The marriage of heron and hell

I often think the success of a party can be judged by the voyage home. If it was a lame party, the voyage home will be undertaken in a state of sobriety on the Tube. If it was a good party, the voyage home will be undertaken while in a total mess and may well involve a degree of unrelenting horror. Possibly the following morning.

So it was on New Year’s Eve. The party was held in rural Oxfordshire (somewhere called “Bicester” or possibly “Bister”), which for some reason is not served by night buses. Therefore, I had to crash and make my way home the following morning. You get some pretty funny looks when you’re making your way home in a tailcoat, a silver waistcoat and a scarlet top hat, I can tell you.

The train came in at Marylebone, and the quickest route home would have been to simply jump on the Bakerloo line and change at Elephant and Castle, but I felt like a bit of a stroll – I thought I’d walk to Euston, shooting up Baker Street and swinging through Regent’s Park as I went.

This is perhaps not the park at its best.

Regent’s Park is perhaps my favourite of the London parks (though Hyde Park takes some beating). Particularly in the summer, it’s a delightful place to walk when you have nothing particular to do, and it’s easy to get to from Chalk Farm, Camden or the West End. The park was originally land swiped by Henry VIII and used for hunting. In 1818, the Prince Regent (later King George IV) took it over and envisioned it as a rather extravagant town home for himself and his friends, commissioning his friend, the now-legendary architect John Nash, to design the whole shebang. Nash is worthy of an entry in himself, so I won’t go into too much detail beyond saying that he defined the Regency style of architecture more-or-less singlehandedly. His grand plans for the area included a palace and several large villas, but were scaled back into the park we see today. It was, for the time, extremely innovative – the standard concept of the urban park, such as it was then, consisted of rigid, regimented grids. An up-yours to nature. Nash’s concept was the first real attempt to recreate an area of natural beauty within the city, and as such set a trend for urban parkland that would last right up until the present day.

Although the park was open to the public, it was on the basis of an admission fee – well, after you’d spent all that money, you didn’t want just anyone coming in. The fee was abolished in 1835, though the park was still only open two days a week.

Fortunately, we live in more enlightened times (perhaps) and now it’s open to the public all the time. Despite this, on that New Year’s morning there were few people about. The lake was frozen over, which had I known about it at the time might have reminded me of the occasion on 15th January 1867 when the ice on the lake collapsed under the weight of skaters. The Royal Humane Society had stationed icemen nearby, equipped with hooks, ladders and hot baths, but with two hundred in the lake they were utterly overwhelmed. Local boatbuilder William Archer managed to save seven in his boat and Abel Thomas swam out and rescued two (a third attempt being foiled by the intense cold). The master of the Marylebone Workhouse, George Douglas, played a key role in organising the medical care for the victims. Despite these and countless other unacknowledged efforts, forty were killed in the disaster.

Seven years later, the park would bear witness to another disaster, though fortunately with far smaller loss of life.

Following the 1867 disaster, the water level of the lake was reduced somewhat. This might be what made it so very attractive to herons. Herons, specifically grey herons, can be seen all over the place in London, helped in no small part by the number of little rivers, canals, docklands and ponds. They hunt in shallow water, standing motionless, sometimes for hours, before striking. One thing you can’t really say about them, though, is that they’re particularly social birds. It’s quite rare to see more than one at a time. Now, in the above photo, you can see seven. That wasn’t even all of them. There were ridiculous numbers of herons in this place. A little bit freaky, actually. I don’t know if herons are capable of cooperating to, say, bring a human down, but I wasn’t too keen to find out, and left mystified.

I found the answer on my trip to the Greenwich Peninsula a little while ago – it turns out that Regent’s Park is the only breeding colony in London for the grey heron. So all those herons I’ve seen, in Brentford, Merton, Whitton, Hackney, Kingston and so many other places, all came from the same place. Incredible.

No word on whether they can bring a grown man down, though.

Talk about burning your bridges

There’s a rather pleasant bridge on the Regent’s Canal, a short distance beyond the Zoo as you go from Camden. It’s known as the Macclesfield Bridge or, unofficially, as the Blow-Up Bridge. The reason for this latter nickname is, surprisingly, because this one time it got blown up. Allow me to explain.

See, legislation in the 19th century concerning explosives seems to have been based not so much on the question, “How can we prevent accidents?” as “Has an accident happened yet?” If yes, consider legislation. If not, well, let’s not rock the boat. For example, into the mid-19th century, it was all-but-legal to manufacture fireworks in your own home. Technically it was illegal, but the law was never really enforced. An Act was passed to control explosives in 1860, but it was wholly inadequate – it only specifically covered gunpowder, not the newer and more powerful explosives that were starting to appear on the scene. And again, it was not properly enforced and therefore widely ignored. In 1864, an explosives factory at Erith went up. More than twelve workers were killed, but so complete was the explosion that the final death toll is unknown – a disembodied head was found in a garden a mile away and the explosion was heard fifty miles away. The blast actually produced a mushroom cloud. Subsequent investigation revealed that gunpowder was carried around the works in open wagons, workmen wore iron-soled shoes and used iron tools, barrels leaked and, most facepalm-worthy of all, people smoked inside the powder magazines. It wasn’t so much a case of determining a cause of the blast as determining which cause. It’s still not known, as anyone who saw what happened was part of the aforementioned mushroom cloud.

And so Parliament went back to the drawing board. A new Act was brought in in 1875, despite massive and predictable opposition from the explosives industry. Unfortunately, the Act came a little too late for the crew of the barge Tilbury.

The Tilbury was one of five barges being towed by the tug Ready along the Regent’s Canal up towards the Midlands. The barge was owned by the Grand Junction Canal Company, and was used for various general cargoes. On 2 October 1874, it had two cargoes in its hold. One was six barrels of petroleum, the other was five tons of gunpowder. That enough for you? The Ready was a steam tug and the Tilbury was the first barge in the convoy. Oh, and the crew were in the habit of lighting a fire in the cabin to keep warm.

Slightly before 5.00 AM, beneath Macclesfield Bridge, what now seems inevitable happened. The Tilbury exploded. The explosion was heard as far away as Woolwich, and buildings up to a mile away were damaged. The Tilbury and the Ready were obliterated, part of the latter’s keel being found embedded in the wall of a house 300 yards away. The second barge was sunk but, fortunately, the crew escaped with minor injuries. As you might imagine, the first two vessels’ crews were not so lucky, being killed instantly.

Among the many buildings damaged were the cages at London Zoo, with several exotic birds escaping. A detachment of soldiers from Albany Barracks soon arrived on the scene, though accounts differ as to whether this was to keep order, due to fear of a Fenian bomb attack or even to protect people from escaped wild beasts. The fire brigade also arrived, though by this stage all the damage that could be done had been done.

Major Vivian Majendie of the Royal Artillery carried out an investigation into the disaster, which came to the conclusion that a naked flame had ignited petrol vapour, triggering the explosion – it was known that the convoy had been stopped just before the bridge while the crew of the Ready investigated a blue flash seen aboard the Tilbury.

Macclesfield Bridge was demolished and sunk. The canal was drained while its rubble was recovered. However, Majendie remarked that while the damage was severe, it could have been a lot worse – fortunately, at that point, the canal passes through a cutting, which served to force the worst of the blast upwards. Given the amount the blast did do, the fact that it could have been worse doesn’t really bear thinking about. Majendie finished by observing that the incident proved the necessity of the forthcoming Act.

The canal was back in use four days later, and the bridge was, of course, rebuilt. But even now, it’s never quite managed to shake off the nickname of Blow-Up Bridge.

A Hansom Reward

One of those things I used to wonder about was the term “Hackney carriage.” If you’re not familiar with the phrase, it’s another term for “taxi” in London. It specifically refers to taxis licensed by the Public Carriage Office. A vehicle thus classified doesn’t technically have to be a carriage.

I’d always assumed the name meant that the first taxis had something to do with Hackney. Maybe the first carriage designed specifically as a taxi was built there or something. Much as the town of Kocs in Hungary gives us the modern word “coach.”

Then I was informed that actually, the name was French. It was derived from “haquenee,” a small breed of horse ideally suited to small and nippy vehicles such as the old horse-drawn taxi.

Now I’m told that’s wrong again – haquenee is derived from Hackney, which up until relatively recently was in the middle of horse country, and where the aforementioned small horses were bred. These horses were typically hired out for riders, and eventually the word “hackney” came to mean “for hire.” It attached itself to carriages for hire and – later still – to journalists who worked for hire (hence the term “a hack,” but I digress).

The first attempt at regulating carriages for hire came at some unknown point in the 15th century during the reign of Edward V, but it was actually Oliver Cromwell who we have to thank for basically inventing the taxi in a 1654 ordinance catchily titled ‘The Regulation of Hackney Coachmen in London.’ As a Puritan, regulating stuff was kind of “his thing.” Charles I had attempted to regulate the carriages before, but the only function of this 1631 law was to limit hackneys to journeys over three miles. This, of course, had nothing to do with the money paid to him by sedan chair magnate Sir Sanders Duncombe the previous year. In any case, nobody paid much attention to the law.

Despite (often furious) competition with watermen and sedan chairs, the taxi came to be the dominant form of transport-for-hire, and as competition grew, fares dropped. The laws governing the hackney carriage evolved over the next couple of centuries – one you might have heard of, albeit inaccurately, was from the 1831 Hackney Carriage Act. Section 54 stated that horses could not be fed in the street unless from a nosebag or a bale of hay carried by the driver. Since then, the popular misconception has arisen that the law stated that all taxi drivers must carry a bale of hay in their cab, even now. I mean, they could, but without horses the law doesn’t apply. Sorry to spoil your fun there.

Hansom cab near Regent's Park

Which brings me to the Hansom cab, without doubt the iconic London taxi of the pre-motor era. Prior to the hansom, the most popular type of hackney carriage was the cabriolet, known for its comfortable ride. We still use the word “cabriolet” to describe taxis, albeit we shorten it to “cab.” One of these days I’m going to end up getting drunk, ringing the local minicab office and requesting a “miniature cabriolet.”

1814 had seen the introduction of two-wheeled “chariots” to London. Although nowhere near as comfortable as the cabriolet, they had the advantage of speed, manouevrability and lower weight.

In 1834, Joseph Aloysius Hansom came up with his cab. It combined the advantages of the chariot with those of the cabriolet, and was additionally designed to be safer at speed. Unfortunately, he didn’t get rich off his idea, as he sold the idea before the cabs were put into production.  He negotiated £10,000 for the invention but was paid no more than £300.

Nevertheless, the Hansom was an instant success. These days it’s synonymous with 19th century London. For instance, Sherlock Holmes chases one through the West End in A Study in Scarlet, and the Sherlock Holmes Museum has preserved an example (the one you see above, in fact).

Two notable innovations came in 1897. The first was the taximeter – the mechanical fare-calculating device from which we get the word “taxi” (and, indeed, in the sense of the taxicab, “meter”). The second was London’s first motor taxi, the Bersey (pictured left). It was battery-powered and not a huge success due to its unreliability. Within a few short years, all had been withdrawn from service. Alas for the poor Hansom, the petrol-driven taxi arrived in 1903.

And yet the old Hansom was not entirely beat. The last horse-drawn taxi didn’t disappear until 1947. In 1939, the last three Hansom drivers were a Mr Frisbee, a Mr Woolf and a Mr Lamont. In an interview, Frisbee (I know) lamented that most of his fares were either from those who saw it as a novelty or from the more elderly city gents. By that time, spare parts were almost impossible to find – most of the Hansoms had long since had their valuable metal and glass removed and the rest thrown into a pit in Hendon. Yet another reason to hate North-West London.

It’s a sad but inevitable tale of technological progress. Although I can’t help wondering if we’ve really progressed all that far. A well-driven Hansom could attain a speed of 17mph with ease, and prior to the omnibus was regarded as the cheapest means of getting about the city. The modern taxi is seen as ridiculously expensive compared to the bus or Tube, and with modern congestion doesn’t manage anything like 17mph…

Yo Holmes

Having blogged about Dickens, it’s only right that I should talk about the other literary persona that springs to mind in any discussion of Victorian London. I refer, of course, to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

The image on the left depicts Basil Rathbone as the legendary sleuth. This is basically the shorthand depiction of what Holmes looks like – deerstalker hat, calabash pipe, magnifying glass in hand. If someone is wearing these, you instantly know what the allusion is. So all-pervading is this depiction that we tend to forget how entirely wrong it is.

Tiles at Baker Street Station

 It is with this in mind that I set to work on writing today’s entry – an examination of the myths surrounding Sherlock Holmes.

1. Sherlock Holmes wore a deerstalker hat

Thanks to Sherlock Holmes, it’s now impossible to wear a deerstalker hat without looking like an allusion. A friend of mine who formerly resided near Baker Street said that he’d be quite happy never to see one ever again. Yet there is nothing in the stories to indicate that Holmes ever wore such a piece of headgear.  The stories do refer to a “travelling cap,” but the deerstalker is the invention of Sidney Paget, the original illustrator. It’s not impossible that Holmes wore a deerstalker – a travelling cap could just about refer to one. It is highly unlikely that he wore one in London, though – the deerstalker is, as its name implies, a hunting cap for the countryside.

One could argue that Holmes, being a Bohemian eccentric, might have worn one anyway, regardless of the fashion faux pas.

2. Holmes smoked a calabash pipe.

Again, while it’s possible that he did, at no point in the stories is such a distinctive item mentioned. He did smoke a pipe, it’s true, but the stories only specify a cherrywood, a briar and a clay pipe. For the origin of this particular component of the Holmes mythos, we need to look to the stage. The first actor to portray Holmes in the theatre was an American named William Gillette. The stage directions called for Holmes to be smoking a pipe. Now, as anyone who’s been on stage will know, it’s quite difficult to project  clearly with anything in your mouth. Yr. Humble Chronicler has trodden the boards on a number of occasions and speaks from experience. Gillette’s solution was the calabash, with which the bowl and most of the stem is below the level of the mouth, making projection easier.

3. Holmes’ catchphrase is “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

The words “elementary” and “my dear Watson” do crop up, but never together. It’s one of those enduring myths, like how Captain Kirk never said “Just the facts, ma’am,” but everyone thinks he did. Something like that.

4. Doctor Watson was a useless old duffer.

Actually, Watson is something of a playa. In A Study in Scarlet, the first Holmes story, he is about 35. He has recently returned from Afghanistan as a military surgeon, a position he took shortly after graduation, and was discharged after being shot in the shoulder.

(PARENTHESIS: This wound in later stories is described as being in his leg. Some fans interpret this migrating wound as evidence that Watson was actually shot in the buttocks, but was being all Victorian about it)

Nor is Watson the borderline moron he’s often portrayed as being. He is actually a very intelligent man, but not in the same way that Holmes is. On several occasions he provides important assistance in solving the mystery, and a number of stories make the observation that he has learnt a great deal from his flatmate.

I suspect that Watson’s character, initially at least, was based on the idea that a character as eccentric as Holmes, with whom so much depends on sudden revelations, needs a more grounded character to provide the reader with an accessible point of view.

5. Sherlock Holmes lived at number 221B Baker Street

“Come now, Tom,” you will surely be saying at this point, “Sherlock Holmes indisputably lived at 221B Baker Street. There’s a blue plaque and everything! Blue plaque!”

To which I would say that you’re not wrong, but you’re not entirely right either. Firstly, 221B never existed. At the time when the books were written, there wasn’t even a 221. The part of the street now containing number 221 was back then called Upper Baker Street. There are currently (sort of) two 221Bs. There’s the actual 221, which is Abbey House. Then there’s the postal address, which is the Sherlock Holmes Museum at Number 239.

Any post to Sherlock Holmes gets delivered to the Museum, although for a long time the Abbey National Building Society employed someone specifically to act as Sherlock Holmes’ secretary. A number of the letters received were published in the book Letters to Sherlock Holmes (ed. Richard Lancelyn Green) and make interesting, entertaining and sometimes alarming reading. For instance, there are requests for autographs, letters of admiration from fans and questions on matters not covered by the books (like how many bathrooms Holmes had).  Then there are more unusual requests, such as the Portuguese gent who requested an autographed photo of Holmes to deter burglars. And then there are the more worrying requests for actual assistance in solving crimes – my personal favourite coming from an American citizen asking the great detective to look into that Watergate business.

There’s even a letter from the Church of Scientology inviting Holmes to come over for a free Case Analysis. Even long-dead fictional detectives aren’t safe from those bastards.

Anyway, if you’re curious as to the actual address Arthur Conan Doyle had in mind, clues in the stories suggest that Holmes was based at number 31.

If one wanted to be really pedantic, it’s worth noting that Holmes lived out his retirement in Sussex.

6. Professor Moriarty was Holmes’ arch-nemesis

This is the point at which people will no doubt put on their hat and coat and storm out in disgust at my ignorance, so hear me out. Yes, Moriarty was created to be Holmes’ greatest nemesis. To this day, “Moriarty” is an instantly understood metaphor for an enemy who is also an equal. My point, though, is that just about every adaptation makes out that Moriarty was more-or-less the only criminal Holmes ever dealt with.

Professor James Moriarty, formerly of the University of Leeds (not even joking)

However, upon reading the books, one discovers that actually, Moriarty only actually comes directly up against Holmes in The Final Problem – also the story in which he falls to his death from the Reichenbach Falls. He appears in The Valley of Fear, but doesn’t meet Holmes. One of his agents, Colonel Moran, appears in the later story The Empty House and there are references to the Professor in several other stories.

Some scholars have chosen to speculate that Moriarty may not be all that he seems – for instance, the physical description of him bears some similarity to Holmes himself. One theory has it that Holmes and Moriarty are the same person, or that Holmes somehow invented Moriarty. Another theory suggests that Moriarty is in fact an alias for Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother, which is just stupid.

More credible is the idea that the creation of Moriarty wasn’t so much to provide Holmes with an archenemy so much as to provide a set-up to kill the detective off.

Conclusion

So there you have it – six preconceptions debunked.

Wait, I didn’t mention the magnifying glass. Holmes did use one of those.

Further Reading

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/05/12/elementary/ - A more recent entry concerning the 2009 film.