, notably Edward I’s conquest between 1277 and 1283, marked by the construction of the formidable castles at Harlech and Caernarfon. Today, Wales is widely cherished as a beloved summer holiday destination, yet it is equally important for those who cherish the nation to reflect on the often-overlooked “middle years.” These centuries, though less frequently examined, played a crucial role in shaping the Wales we know and revere today.

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I explore Welsh eighteenth-century social history in Gwynedd in my second historical novel The Shadow Key, published in hardback in April 2024. You can order a copy by clicking the image below:

www.susanstokeschapman.com

Instagram: @SStokesChapman

Gold in them there hills - the Roman hunt for treasure in Wales - by Ruth Downie

Those of us who have been watching “The Luminaries” know exactly where gold comes from. It’s found by a ragged creature in a broad-brimmed hat who spends hours squatting by a stream, shaking a large flat dish and staring into it.

Perhaps that’s how the earliest miners worked at Dolaucothi in South Wales, but who they were, what they did or when they did it remains a mystery. Unfortunately for archaeologists, later miners and quarrymen tend to hack away the work of earlier ones, and a Roman mine manager with professional engineers, plenty of labour and official backing tended to hack away more than most.

When the legions turned up in the first century AD and declared South Wales to be Under New Management (a statement greeted with less than universal joy, and followed by much bloodshed) it was inevitable that they would commandeer the local resources for their own benefit. What could be more glamorous to commandeer than gold?

The reality was less glamorous than the end product. Especially for the poor souls who were condemned to tramp up the never-ending steps of a waterwheel in the dripping dark in order to keep the workings below from flooding. We know about them because some 1800 years later, modern miners found part of the wooden wheel in a Roman underground chamber. Here’s a scale model:  

The hollow rim of the wheel is divided into compartments which fill with water when they’re at the bottom. As the wheel turns over at the top, the water spills out and away down another channel. To add to the woes of the operator, it’s not even very efficient. Now imagine doing it underground with no electric light:

The fragment of wheel is one of the few finds that is incontrovertibly Roman because the wood has been dated. Much of the rest of the evidence at Dolaucothi is delightfully enigmatic. My husband and I were were very glad of the guide on our trip, because while we would have enjoyed a bracing country walk, we would have strolled past most of the sights with no idea of what we were looking at.

Here, for instance, is a shot of the peaceful valley where the National Trust has repurposed twentieth-century mine buildings to welcome visitors.

Except… that is not a valley. That is a massive opencast mine, and the valley floor (once used as a caravan site) is flat because it’s made up of backfill.

The tunnels below and around it are the work not only of Romans but of Victorians, Edwardians and miners of the 1930’s. (The Trust also offers a splendid Victorian mine tour.) What united them all is the search for this:

Clearly in need of some further refinement. Below is the amount of rock needed to yield enough gold for a ring.

Yes, all those truckloads to make one ring. No wonder Gollum thought it was precious.

It’s sometimes said that the ancient world barely bothered with mechanization because slaves (of whom more in a moment) could be forced to do all the heavy work, but that’s not necessarily true. Consider the stone below, which is within sneezing distance of the mine.

It may be the pillow of five Celtic saints who fell asleep in the mine after taking refuge from a thunderstorm. Despite the removal of their pillow, complete with the indentations of their heads, the saints are sleeping still, awaiting the return of King Arthur.  (Or the arrival of a pious Bishop. Sources differ.) This is why it’s called the Pumsaint (Five Saints) Stone.

On the other hand, it could be the anvil from a Roman water-powered stamping mill, built to crush the stone ready for processing.

To justify using a machine like that, rather than a gang of workers wielding lump hammers, they must have been digging out a LOT of rock. Here’s where some of it came from:

Even a duffer like myself can see it’s a tunnel, but why it’s that unusual shape and size and runs more or less straight through the hill and out the other side is anybody’s guess. An overengineered drain? A short cut to carry ore through the hill instead of over it? An exceptionally neat access to a seam of gold-bearing quartz? Theories abound.

We might sit and ponder them beside this tranquil pool...

…which is part of the massive and sophisticated system of water engineering that once surrounded the site, extending for miles out into the hills beyond. Water power, stored and then suddenly released, would have been used for earthmoving on a spectacular scale. Apparently there’s still gold in the pond, but there are also so many noxious chemicals that removing it safely would cost more than it’s worth.

Leaping forward through time - this is what used to be a Norman castle motte beside the pit…

…until archaeological digging proved it to be a very neat Roman spoil heap. I like to think it would have pleased whoever organized the very square tunnel.

Which brings me to the question of who did all this work. The fort just up the road tells us that Rome was in charge, but were the miners themselves locals or incomers, contracted or conscripted? They may have been condemned criminals, branded in the middle of the forehead, fitted with heavy chains, and sentenced to a grim servitude from which few were expected to return.

I’d like to think that somewhere nearby, a cemetery with some answers awaits excavation.

In the meantime, here’s something we can all identify with certainty - the site of the local Roman fort. Also, by a happy coincidence, the pub.

The Dolaucothi Arms is owned by the National Trust and was Countryfile’s Country Pub of the Year in 2019. It’s the perfect place to end a day scrambling around the hills in search of long-dead gold-diggers.

To find out more, visit https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/dolaucothi-gold-mines

Ruth Downie writes a series of crime novels set mostly in Roman Britain and featuring Roman medic Ruso and his British partner Tilla. When she is not writing her happiest moments are spent wielding an archaeological trowel. www.ruthdownie.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jellicoe and the U Boats by Janie Hampton

There has been much in the news this year about the 1916 naval Battle of Jutland and the role of Admiral Sir John Jellicoe.

Admiral Sir John Jellicoe
(1859-1953)

But has anybody mentioned another Jellicoe who was also employed by the British Royal Navy and active during the First World War? I doubt it, because the other Jellicoe was a sea-lion. He belonged to Captain Joseph Woodward from Ramsgate, Kent, whose family had one of the first touring sea-lion shows. The sea-lions were trained to juggle, balance balls on their noses and dive for chocolates.
During the First World War, German U-boats were sinking tons of British merchant shipping. Captain Woodward was sure that Jellicoe and his under-water colleagues could help. Sea-lions have excellent underwater vision and hearing; can swim 25 mph (40 kph); dive repeatedly to a depth of 1,000 feet - 300 metres; and are as intelligent as dogs. The British ‘Board of Invention and Research’ agreed it was worth a try. Trials were undertaken first in an outdoor swimming pool, and then in Lake Bala in Wales. Captain Woodward’s idea was that Jellicoe would track the sound of a U-boat engine -however deep it was in the ocean- and swim towards it with a float attached to a cord. The Navy would follow the floats, and know that a U-boat was underneath. The first trick was to encourage them to track U-boats, and not fish. All went well, until they were put to work in the actual sea off Southampton. Despite wearing muzzles, they ignored the Royal Navy submarine, and went straight for the fish. The sea-lions returned home but after yet more training, in 1917 the experiment was abandoned. However, it was agreed that important developments in 'hydrophone science' had been made. Jellicoe and his comrades were demobilized and returned to civilian life. But Jellicoe’s career was not over. Hailed as "the actual Admiralty U-boat hunting sea-lion", he continued to perform in theatres such as The Hippodrome in London.

The Other Jellicoe

I first learned about Jellicoe when I found a yellowing press-cutting among my late uncle’s papers. The  Birmingham Mail revealed that in January 1921 Jellicoe was performing in the Victory Circus at Bingley Hall, Birmingham. This was not far from where my grandfather Rosslyn Bruce (great nephew of the afore-blogged Felicia Skene) was a vicar. He wanted to raise money for the poor children of Birmingham, and he loved animals. He persuaded Captain Woodward that Jellicoe would bring great publicity to the Fund – and, no doubt, the circus too.

Birmingham Mail January 14, 1921.

 "Extra-ordinary scenes were witnessed in Birmingham today," reported the Birmingham Mail, "when the sea-lion ‘Jellicoe’ drove to the Mail offices on his motor cycle combination." The convoy included two motor cars "decorated with flags and red, white and blue ribbons...Jellicoe was apparently oblivious to the flattering reception received from the huge concourse" – estimated to be the largest crowd ever seen in Corporation Street. "He sounded his horn repeatedly when anyone threatened to get in the way. Jellicoe’s instinct, however, is so intense that he requires little help to avoid obstacles. Throughout the journey he never seemed like losing control of his machine." No mention was made of Mrs Woodward, hidden beneath his flippers. "Arriving at the office of the Birmingham Mail, Jellicoe dismounted and proceeded up the steps to the front door. Introductions having been effected, Jellicoe indicated a desire to proceed to the editorial department and was directed upstairs." Around the neck of "this amphibious messenger" was a cheque for £251 8s 8d, raised at a charity concert for the Christmas Children’s Fund. "Jellicoe shook hands, saluted and descending the stairs, made his way to the motor cycle which he at once mounted and drove away, sounding his horn furiously to the great delight of the crowd." In the faded newspaper photo, my uncle Merlin, then aged 11, can be seen sitting in the side car beside Jellicoe as it travelled down New Street.
A year later Merlin Bruce went to Dartmouth Royal Naval College from where he became commander of an early aircraft carrier and was later awarded an OBE for defusing bombs.

Merlin Bruce RN, circa 1930

Since the 1960s, the US Navy has been training California sea-lions to locate sea-mines and lost divers, and even attach leg-cuffs to suspected saboteurs who can then be hauled to the surface. Sea-lions can also film live videos of the ocean floor with cameras attached to specially-designed harnesses. So far, the US Navy has not admitted to training them to drive motorcycles, with or without sidecars.

On friendly terms with its commanding officer, a sea-lion on board a submarine, 'Illustrated London News', 1919

www.janiehampton.co.uk





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From the Curtain Theatre to Llanwrst Catherine Johnson

Detail from the Wynn Family Memorial in St Gwrst Church dated 1559

I am in North Wales. While not quite the town of my fathers and mothers, this town is the one where my Mum went to school. And because it was a long time ago before school buses, she boarded during the week (even though it was a state school). And before she learned to speak English had learnt, aged eleven, how to smoke cigarettes. Still, there was a war on.

Ok, Ok, I'm backing away from family history and back into the Shakespearean track. Although I have enjoyed the plays, Macbeth, The Tempest and Dream being my favourites, I cannot admit to a deep love from birth.  He is a faultless, wonderful writer, and the plays, when done well, are peerless.

And Shakespeare was big in my old stomping ground in Hackney. Which was after all the home of the Curtain Theatre, as recreated in this charming children's opera by Jonathan Dove.

Sorry I lied about family history, here is my son Adam (left) and classmate Jimmy as Tudor actors celebrating the story of the old theatre..

So Wales. Surely I'll be talking about Shakespeare's use of Welsh in Henry IV (or is it V). Arguing whether he was slagging us off as fickle (despite his Welsh grandmother Alice Griffin). But no. Back to Llanwrst. You say it Llan roost in English but that didn't stop an ITV news item having it described as Llanworst earlier this year. It's a small ex market town in a strongly Welsh speaking area just east of Snowdonia. It's tucked so deep into the valley it seems to be always in the shade.

Of course Welshness was big in the Tudor court and the language was not unknown in London. Many of the important influential families around in Shakespeare's time were Welsh. John Salusbury (son of two powerful Welsh Families and related to those Wynns by marriage) is a dedicatee in one of Shakespeare's books of verse.

In Shakespeare's writing there is definitely a sense of a wider world beyond Tudor England. There's the Mediterranean and (if I remember rightly) North Africa as well as Middle and Western Europe.
We can so often forget that there were massive trading links between London and Antwerp and Holland, as well as Constantinople, the Levant and China. And at the same time Spaniards were cutting a swathe through South America looking for gold and English migrants were sailing west to set up new Jerusalems in America.

All those merchants travelling for months and years all across the globe. Sometimes I think we forget how much travel went on between cities and cultures and people.

In fact, after  rift and war with Spain, trade with the Ottoman Empire boomed and London was awash with Turkey carpets and textiles, Moors and merchants from Africa and the Middle East. There were so many that Elizabeth the First said famously that there were 'Too many blacks in London'. Truly nothing changes. How do the Brexiters or anyone else for that matter think they can hold back a tide of people that began at least two thousand years ago with the Romans? Or as comedian Stewart Lee reminds us, those pesky Beaker people coming here with their pesky beakers another few thousand or more years earlier.

But back to Llanwrst.  The 'big family' of the town were the Wynns, they lived in 12th century Gwydyr Castle which is still there on the far side of the river Conwy from the town. I think I've written about their private chapel with the heavenly painted roof earlier, this time I am in the town church. It's dedicated to an obscure Welsh Saint called Grwst, an ascetic who lived in a cell here close to the river apparently.

The Wynns rode high with the ascension of Henry Tudor. They had this massive alabaster memorial made in 1559, to celebrate Meredudd ap Ifan, the first of the Wynns to settle in Llanwrst, also to Sir John Wynn and his wife Sidney. It was carved and painted in London.

The Wynne Memorial

It is so totally un Welsh and un chapel. Incredibly high church and blingy - even after five hundred the colours are a little garish for modern tastes. I cannot imagine the impact of this thing all those years ago in this grey rainy little town.

They might not have had theatre but this must have been the closest thing imaginable.


Catherine

My last book, The Curious Tale of The Lady Caraboo is on the shortlist for the YA prize.

POWDER - AND A PICTURESQUE PASSION by Penny Dolan

A couple of weeks ago, away in Llangollen, I came across an interesting answer to one of those questions that sits in the back of your mind: 

“How exactly did they do that, then?”

I was at Plas Newydd, the home of the famous Ladies of Langollen: Miss Sarah Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler. 

The Ladies were a pair of aristocratic women who rejected the expectations of high society in Regency Dublin.  Rejecting the trials of society marriage, or the low status of spinsterhood, the friends eloped together.  Twice. 

The second time, they were successful, although they had to rely on friends as well as family to live.

Inspired by romantic ideals, the Ladies left Ireland, crossed to Anglesey and travelled on rough, unmade roads through Wales.

In 1780, the Ladies settled, “retiring” to a cottage in the beautiful Dee valley

Close by were the picturesque ruins of Valle Crucis Abbey and the hill fort settlement and broken walls of Castell Dinas Bran were visible from the site. 

 

 

With Mary Carrell as their formidable housekeeper, the Ladies lived a quiet and cultured life. They decorated their home in the Gothic style, with strange wood carvings broken from old furniture, fragments of old stained glass and the many curiosities brought to them by their many visitors. Later, under General Yorke, the wood carvings were increased and darkened and the place took on its distinctive black and white look.

Plas Newyydd had brought "retirement from society" but not seclusion and the Ladies, with their scandalous and romantic tale, became celebrities. Over the years, visitors included Southey, Shelley, Byron, Caroline Lamb and Wordsworth as well as the Duke of Wellington and many more. The Ladies were involved in local culture and music and the Welsh harpist Jonathan Hughes often played in their drawing room.

Back now to the start. The eighteenth century was still an era of wigs, pomades, hairpieces and hair-powder. This French fashion had been popularised by Charles II back in the seventeenth century, when “big hair” was linked to the display of health and wealth, to the comfort of hair easily de-loused and to concealing the ravages of hair loss and diseases. Men were the main wig-wearers, but women included a variety of hair pieces as part of “natural” hair-styles.

Hair-powders, coloured or white, helped with these fashions. The powders absorbed natural oils at a time when hair was not frequently washed as well as the grease of pomades, the styling gels of the period. 

Such powder, made of some form of starch, was applied with bellows and brushes by a maid or servant, and was useful for blending both false and natural hair together.  

The gentle-person's garments needed to be protected by arrangements of capes or coverings. Plas Newyydd offers what may be a more ingenious everyday idea. The Guest Bedroom still has a true “powder room”. It is a small walk-in cupboard off the bedroom, a place where one could attend to one’s personal toilette.   

 

The wooden door has a large round hole cut into it. Although this could just be for daylight, the current National Trust Visitors Notes suggest that the servant stood inside, with the bowl of powder at the ready. 

The gentleman or lady, remaining in the bedroom, stuck their head of hairs, various, through the hole and were duly be-powdered, thus protecting their garments - and the room - from an untidy scattering of dust. I do not know if this “invention” was common at the time -  or even if this is just historic supposition – but what a simple and practical device it appears. And what a fascinating scene that would be to write! 

 

The picture of the elderly Ladies above shows them in rural hunting dress. Other portraits show the pair with fairly short hair, cut in the style of their youth, but probably still lightly powdered.

"Powder” however, was already disappearing. With revolution in France and riots and unrest in Britain, society people were less eager to display grand hairstyles. William Pitt’s 1795 Duty on Hair Powder Act, raised to fund the war against the French, finally killed off such powder rooms, except for the coy use of the term in occasional modern hotels.

Penny Dolan

Author of A BOY CALLED M.O.U.S.E  (Bloomsbury)