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July 20, 2010
Plague-WaterRing-a-ring-a-rosesA pocketful of posiesAtishoo atishooWe all fall down.On Cheapside today, London reached a special pitch of airlessness and I was put in mind of the plague.  Summer was the time to leave London, particularly after the Great Plague of 1665-6 and throughout the 18th century whilst there were outbreaks of ‘plague’ here and there, there was nothing to compare to the death toll of earlier decades.  The plague is a massive subject and impossible to deal with in one post, but two distinct and opposite images came to mind: Hannah Glasse’s recipt for ‘plague-water’, a no-holds-barred treatment for the infected, and the curious case of Buckingham.  Hannah’s receipt involves 24 roots, 16 flowers and 13 seeds and 2 types of berries, plus copious boiling and ‘stilling’ in an alembic.  This massive herbal overkill shows the desperation a carer might feel for a patient or family member with plague, willing to try anything and everything to save them (and there is no doubt that making up this receipt would have provided work for worried hands), and probably provided a sweet-smelling send off rather than a cure.  A shortened version, boiled in vinegar and poured onto handkerchiefs was supposedly a preventative.  Buckingham is an altogether different matter, and at the other end of the care spectrum.  Buckingham was one of the collectors of the deceased, working the streets with his ‘dead cart’.  During the Great Plague, as his cart clattered through the City he would cry, ‘Faggots, faggots, five for sixpence, and take up a child by the leg’.  His behaviour was too much to be endured, and he was arrested, ‘whipt’ and sent to gaol by Lord Craven for offending public sensibilities.These examples are extremes and by the time Hannah’s receipt was published plague was dying out, if not gone.  There is now talk of genetic resistance amongst survivors (it is estimated just under a third of the infected survived) but no one really knows why.  From the red ring of the first plague swellings, to Hannah and her predecessors’ sweet pocketfuls of posies, to the feverish symptoms, to the unknown outcome after ‘we all fall down’, plague and all such other ‘summer-fevers’ were a dreaded annual occurence.  Curious to think how diseases that were a deadly spectre on London’s hot and airless streets are now little more than a jaunty (if slightly sinister) rhyme still sung by children in playgrounds, the meaning long forgotten.

Plague-Water

Ring-a-ring-a-roses
A pocketful of posies
Atishoo atishoo
We all fall down.

On Cheapside today, London reached a special pitch of airlessness and I was put in mind of the plague.  Summer was the time to leave London, particularly after the Great Plague of 1665-6 and throughout the 18th century whilst there were outbreaks of ‘plague’ here and there, there was nothing to compare to the death toll of earlier decades. 

The plague is a massive subject and impossible to deal with in one post, but two distinct and opposite images came to mind: Hannah Glasse’s recipt for ‘plague-water’, a no-holds-barred treatment for the infected, and the curious case of Buckingham.  Hannah’s receipt involves 24 roots, 16 flowers and 13 seeds and 2 types of berries, plus copious boiling and ‘stilling’ in an alembic.  This massive herbal overkill shows the desperation a carer might feel for a patient or family member with plague, willing to try anything and everything to save them (and there is no doubt that making up this receipt would have provided work for worried hands), and probably provided a sweet-smelling send off rather than a cure.  A shortened version, boiled in vinegar and poured onto handkerchiefs was supposedly a preventative.  Buckingham is an altogether different matter, and at the other end of the care spectrum.  Buckingham was one of the collectors of the deceased, working the streets with his ‘dead cart’.  During the Great Plague, as his cart clattered through the City he would cry, ‘Faggots, faggots, five for sixpence, and take up a child by the leg’.  His behaviour was too much to be endured, and he was arrested, ‘whipt’ and sent to gaol by Lord Craven for offending public sensibilities.

These examples are extremes and by the time Hannah’s receipt was published plague was dying out, if not gone.  There is now talk of genetic resistance amongst survivors (it is estimated just under a third of the infected survived) but no one really knows why.  From the red ring of the first plague swellings, to Hannah and her predecessors’ sweet pocketfuls of posies, to the feverish symptoms, to the unknown outcome after ‘we all fall down’, plague and all such other ‘summer-fevers’ were a dreaded annual occurence.  Curious to think how diseases that were a deadly spectre on London’s hot and airless streets are now little more than a jaunty (if slightly sinister) rhyme still sung by children in playgrounds, the meaning long forgotten.

Tags: JustMigrated Criminal London Sick London Strange London

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July 15, 2010
Georgian London to have and to hold, brought to you by Penguin It’s true!  Yesterday Eleo Gordon of Penguin books said she was thrilled (Say I’m thrilled! she said) to have acquired Georgian London ‘the book’, which will be out in hardback in the Spring of 2012.  This, as you can well imagine, is like a dream; a dream that wouldn’t have happened without all of you and certainly wouldn’t have happened if my agent, the lovely Kirsty Mclachlan of David Godwin Associates hadn’t found me on the Twitter contraption.  I want to hug and thank you all so there’s a fair chance Kirsty may just get hugged to death.Anyway it’s going to be a big book, telling the story of London and her people in the 18th century and showing, I hope, the diversity and sheer vibrancy of ordinary life in the capital and how the human experience of this amazing city remains, in many way unchanged from that of three centuries ago.  I’ll be blogging the journey towards the publication of the book, as well as carrying on with the posts, and I hope you’ll stay and enjoy it with me.  And buy the book, of course!So, better go and get on then…..*sharpens quill*

Georgian London to have and to hold, brought to you by Penguin

It’s true!  Yesterday Eleo Gordon of Penguin books said she was thrilled (Say I’m thrilled! she said) to have acquired Georgian London ‘the book’, which will be out in hardback in the Spring of 2012. 

This, as you can well imagine, is like a dream; a dream that wouldn’t have happened without all of you and certainly wouldn’t have happened if my agent, the lovely Kirsty Mclachlan of David Godwin Associates hadn’t found me on the Twitter contraption.  I want to hug and thank you all so there’s a fair chance Kirsty may just get hugged to death.

Anyway it’s going to be a big book, telling the story of London and her people in the 18th century and showing, I hope, the diversity and sheer vibrancy of ordinary life in the capital and how the human experience of this amazing city remains, in many way unchanged from that of three centuries ago.  I’ll be blogging the journey towards the publication of the book, as well as carrying on with the posts, and I hope you’ll stay and enjoy it with me.  And buy the book, of course!So, better go and get on then…..*sharpens quill*

Tags: JustMigrated Georgian London The Book

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July 13, 2010

Lost London: Millbank’s Ship Graveyard

There is music to go with this post (as in, don’t click if you are at work with the sound turned up) courtesy of the lovely Seth Lakeman: Spotify or YouTube.What symbolizes the shift from one age to another?  London is full of buildings dating from medieval to modern; almost a thousand years of history is visible on her streets between The Tower and Westminster.  The city has been endlessly recycled through times of immediate and dramatic change such as the Fire and the Blitz, but also the gradual changes of decay and renewal.  The result is London’s unique patchwork effect, but that can make it hard to see the wood for the trees.  So, in searching for a symbol of London’s transition from the Georgian into the Victorian period, I stopped looking at onshore London and turned my attention to the river. 

London’s naval history is spectacular and possibly at its most glorious during the Age of Sail.  By 1830, iron ships powered by steam had begun to dominate both Britain’s waterways, and the surrounding seas.  Wooden ships would become increasingly redundant until the late 19thC revival of the clipper.  Thus, many whose families had previously been involved in shipbuilding turned instead to ship-breaking.  Henry Castle, born to a ship-building family in 1808 would try to make his fortune in Australia before returning to Rotherhithe in the late 1830s.  Realizing that more and more wooden ships were being decommissioned, he set up a ship-breaking business in Rotherhithe and on Baltic Wharf, Millbank (it would later open a branch far to the east for dealing with large ships in deeper water).  Castle’s ship-breakers would come to symbolize so many elements familiar to anyone interested in the history of London through the ages.  The place was awash (as the photos testify) with the hulks of wooden ships who’d outlived their usefulness, being stripped down and recycled (some were burned on the foreshore and the metal remnants scavenged for scrap afterwards).  Legend has it that Turner’s Fighting Temeraire was being towed to Castle’s yard in his famous picture.  Henry Castle and his family became famous for using this recycled timber to make garden furniture which could be produced on the same day to an individual’s request. 

London’s antiquarian history is fascinating, and Castle’s in particular were keen to collect figureheads from old ships (I found the scale of the figures surprising).  In perhaps one of the most telling stories of the move from sail to steam, from Georgian to Victorian, the Navy found that the figureheads, so absent from iron ships, had been a source of morale and inspiration for sailors who wanted these figureheads preserved.  They found themselves in an awkward position, forced to deal with a new breed of ‘salvage’ dealers who knew the value of a 15ft high wooden woman.  Castle’s would go on to found a no-doubt impressive ‘naval’ museum at Millbank, maintained until the company hit financial hardship not long after these photos were taken in the early 20thC.  There are many aspects to ‘Lost London’ but Castle’s perhaps best represents the sweeping away of an age: Georgian London’s sea-going might as Victorian London’s deckchairs.

Tags: JustMigrated Lost London The River

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July 06, 2010

Am I Not A Man And A Brother?: The fate of the Wedgwood Museum

Yesterday I received an email regarding the seemingly unavoidable fate of The Wedgwood Museum.  Because of pension legislation, the Wedgwood collection faces dispersal.  This is a tragedy for anyone passionate about the decorative arts, artisan communities and entrepreneurship of the 18th century.China and pottery are not fashionable these days; the time for tea and decorative plates and urns has gone, but this isn’t about pottery: it’s about a man who came to play a prominent role in the artistic and economic sensibilities of the late 18th century.  Josiah Wedgwood was born in 1730 to a family of dissenters, and brought up to go into the family pottery trade.  However, a bout with smallpox left him with a weakened leg (which would eventually need amputating), and he concentrated on the design of new pieces, rather than manufacture. 

He married his rich (distant) cousin and leased works in his home town of Burselm.  He experimented continually, producing pieces reflecting world archaelogical discoveries (Wedgwood’s Black Basalt, modelled on Etruscan pottery finds and later, his Portland Vase) and also on the naturalistic and rococo fashions of the time.  Wedgwood benefitted hugely from being present at the beginning of the craze for ‘decorative’ interiors, where pieces were made to order and dictated to by fashion.  Aside from his commercial success, Wedgwood was a pioneer for social reform in the workplace and thinker who, along with Erasmus Darwin and Matthew Boulton created ‘works’ based upon humanitarian models.  His Etruria Works, established in 1769 would run for 180 years.  In order to gauge the fashion and hear of the new finds on the Continent, both Wedgwood and Boulton spent a great deal of time in London.  They would see the new finds and then make copies of them: Wedgwood in ceramic, Boulton in silver or silver-plate.  After a number of years of speculative production, Josiah would look back on his success and reflect, in 1774:

‘I have often wish’d I had saved a single specimen of all the new articles I have made, & would now give twenty times the original value for such a collection. For ten years past I have omitted doing this, because I did not begin it ten years sooner. I am now, from thinking, and talking a little more upon this subject … resolv’d to make a beginning.’
Thus the beginnings of the Wedgwood Museum were formed.  Wedgwood, Boulton and Darwin (Josiah’s daughter would marry Eramus’s son, and Charles was Josiah’s grandson) would go on to be immortalized as ‘The Lunar Men’, members of the Lunar Society which promoted intellectual progress and Enlightened thinking in the Midlands during the latter part of the 18th century. 

Wedgwood strongly supported the Abolitionist cause and worked hard at it during the latter part of his life.  The Am I Not A Man And A Brother? jasperware cameos were his most famous testimony to his beliefs, and became a fashion item for pro-Abolistionists with women wearing them in bracelets and as hair ornaments, and the men as medals.  Josiah Wedgwood died, probably of a facial tumour, in 1795 after a very productive life.  Should the collection of the Wedgwood Museum be dispersed it would be a significant and sad loss to Britain’s 18th century museum holdings.  Should this happen, it will be sad that a man who was one of the first large-scale industrialists to care for his workers will lose his legacy to a well-meaning but apparently ineffectual piece of legislation designed to protect the pension funds of modern day Wedgwood staff. 

You can read more about The Wedgwood Museum, including the recent multi-million pound makeover and also about its current sad plight.   For more on Wedgwood and late 18th century trade links, particularly between London and the Midlands, I can only recommend Jenny Uglow’s dense but highly informative book, The Lunar Men.

UPDATE: @SaveWedgwood are now on Twitter, and there is a site dedicated to raising awareness of the Museum’s situation at http://www.savewedgwood.org

 

Tags: JustMigrated

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June 28, 2010
Lost London: London Bridge As much as I try to emphasize how much of the Georgian London remains around us, some parts of old London are gone and sometimes that loss is vast both in terms of physical scale and historical significance.  London Bridge is one of those losses and the end of its most magnificent (and inhabited) period came during the 18th century.  The bridge that now joins the North to the South Bank is little more than an ugly but useful advertisement for the properties of concrete, but three centuries ago, London Bridge was a busy village in its own right with a church, houses, shops, gardens, roof terraces and plenty of traffic.  The image in the gallery shows the bridge in what was probably its heyday in the mid-17thC and the arrows indicate points of interest, such as the wooden piers protecting the stone ones from the current, the heads on pikes on the south side, the different kinds of river-craft on either side and the location of Billingsgate fish-market on the north side.  The history of London Bridge would make an enormous post, and one reaching from c.993 to present day, so way outside my remit.  However, throughout the 18thC the bridge was in decline: the houses were cleared from it in 1758 when the weight of traffic became too enormous and the bridge suffered constantly with gridlock.  Despite repair efforts, it was clear that the 19-arch London Bridge was failing and that a new bridge needed to be designed to replace it.  A competition in 1799 saw Thomas Telford’s design chosen, although it would take years for it to become a reality.  As soon as plans were announced to replace the bridge, London’s antiquaries got busy, documenting the history of the bridge and recording both the memories of those who knew it, and the artifacts and relics found as the bridge was repaired and later destroyed.  It’s easy to think of a rush to preserve the past being an entirely modern phenomenon, but the 18thC saw the beginning of an awareness of, and (more accurate than in earlier periods) recording of London’s history.  Many were genuinely sorry to see the beginning of the end for the old bridge, even though it would take almost seventy years to come about.  What follows here is a few of the observations made by London’s antiquaries (and published in the Gentleman’s Magazine) on the passing of perhaps her most fantastic and forgotten thoroughfare.About 1436, two arches of the south end fell down, with the bridge gate; the ruins of the latter still remaining, one of the locks or passages for the water is almost rendered useless; when it has received the name of the rock lock, which has occasioned it to be taken for a natural rock; these ruins, though they have lain under the water for three centuries, are still as impenetrable as solid rock.  At every uncommon low neap tide, such as happened 1716, many hands are employed to remove them, but to no purpose.The lovers of antiquity must regret the demolition of the singular, and perhaps unparalleled monument, the Chapel of St. Mary Colechurch, in the alterations of London Bridge.  It was 65ft high by 20ft…divided into two stories; the upper, in modern times, serving for a dwelling house, the lower for a warehouse.  It was in the ninth pier of the bridge.  Under the staircase was found the tomb of Peter the chalain and architect, who began London Bridge in 1176.The chapel on the bridge stood on the east side, in the ninth pier from the north end, and had an entrance from the river as well as the street, by a winding staircase; it was also said to be beautifully paved with black and white marble…In Stow’s time (c. 1525 - 1605) it (the bridge) was partly covered with houses chiefly occupied by needlemakers.On the XI of February (being Monday), 1633, began by God’s just hand a feafull fire in the house of My John Brigges neere tenn of the clocke att night: it burnt doun his house and the next house, with all the goods that were in them, and as I heere that Briggs, his wife, childe, and maid, escaped with their lives….Some ladders were broke to the hurt of many; for several had their legges broke, some their armes, and some their ribes, and many lost their lives.On February 13th, (1632) the buildings on the north end of the bridge on both sides, containing about forty-two houses, were destroyed by fire.  The Thames at this period was frozen over, causing the burning wreck to continue for more than a week.  From this period until 1646, the bridge remained in a most desolate state.  Deal boards were set up on each side to prevent passengers from falling into the Thames; many of these by high winds were often blown down, and the passage was very dangerous.The houses (c. 1650) were three stories high besides the cellars, which were within and between the piers.  Over the houses were stately platforms surrounded with railings, with walks, garden and other embellishments.  The south side did not receive these convenient additions, but appeared a mass of awkward structures and narrow passages, the street at this end being not above 14 feet and in some places 12 feet broad (explaining the traffic problems?), whilst that at the other side was 20 feet wide.In excavating the foundation of the new London bridge, a considerable quantity of Roman coins - gold, silver, and brass - have been foound, and one small silver statue, which has been deposited in the British Museum.  A leaden figure of a horse was lately brought up, and is now in the possession of Mr. Knight, engineer.  The exectution of the head is admirable…The workmen, who at first considered all the coins they met with as being merely old half-pence, which were worth nothing because they would no pass, soon discovered their error, and have now all become connoisseurs.

Lost London: London Bridge

As much as I try to emphasize how much of the Georgian London remains around us, some parts of old London are gone and sometimes that loss is vast both in terms of physical scale and historical significance.  London Bridge is one of those losses and the end of its most magnificent (and inhabited) period came during the 18th century. 

The bridge that now joins the North to the South Bank is little more than an ugly but useful advertisement for the properties of concrete, but three centuries ago, London Bridge was a busy village in its own right with a church, houses, shops, gardens, roof terraces and plenty of traffic.  The image in the gallery shows the bridge in what was probably its heyday in the mid-17thC and the arrows indicate points of interest, such as the wooden piers protecting the stone ones from the current, the heads on pikes on the south side, the different kinds of river-craft on either side and the location of Billingsgate fish-market on the north side.
 
The history of London Bridge would make an enormous post, and one reaching from c.993 to present day, so way outside my remit.  However, throughout the 18thC the bridge was in decline: the houses were cleared from it in 1758 when the weight of traffic became too enormous and the bridge suffered constantly with gridlock.  Despite repair efforts, it was clear that the 19-arch London Bridge was failing and that a new bridge needed to be designed to replace it.  A competition in 1799 saw Thomas Telford’s design chosen, although it would take years for it to become a reality. 

As soon as plans were announced to replace the bridge, London’s antiquaries got busy, documenting the history of the bridge and recording both the memories of those who knew it, and the artifacts and relics found as the bridge was repaired and later destroyed.  It’s easy to think of a rush to preserve the past being an entirely modern phenomenon, but the 18thC saw the beginning of an awareness of, and (more accurate than in earlier periods) recording of London’s history.  Many were genuinely sorry to see the beginning of the end for the old bridge, even though it would take almost seventy years to come about.  What follows here is a few of the observations made by London’s antiquaries (and published in the Gentleman’s Magazine) on the passing of perhaps her most fantastic and forgotten thoroughfare.
About 1436, two arches of the south end fell down, with the bridge gate; the ruins of the latter still remaining, one of the locks or passages for the water is almost rendered useless; when it has received the name of the rock lock, which has occasioned it to be taken for a natural rock; these ruins, though they have lain under the water for three centuries, are still as impenetrable as solid rock.  At every uncommon low neap tide, such as happened 1716, many hands are employed to remove them, but to no purpose.

The lovers of antiquity must regret the demolition of the singular, and perhaps unparalleled monument, the Chapel of St. Mary Colechurch, in the alterations of London Bridge.  It was 65ft high by 20ft…divided into two stories; the upper, in modern times, serving for a dwelling house, the lower for a warehouse.  It was in the ninth pier of the bridge.  Under the staircase was found the tomb of Peter the chalain and architect, who began London Bridge in 1176.The chapel on the bridge stood on the east side, in the ninth pier from the north end, and had an entrance from the river as well as the street, by a winding staircase; it was also said to be beautifully paved with black and white marble…

In Stow’s time (c. 1525 - 1605) it (the bridge) was partly covered with houses chiefly occupied by needlemakers.On the XI of February (being Monday), 1633, began by God’s just hand a feafull fire in the house of My John Brigges neere tenn of the clocke att night: it burnt doun his house and the next house, with all the goods that were in them, and as I heere that Briggs, his wife, childe, and maid, escaped with their lives….Some ladders were broke to the hurt of many; for several had their legges broke, some their armes, and some their ribes, and many lost their lives.

On February 13th, (1632) the buildings on the north end of the bridge on both sides, containing about forty-two houses, were destroyed by fire.  The Thames at this period was frozen over, causing the burning wreck to continue for more than a week.  From this period until 1646, the bridge remained in a most desolate state.  Deal boards were set up on each side to prevent passengers from falling into the Thames; many of these by high winds were often blown down, and the passage was very dangerous.The houses (c. 1650) were three stories high besides the cellars, which were within and between the piers.  Over the houses were stately platforms surrounded with railings, with walks, garden and other embellishments.  The south side did not receive these convenient additions, but appeared a mass of awkward structures and narrow passages, the street at this end being not above 14 feet and in some places 12 feet broad (explaining the traffic problems?), whilst that at the other side was 20 feet wide.

In excavating the foundation of the new London bridge, a considerable quantity of Roman coins - gold, silver, and brass - have been foound, and one small silver statue, which has been deposited in the British Museum.  A leaden figure of a horse was lately brought up, and is now in the possession of Mr. Knight, engineer.  The exectution of the head is admirable…The workmen, who at first considered all the coins they met with as being merely old half-pence, which were worth nothing because they would no pass, soon discovered their error, and have now all become connoisseurs.

Tags: JustMigrated Lost London

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June 21, 2010
124-6 Cheapside: Post-Fire buildings of the ‘First Sort’ Heading home from the Barbican the other evening, I thought I’d take a photo of these tiny Cheapside buildings.  The plaque fixed to the back wall dates them to 1687, but subsequent rebuilding has seen quite a few changes (including a probable reduction in storeys).  However, this little shop is one of the few remaining examples of the ‘first sort’ of building permitted after the Fire of London.In the Rebuilding Act of 1667, six men decided on the ‘four sorts’ of buildings that would make up London’s skyline, and they were Christopher Wren, Robert Hooke, Roger Pratt, Hugh May, Peter Mills and Edward Jerman (a prime bunch of real dullards).  The idea that domestic buildings could be sorted into types was not an entirely new idea, but the impact of the Fire made it possible in a way that had been unthinkable before.  More than anything, the ‘surveyors’ wanted to prevent tall, rickety buildings being put along narrow lanes, and low, poor buildings being put back up along London’s major thoroughfares.  They weren’t entirely successful, as 124-6 show: they are only 15ft square each one, although in theory they could have been up to four storeys high.  This ‘sort’ was only supposed to front ‘by-lanes’, and Cheapside hasn’t been a by-lane for about eight centuries.  The ‘second-sort’ front streets, lanes of note, and the Thames.  The ‘third sort’ fronted ‘high and principal streets’ and the ‘fourth sort’ were mansions.  The idea London could be rebuilt in this way is crazy and marvellous.  The men who made these rules were both more, and less than human and they forgot that builders were sometimes rushing and compromising, using ‘Spanished’ bricks, sticking windows in at random before moving onto the next site.  They were building domestic housing for people desperate for somewhere to live, not the public monuments which now inform our ideas of the 18thC.  In the City itself, almost 8,000 buildings were put up between 1666 and 1672.  Of course, not all of London was built by cowboys, which is why it still contains some of the most beautiful and desirable housing of any city.  Nos. 124-6 Cheapside are little more than tiny piece of forgotten flotsam washed up against the hulk of St Paul’s but they are remnants of Georgian London all the same.  The next time you find yourself on a bus sweeping down Cheapside, or tottering home after a night out, do give them a wave.

124-6 Cheapside: Post-Fire buildings of the ‘First Sort’

Heading home from the Barbican the other evening, I thought I’d take a photo of these tiny Cheapside buildings.  The plaque fixed to the back wall dates them to 1687, but subsequent rebuilding has seen quite a few changes (including a probable reduction in storeys).  However, this little shop is one of the few remaining examples of the ‘first sort’ of building permitted after the Fire of London.

In the Rebuilding Act of 1667, six men decided on the ‘four sorts’ of buildings that would make up London’s skyline, and they were Christopher Wren, Robert Hooke, Roger Pratt, Hugh May, Peter Mills and Edward Jerman (a prime bunch of real dullards).  The idea that domestic buildings could be sorted into types was not an entirely new idea, but the impact of the Fire made it possible in a way that had been unthinkable before. 

More than anything, the ‘surveyors’ wanted to prevent tall, rickety buildings being put along narrow lanes, and low, poor buildings being put back up along London’s major thoroughfares.  They weren’t entirely successful, as 124-6 show: they are only 15ft square each one, although in theory they could have been up to four storeys high.  This ‘sort’ was only supposed to front ‘by-lanes’, and Cheapside hasn’t been a by-lane for about eight centuries.  The ‘second-sort’ front streets, lanes of note, and the Thames.  The ‘third sort’ fronted ‘high and principal streets’ and the ‘fourth sort’ were mansions.  The idea London could be rebuilt in this way is crazy and marvellous.  The men who made these rules were both more, and less than human and they forgot that builders were sometimes rushing and compromising, using ‘Spanished’ bricks, sticking windows in at random before moving onto the next site.  They were building domestic housing for people desperate for somewhere to live, not the public monuments which now inform our ideas of the 18thC.  In the City itself, almost 8,000 buildings were put up between 1666 and 1672.  Of course, not all of London was built by cowboys, which is why it still contains some of the most beautiful and desirable housing of any city. 

Nos. 124-6 Cheapside are little more than tiny piece of forgotten flotsam washed up against the hulk of St Paul’s but they are remnants of Georgian London all the same.  The next time you find yourself on a bus sweeping down Cheapside, or tottering home after a night out, do give them a wave.

Tags: JustMigrated Georgian London Today

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June 13, 2010
The Daredevil Aeronaut and Miss Letitia Ann Sage In 1766 Henry Cavendish’s new work on hydrogen led to scientists and madcaps all over Europe experimenting with balloon flight.  The concept of little hydrogen balloons for amusement or communication purposes wasn’t new, but it took a series of adventurers to take man into their air.  The most famous of all of these are the Montgolfier brothers with their balloon which ascended in Paris in 1783 and flew over five miles (they weren’t the pilots) and in the autumn of the following year, the ballooning bug would hit London.Vincenzo, or Vincent Lunardi came to England as a diplomat, but was more interested in flying.  He was 22 and dashing and determined to gain Royal permission to ‘demonstrate’ a manned balloon flight with the help of his ‘partner’ George Biggin, which was to take place on the Artillery Ground near Moorfields in September 1784.  It is recorded that more than 200,000 people turned out to see this demonstration - an almost impossible number, but safe to say the open ground was packed, and included Royals, a healthy chunk of the nobility and apparently a quarter of London.  Lunardi, a great showman made everything very dramatic, and also packed his cat and dog into the basket with him for company before releasing the tethers, whereupon the balloon rose ‘with slow and gradual majesty into the air’ to the disappointment of ‘the splenetic’ suggesting Lunardi had his detractors.  ‘He appeared composed, and as the balloon went up, bowed most gracefully, and calmly waved his flag to the admiring and wonder-struck spectators’.  It is hard to imagine the impact this flight had upon those who saw it.  It was regarded as a ‘novelty’ to the ‘untutored mind’ and to ‘the man of letters it was an occasion of the most rational delight - thus to see a new element subdued by the talents of man’.  It wasn’t all glamour though: the cat got sick and was let out when the balloon touched down briefly in North London before Lunardi finally landed near Ware, to a very surprised reception.Lunardi bonnets, fans and garters became all the rage and the charming Italian had quite a fan club.  One of his admirers was Letitia Ann Sage, and it appears the feeling was mutual for he offered her a trip in his next balloon attempt, in June 1785.  This one left from St George’s Fields on the south side of the Thames, in a balloon painted with an enormous Union Jack.  George Biggin and a Colonel Hastings were supposed to joint the flight also, but the balloon was overweight and wouldn’t take off.  Lunardi and Hastings gallantly stepped down and the balloon went up, leaving Miss Sage and Biggin to a fine lunch as they sailed North-West.  The balloon dropped into a field near Harrow, where Miss Sage and the Colonel were abused ‘to a savage degree’ by the farmer whose crops they crushed and they had to be rescued by a gang of boys from Harrow school who had come to see the balloon.The balloon went on show in the Pantheon in Oxford Street, and aerostatic science became the wonder of the age. It is unlikely there will ever be another moment of human invention that will produce the sense of astonishment these first balloon ascents engendered in the watching population.  Even to those who would never grasp the new and constant scientific discoveries of the age these balloons were visible, exciting proof that the world was changing and almost anything was possible. 

The Daredevil Aeronaut and Miss Letitia Ann Sage

In 1766 Henry Cavendish’s new work on hydrogen led to scientists and madcaps all over Europe experimenting with balloon flight.  The concept of little hydrogen balloons for amusement or communication purposes wasn’t new, but it took a series of adventurers to take man into their air.  The most famous of all of these are the Montgolfier brothers with their balloon which ascended in Paris in 1783 and flew over five miles (they weren’t the pilots) and in the autumn of the following year, the ballooning bug would hit London.

Vincenzo, or Vincent Lunardi came to England as a diplomat, but was more interested in flying.  He was 22 and dashing and determined to gain Royal permission to ‘demonstrate’ a manned balloon flight with the help of his ‘partner’ George Biggin, which was to take place on the Artillery Ground near Moorfields in September 1784.  It is recorded that more than 200,000 people turned out to see this demonstration - an almost impossible number, but safe to say the open ground was packed, and included Royals, a healthy chunk of the nobility and apparently a quarter of London.  Lunardi, a great showman made everything very dramatic, and also packed his cat and dog into the basket with him for company before releasing the tethers, whereupon the balloon rose ‘with slow and gradual majesty into the air’ to the disappointment of ‘the splenetic’ suggesting Lunardi had his detractors.  ‘He appeared composed, and as the balloon went up, bowed most gracefully, and calmly waved his flag to the admiring and wonder-struck spectators’.  It is hard to imagine the impact this flight had upon those who saw it.  It was regarded as a ‘novelty’ to the ‘untutored mind’ and to ‘the man of letters it was an occasion of the most rational delight - thus to see a new element subdued by the talents of man’.  It wasn’t all glamour though: the cat got sick and was let out when the balloon touched down briefly in North London before Lunardi finally landed near Ware, to a very surprised reception.

Lunardi bonnets, fans and garters became all the rage and the charming Italian had quite a fan club.  One of his admirers was Letitia Ann Sage, and it appears the feeling was mutual for he offered her a trip in his next balloon attempt, in June 1785.  This one left from St George’s Fields on the south side of the Thames, in a balloon painted with an enormous Union Jack.  George Biggin and a Colonel Hastings were supposed to joint the flight also, but the balloon was overweight and wouldn’t take off.  Lunardi and Hastings gallantly stepped down and the balloon went up, leaving Miss Sage and Biggin to a fine lunch as they sailed North-West.  The balloon dropped into a field near Harrow, where Miss Sage and the Colonel were abused ‘to a savage degree’ by the farmer whose crops they crushed and they had to be rescued by a gang of boys from Harrow school who had come to see the balloon.The balloon went on show in the Pantheon in Oxford Street, and aerostatic science became the wonder of the age. It is unlikely there will ever be another moment of human invention that will produce the sense of astonishment these first balloon ascents engendered in the watching population.  Even to those who would never grasp the new and constant scientific discoveries of the age these balloons were visible, exciting proof that the world was changing and almost anything was possible.

 

Tags: JustMigrated Celebrity London Fashionable London Strange London

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June 09, 2010
Billy Ponsonby, Earl of Besborough- The blog isn’t generally concerned with the lives of the aristocracy as there’s plenty written about them anyway, but I like Billy Ponsonby.  On the surface of it, he was a typical aristocrat: a Whig politician, Lord of the Treasury and Admiralty, Postmaster General.  Born in 1704 to an Anglo-Irish family, he followed in his father’s footsteps career-wise, and then in July 1739 married Caroline Cavendish, sixteen years his junior.  They had three children together (he was Caroline Lamb’s grandfather through his eldest son), but Caroline died at 40.  Billy Ponsonby lived on until 1793, a familiar sight on London’s streets, and also living in Parkstead House in Roehampton built in 1750 and now part of the University there.After his wife died, Ponsonby pottered here and there, and was much involved with art and London artists (his portrait here is by Reynolds).  There is little to be known of him outside his political career, but a few small anecdotes about his character remain, and they paint a vivid picture of both a lonely widower, and a decent, approachable man.  Joseph ‘Little Nolly’ Nollekens was widely held to be the finest sculptor of 18thC London, and a famous miser.  He had a dog called Daphne who was always thin and afflicted with mange, but the Earl of Besborough was ‘so well-known to Nolleken’s dog, that whenever the animal saw his Lordship’s leg within the gate he (yes, I know, but dogs are regularly termed ‘he’ in 18thC London, unless they are referred to specifically as ‘bitches’) ceased barking, and immediately welcomed the visitor; who always brought a French roll in his blue great-coat-pocket, purposely for him, with which his Lordship took great pleasure in feeding him’.Another little anecdote runs thus: ‘His Lordship was once standing to see the workmen pull down the wooden railing and brick-work which surround the centre of Cavendish-square, when a sailor walked up to him and asked for a quid of tobacco: his Lordship answered, “My friend, I don’t take tobacco.” - “Don’t you?” rejoined the sailor; “I wish you did, Master, for I have had not a bit of it to-day.”  As he was turning away, his Lordship turned to him and said, “Here my friend, here is something that will enable you to buy tobacco,” and gave him half a crown.’In another instance of kindess, the Earl once noticed a woman in widow’s weeds curtsey to him in the street.  She looked poor, ‘but remarkably clean’ and had two small children with her.  He stopped, turned back and gave her money, but in the transaction, the coins fell into the dirty kennel, or channel in the middle of the road.  Billy picked them up, cleaned them on his handkerchief, then handed them over to her.  But by far my favourite story relating to Billy Ponsonby comes again from the miser Nollekens, who ran a very successful studio where the Earl came to see the works in progress and pass some time.  Nollekens once asked his apprentices if they had noticed the Earl’s diamond shoe-buckles.  The buckles had belonged to Billy’s wife Caroline, and since her death he had ‘worn them in common’, meaning every day.

Billy Ponsonby, Earl of Besborough-

The blog isn’t generally concerned with the lives of the aristocracy as there’s plenty written about them anyway, but I like Billy Ponsonby.  On the surface of it, he was a typical aristocrat: a Whig politician, Lord of the Treasury and Admiralty, Postmaster General.  Born in 1704 to an Anglo-Irish family, he followed in his father’s footsteps career-wise, and then in July 1739 married Caroline Cavendish, sixteen years his junior.  They had three children together (he was Caroline Lamb’s grandfather through his eldest son), but Caroline died at 40.  Billy Ponsonby lived on until 1793, a familiar sight on London’s streets, and also living in Parkstead House in Roehampton built in 1750 and now part of the University there.

After his wife died, Ponsonby pottered here and there, and was much involved with art and London artists (his portrait here is by Reynolds).  There is little to be known of him outside his political career, but a few small anecdotes about his character remain, and they paint a vivid picture of both a lonely widower, and a decent, approachable man. 

Joseph ‘Little Nolly’ Nollekens was widely held to be the finest sculptor of 18thC London, and a famous miser.  He had a dog called Daphne who was always thin and afflicted with mange, but the Earl of Besborough was ‘so well-known to Nolleken’s dog, that whenever the animal saw his Lordship’s leg within the gate he (yes, I know, but dogs are regularly termed ‘he’ in 18thC London, unless they are referred to specifically as ‘bitches’) ceased barking, and immediately welcomed the visitor; who always brought a French roll in his blue great-coat-pocket, purposely for him, with which his Lordship took great pleasure in feeding him’.Another little anecdote runs thus: ‘His Lordship was once standing to see the workmen pull down the wooden railing and brick-work which surround the centre of Cavendish-square, when a sailor walked up to him and asked for a quid of tobacco: his Lordship answered, “My friend, I don’t take tobacco.” - “Don’t you?” rejoined the sailor; “I wish you did, Master, for I have had not a bit of it to-day.”  As he was turning away, his Lordship turned to him and said, “Here my friend, here is something that will enable you to buy tobacco,” and gave him half a crown.’

In another instance of kindess, the Earl once noticed a woman in widow’s weeds curtsey to him in the street.  She looked poor, ‘but remarkably clean’ and had two small children with her.  He stopped, turned back and gave her money, but in the transaction, the coins fell into the dirty kennel, or channel in the middle of the road.  Billy picked them up, cleaned them on his handkerchief, then handed them over to her.  But by far my favourite story relating to Billy Ponsonby comes again from the miser Nollekens, who ran a very successful studio where the Earl came to see the works in progress and pass some time.  Nollekens once asked his apprentices if they had noticed the Earl’s diamond shoe-buckles.  The buckles had belonged to Billy’s wife Caroline, and since her death he had ‘worn them in common’, meaning every day.

Tags: JustMigrated Celebrity London

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June 06, 2010
Historiography and the dream of objectivity- Discussion time again, if you would all be so kind.  There’s a lot of toys flying around the sandpit at the moment regarding ‘readings of history’ in ‘Broken Britain’ (gah!).  It was to be expected with a change of government (not much of a change, but there we are).  Historians are suddenly labelled right-wing or left-wing, some are even creating a ‘socialist reading’ of history.  I find all this tiresome, and I think it puts people off history itself.  It’s fine as a discussion for a university tutorial/tedious high-brow dinner party, but when coupled with the current discussions on history’s place in the National Curriculum, I wonder.  I really do.Historiography (essentially the-study-of-the-study-of history) now leans more towards social history than political history.  I tend to avoid a political reading of history on the blog because I deal largely with individuals and their personal circumstances.  Part of my work is buildings, and they aren’t usually terribly political either.  I am as likely to regard some of William Pitt the Younger’s decisions as influenced by a port hangover than right-minded political thinking.  That doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the political readings of my part of history, and don’t find them useful because I do, as my library card will testify.  They are used to inform my own view.  I make no case for my readings of history being better than that of anyone else (or even as good as, quite frankly), but I try and keep it as human as possible.In studying the history of London’s minority groups, I come across a great deal of fairly heavy agendas.  From those imposing modern ‘queer culture’ onto the homosexual individuals of 18thC London, to racial and gender issues, some readings are so alarming in their determination to ‘see’ history in a certain light, there is a danger of losing sight of the basic facts and the humanity of the subjects involved (it’s a sorry pass when people start being wholly-defined by being gay, Black, French, Muslim, Jewish and so on).  Earlier this week I was lucky enough to meet up with two of my favourite historians over a drink and we fell into the above discussion.  One summed it up beautifully, if rather simply: ‘All these historians talk about power-brokers and so on, as if these guys had some great master-plan, but mostly they didn’t. They’re just like everybody else - doing the best they can with what they’ve got’.  Of course, this debate is infinite, but also infinite in its potential for confusion.  For instance, does being a right-wing historian not only mean emphasis is placed upon the importance of right-wing thinkers and decision-makers, but perhaps also that something like the importance of the immigrant contribution to Britain might be under-played?  See?  Oy vey.  So lovelies, opinions please: should we strive for a particular reading of history, or for objectivity?  Or is our view of history as wholly individual as each of us, as subjective as our food or clothing preferences?  Is there a place in this modern world for heavily-slanted readings of history, or will they be more dangerous than ever as Britain’s diversity grows?  I should very much like to hear what you think.  After all, it’s our legacy, innit.

Historiography and the dream of objectivity-

Discussion time again, if you would all be so kind.  There’s a lot of toys flying around the sandpit at the moment regarding ‘readings of history’ in ‘Broken Britain’ (gah!).  It was to be expected with a change of government (not much of a change, but there we are).  Historians are suddenly labelled right-wing or left-wing, some are even creating a ‘socialist reading’ of history.  I find all this tiresome, and I think it puts people off history itself.  It’s fine as a discussion for a university tutorial/tedious high-brow dinner party, but when coupled with the current discussions on history’s place in the National Curriculum, I wonder.  I really do.

Historiography (essentially the-study-of-the-study-of history) now leans more towards social history than political history.  I tend to avoid a political reading of history on the blog because I deal largely with individuals and their personal circumstances.  Part of my work is buildings, and they aren’t usually terribly political either.  I am as likely to regard some of William Pitt the Younger’s decisions as influenced by a port hangover than right-minded political thinking.  That doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the political readings of my part of history, and don’t find them useful because I do, as my library card will testify.  They are used to inform my own view.  I make no case for my readings of history being better than that of anyone else (or even as good as, quite frankly), but I try and keep it as human as possible.

In studying the history of London’s minority groups, I come across a great deal of fairly heavy agendas.  From those imposing modern ‘queer culture’ onto the homosexual individuals of 18thC London, to racial and gender issues, some readings are so alarming in their determination to ‘see’ history in a certain light, there is a danger of losing sight of the basic facts and the humanity of the subjects involved (it’s a sorry pass when people start being wholly-defined by being gay, Black, French, Muslim, Jewish and so on).  Earlier this week I was lucky enough to meet up with two of my favourite historians over a drink and we fell into the above discussion.  One summed it up beautifully, if rather simply: ‘All these historians talk about power-brokers and so on, as if these guys had some great master-plan, but mostly they didn’t. They’re just like everybody else - doing the best they can with what they’ve got’.  Of course, this debate is infinite, but also infinite in its potential for confusion.  For instance, does being a right-wing historian not only mean emphasis is placed upon the importance of right-wing thinkers and decision-makers, but perhaps also that something like the importance of the immigrant contribution to Britain might be under-played?  See?  Oy vey. 

So lovelies, opinions please: should we strive for a particular reading of history, or for objectivity?  Or is our view of history as wholly individual as each of us, as subjective as our food or clothing preferences?  Is there a place in this modern world for heavily-slanted readings of history, or will they be more dangerous than ever as Britain’s diversity grows?  I should very much like to hear what you think.  After all, it’s our legacy, innit.

Tags: JustMigrated Georgian London Today

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June 04, 2010

From Handel to Hendrix: A Coloured History

In these times, whoever wishes to be eminent in music goes to England.  In Italy and France there is something to be heard and earned; in England something to be earned.
Johann Mattheson, 1713

This piece of sage advice applied as much to Handel in 1710 as it did to Jimi Hendrix in the late 1960s.  Handel, originally from Halle in Germany, would go on to become perhaps our greatest musical import.  His love for London, and for England led him to become a naturalized citizen later in his life.  His compositions are still played at the coronation of England’s sovereigns and for many, his work captures the early 18thC.  In 1723, Handel took the lease on a new building in Brook Street, Mayfair.  He would live in number 25 for the rest of his life and when he died, his servant John would inherit the lease and managed to raise enough money to purchase the things in the house to keep it as it was.  The house changed hands throughout the 19thC, and in 1905 was purchased by an antiques dealer, whose family would own the house until the 1970s.  The changes he made were not entirely sympathetic and when in 2000 the Handel House Museum Trust took over the job of returning the house to how it would have looked in its first owner’s day, they faced a tough challenge.  

Restoration of an historic building is not just about returning the built structure to its original appearance; the atmosphere within the rooms has to be right too.  Colour and furnishings are essential.  Of course, without a detailed inventory of Handel’s furniture, or a plan of how each room was laid out (these do exist sometimes, although not usually for houses as ‘modest’ as Handel’s) it is only possible to recreate a typical room setting of the period, given what is known about Handel.  What it is possible to do however, is to recreate the decoration of the room.Patrick Baty owns Papers and Paints in Park Walk, Chelsea (celebrating their 50th anniversary this year).  He is also a consultant on historical paint with an astonishing knowledge of historical paint colour, ingredients, techniques and London artisans.  He can establish how a room once looked by examining the layers of paint and has worked on a vast number of projects over the years.  Much of his work has involved early eighteenth century interiors.

Samples taken of the paint from the rooms in No 25 revealed that the building had been much altered during the last 270 years.  Fragments of original paint survived in three areas, which indicated that there had been an early use of grey on the panelling, with brown on the doors.  A similar use of colour was identified throughout No 23, suggesting, perhaps, that the original scheme had been a speculator’s finish.  It is this grey that has been reintroduced.It seems strange that colour can be so crucial in recreating a period ‘feel’ to a building, but as I have come to learn through Patrick’s work, it is just as important as any of the other tools used to create the right atmosphere, in either private homes or public spaces.  I think the pictures make it clear how successful the reintroduction of the original colour scheme has been for the Handel House Museum. 

The museum is one of London’s hidden heritage gems: go and have a look.  It’ll surprise you.  The atmosphere is lovely.  Even better, if you go later this summer, you can also visit Jimi Hendrix’s flat in the adjoining building as part of the Hendrix in Britain exhibition.Many thanks to the lovely people at the Handel House Museum for their help and permission to use the images in the gallery.  For more on exactly how Patrick uncovers old interiors, and exteriors for that matter visit his blog, or follow him on Twitter.


 

Tags: JustMigrated Georgian London Today Reviews