#early 1700s

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

Bartolomeo Bimbi (1648-1729) "Oranges, Limes, Lemons, and Citrus lumia" (1715) Oil on canvas

[fashion-from-the-past]

1708

[costumeloverz71]

Robe a l'anglaise, 1735.

[solcattus]

Portrait of a Lady

By Nicolas de Largillière

[matyas-ss]

Cats by Bamboo and Chrysanthemums, Shěn Quán [Shen Ch'üan, traditional: 沈銓, simplified: 沈铨] (c.1710). Minneapolis Institute of Art.

[wr1t3w1tm3]

This Book has no Title

Okay. So, I had to rewrite basically the last 2/3rds of this due to word being a be-ache but I think I like it more. I'm just going for old-timey enough dialogue (time period is like late 17-augths into the early 1720's), and a full of it female protagonist who is on the forefront of the day's scientific community. This is so gonna get rewritten which is why I'm sharing this online without much fear of AI scraping so...

Without further adue...

I hope you enjoy.

“Have you, Charlotte Rafferty, anything to declare?”

              Had she anything to declare? Of course! The dark, dank cell, chilled despite the blazing Caribbean heat?! The stench which permeated every crack and cranny of the place!?! It is madness!! She could declare how all of it was hell. Yet, this man, a minister of some faith, head of some local church, would take only one answer. An answer she is unwilling to give.

              “Nothing of import,” she retorts.

              The minister scowls and steps forward. His gray-white hair, curled at the shoulder, bounces against his shoulders. “Woman, do you not fear for your eternal life?”

              She smiles and crosses her arms, stepping up to the bars. She is disheveled, her teal dress dulled by dirt and her skin darkened by the same stuff. “Why should I fear something I do not believe in?”

              The cleric stops. For a second, he is silent. Then suddenly, he is upon her, grabbing the bars just as she had. He is seething, his hair shaking “Woman, if you do not believe in it, why do you bring yourself to mock it?”

              “For its silliness of course!” she sets her hand upon her hips. “This god you claim to know so much about is only known by things your mythos claims are his effects. Yet this god is not at all observable by any empirical means…”

              “And this proves what!?!” the reverend snaps. The bars rattle under his grasp, “Does not some invisible force hold us all upon this earth? Is this not observable only by its effects? Does that make this force any less real?!”

              “You forget that gravity has been proven through the scientific method! The effects of this god are chronicled in a book of inconsistent morals and tone that cannot…!!!”

              “Woman, listen to me!” The reverend screeches.

              For a moment, all is silent. Then, with a sudden calm, the reverend whispers “For your own good, would you not risk believing in something that would win you eternal paradise, then remain steadfast in your pride and risk being thrown into the fires of eternal torment?”

              Charolette cocks her head, slightly to the left, and rests her right thumb and index finger against her chin. Her lips purse, then flatten. Finally, she steps forward and grabs the bars. The reverend lets go, suddenly very interested in his death white knuckles.

              “The man who concocted your foolish wager was equally such. A theologian faffing about in philosopher’s robes.” The reverends face hardens as she continues, “There is nothing after this, sir. And in the condition I’m in, I think I’ll be quiet pleased to fall into that nothingness.”

              For a moment, it appears that there are tears in his eyes. For a moment, his lip trembles. For a moment, he stands perfectly still, except the glint along the corner of his eye.

              Then the moment is over, and the reverend straightens his coat. “Well then, make your peace.” He takes a step, pauses, and turns back to the cell “I will be at the gallows tomorrow should your persuasions change.”

              “I doubt it.” She calls after him. The reverend rounds the corner and the hollow sounding of his shoes against the cold, stone floor fade into silence. One of the other inmates’ chuckles at the predicament, but it is otherwise quiet. Charlotte see’s herself over to the corner, where she has created what some may call a nest in the infested hay, and lowers herself into it.

[paletapessoal]

Flemish stomacher, early 18th century

[isabelle-and-the-devil]

𝐷𝑢𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑖 𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑖

[capn-izcali]

Hey Tungle, where do you get your historical fabrics? I’m kinda sick of just ordering from burnley and trowbridge lmao

[atlastv]

"What is an Apple Dumpling? - 257 Year Old Recipe"

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

Louis de Silvestre (1675-1760) "The Formation of Man by Prometheus with the Aid of Minerva" (1702) Oil on canvas

[fashion-from-the-past]

Anna Maria Garthwaite (English, c. 1688-1763). Gown, ca. 1740s. Brocaded satin in coloured silks. London: Victoria and Albert Museum, T.264-1966. Given by Mrs Olive Furnivall.

[costumeloverz71]

Dress, 1742-1743

[andelkacroatia]

[canisalbus]

you say machete has to be closeted then why's he always wearing them little heels

Maybe he thinks he's a tiny bit nicer looking in them.

[pythiaswine]

the craziest part of some of the shit Adams wrote about Hamilton is that it was written years after his death. like get a grip, we know you hated Hamilton, but the man was semi-recently killed. 1805 and 1806 are two of the most damning letters where he's shit-talking and calling Hamilton a bastard brat, a Scottish creole, insolent coxcomb, a creature in delirium of ambition, etc etc.