“Let not poor Nelly starve…”

Something that always vaguely depresses me about society is the fact that, for all we claim to be right-on and politically correct, there is still this very old-fashioned view of the place of women in society. Namely, that any woman who sleeps around or even acts in an overtly sexy fashion must be dubbed a “whore.” Optional: throw in unwarranted speculation concerning said whore’s sexual health and anatomy. You don’t get the same kind of condemnation for a man who shows off his body or sleeps around - the closest you get is the term “man-whore.” The fact that the term has to include the word “man” shows the problem here.

Being sick of this strangely Puritanical double-standard, I have to say that I rather like Nell Gwynn. Gwynn, pictured right, was the most famous of King Charles II’s many, many mistresses. Charles, whatever his virtues as a monarch, had something of an eye for a pretty young lady, and upon his accession to the throne an attractive mistress was regarded as a must-have accessory for any courtier. Not that extra-marital shenanigans were anything new among kings – half the aristocracy owe their origins to the bastard offspring of the reigning monarch. Charles, though, turned it into something of an art form.

Nell Gwynn, meanwhile, came out of nowhere. Much of her early life is obscure, but it would appear that she was born in 1650 to a Covent Garden brothel keeper, her father disappearing at a young age. By thirteen, she was working in the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane as an orange girl. Although these days such a title would merely imply an over-reliance on fake tan, the orange girls of London’s West End had the job of going among the rowdy theatre audiences selling China oranges (as in, oranges from China, not oranges made of china, that would be silly). They also supplemented their income by selling a little more than just fruit, if you catch my drift.

Young Nell was highly popular among the orange girls for her good looks and brazen wit. It wasn’t long before she found herself on the stage, where she was highly suited for the comedies of the day – Samuel Pepys in particular raved about her performance in The Maiden Queen. His enthusiasm may have been augmented by the fact that this play required Nell to dress up as a gentleman in an extremely flattering costume.

In 1668, word of this dashing young lady reached the King’s ears, and he had a special performance laid on by the company. Afterwards, Nell suggested that His Majesty should leave a substantial tip for the company. The King explained that he didn’t carry any money himself, prompting Nell to reply, “Odd’s fish, what kind of company have I got myself into?”

The affair between Charles and Nell would last seventeen years, resulting in two sons. However, Charles was not a one-woman man, or even a two-woman man, and so Nell had to hold her own against a number of rivals. The most famous of these was Louise de Kéroualle, created Duchess of Portsmouth by the King. Louise was a French Catholic, and as such not exactly popular with the public as Nell was. On one famous occasion, a mob at Oxford shouted abuse at what they thought was Louise’s carriage, calling her a “Catholic whore” (there’s that word again). To their surprise, Nell leaned out of the window and replied, “Pray, good people, be civil – I am the Protestant whore.”

See what I mean about the brazen wit? She even managed to win over her former enemy, the appalling John Wilmot. On another occasion, the Duchess tried to one-up Nell with a display of snobbery. She condescendingly said to Nell, “Nelly, you are grown rich, I believe, by your dress. Why, woman, you are fine enough to be a queen.” Nell’s retort was, “You are entirely right, madam, and I am whore enough to be a duchess.” Zing!

Nell’s story was, to use a hoary old cliché, the archetypal rags-to-riches tale. By the time of her death she had amassed several houses and her son, Charles Beauclark, had been given the title of Earl of Burford (remember what I said about the British aristocracy?). Famously, before his death, Charles II implored his brother James to “Let not poor Nelly starve,” and accordingly James paid granted her a pension of £1,500 a year, about £150,000 in today’s money. This was jolly decent of him, given that James had often been the butt of Nell’s jokes – she nicknamed him “Dismal Jimmy.”

Sadly, though, Nell was to die only three years later of a stroke at the age of 37 (it’s also been suggested that syphilis may have had something to do with it). She left a legacy to the prisoners of Newgate and was buried at St Martin-In-The-Fields, not far from the place of her birth.

So next time you read some embittered rant about how this or that celebrity is a whore, remember – it’s not always a bad thing.

A seat by the fire

The Great Fire of London. Or at least, one of them.

London is no stranger to blazes. Even prior to the now-legendary Great Fire of London of 1666, there had been at least twelve major conflagrations that had destroyed or at least very seriously damaged the city.

This was something of an occupational hazard in a city so crowded and crammed together, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that regulations were so poorly enforced. In theory, it was illegal to build a house out of wood with a thatched roof. In theory, businesses that were a fire hazard were illegal within the city walls (hence the East End, where those things could legally be put). In practice, as you might imagine by my sneering italics, neither of those laws were enforced with any great enthusiasm.

There were firefighting provisions of a sort. Watchmen, employed by the parishes, were expected to keep an eye out for blazes. However, as I have previously mentioned, those chaps weren’t exactly the most dynamic of fellows. Similarly, citizens were expected to form impromptu fire brigades, which were generally pretty effective in the case of small fires – the prospect of losing your house is a great motivator. The favoured method was to use hand-powered fire pumps (such as the one modelled above left) or, where that failed, to demolish houses and thus create firebreaks. If your chimney was on fire, the most common advice was to fire a gun up it. For some people, that’s the solution to everything.

What the Great Fire highlighted was what King Charles II (seen on the right) had been saying for years – that this sort of thing was all very well in the case of small blazes, but in the case of larger ones it was utterly useless. Indeed, during the fire, Rev. Thomas Vincent complained that “London, so famous for its wisdom and dexterity, can now find neither brains nor hands to prevent its ruin.”

Charles, despite being a well-known playa, was not without wisdom when it came to firefighting. He had been one of the louder voices prior to the fire calling for the stricter enforcement of building regulations. During the conflagration, he overruled the rather useless Lord Mayor  and placed fellow firefighting nerd the Duke of York in charge. He himself took a major part in both directing operations and dousing the flames. I presume he wasn’t dressed like he is in that picture, but it would be funny if he was. Following the fire (and indeed, during it), he arranged for operations to temporarily accommodate displaced inhabitants of the city and to bring food to the ruins. Admittedly this was in no small part due to the fear of riot – Charles was pro-Catholic, which had made him a lot of enemies in Protestant London, and there were plenty of people eager to blame the blaze on Catholic conspirators (so much so that when the Duke of York later converted to Catholicism, records of his own heroic efforts were deliberately distorted to make him look like one of the arsonists).

Oddly enough, though, it wasn’t Charles’ firefighting enthusiasm that led to the beginnings of the modern fire brigade, but the commercial incentive. Isn’t that so often the way?

Nobody is entirely sure who invented fire insurance, but the most likely candidate was Nicholas If-Christ-Had-Not-Died-For-Thee-Thou-Hadst-Been-Damned Barbon (remember what I said about how London was a Protestant city?). What Barbon offered was a service whereby if you bought insurance with him, his men would fight any fires that broke out on your property and, if they failed to save it, would rebuild it. The idea was eagerly embraced, and soon there were several other companies offering the service. Homeowners so covered would hang a plaque (like the one above) on the wall in the event of fire.

This was in theory a great idea, but the problem was that insurance companies would only fight fires in buildings that they covered. So if No. 2 was covered, but No. 4 wasn’t (not that houses would have been numbered back then, but you know), the street might still burn down. So in the 18th century, the insurance companies cooperated to bring in a new system. The first fire brigade to arrive and quench the flames would get a reward. Good idea, yes? Well, in practice what it led to was a lot of punch-ups between fire brigades over who got there first, to the detriment of property in the vicinity. There were even instances of rival fire brigades deliberately sabotaging each other’s equipment in order to prevent their enemies claiming the cash.

In 1833, eventually some semblance of order was achieved with the foundation of the London Fire Engine Establishment under James Braidwood, an Edinburgh gentleman who agitated for the founding of a proper civic fire brigade (such as the one he had headed in Edinburgh, in fact). The LFEE played a prominent role in attempting to save the Houses of Parliament the following year, despite the fact that, as Braidwood pointed out, they were under no obligation to save the uninsured Parliament buildings. The Duke of Wellington, who was undoubtedly a great military commander but as a politician was a bit of a dick, opposed the concept of a proper fire brigade on the grounds that it would reduce public vigilance. The same man also opposed mixed-race marriages in India and believed railways should be discouraged because they allowed working class people to move about.

Braidwood was killed in the line of duty on 22nd June 1861, when a fire broke out on Tooley Street. This blaze would engulf the waterfront from London Bridge to where Tower Bridge now stands, and was the largest blaze the city had seen since 1666. Like Charles II, Braidwood believed in strategic firefighting, and so to that end advised that getting to the heart of the fire. In so doing, Braidwood was crushed by a falling warehouse.

His death was, however, not in vain. His passing was the cause of national mourning, and led to renewed demands for a civic-funded fire brigade. The loudest calls for reform came from the insurance companies, who under the LFEE’s policies had to fight fires regardless of whether the property was insured or not, and were thus effectively paying for everyone else’s safety. At last reason prevailed, and London got its fire brigade on January 1, 1866. Took us long enough - Liverpool, Manchester, Cardiff and the aforementioned Edinburgh already had brigades in place. Still, we got there in the end.

Anyone for toast?

I should cocoa

Yesterday, Izzi drew my attention to a chocolate festival on the South Bank this weekend. As Christmas is approaching, we believed that we could probably find some suitable presents there. Therefore, in a spirit of pure and almost saintly altruism, we went to a place with heinous amounts of luxury chocolate.

These are all made of chocolate.

Just about every variant on the sinful bean was present at this event, which was held behind the Royal Festival Hall. Chocolate bars, chocolate cakes, hot chocolate, brownies, fudge, shortbread, lollipops, churros, chilli – even elaborate sculptures. And there were luxury chocolatiers, fair trade vendors, preachers of the gospel of the organic (although if your chocolate contains organs then something has gone badly wrong), right down to the small-scale snack sellers. In short, it was a hair shirt for the dieter. Actually, we were quite good – I personally limited myself to a cup of chilli hot chocolate and a Belgian chocolate tart. Plus some free samples, which of course do not count.

What's really sad is that I can identify the class of this locomotive. It's a Gresley A3. I shall hang my head in shame.

Chocolate has a long and ancient history in the Americas. While the Romans were conquering Britain, the people of Central and South America had been partaking for a thousand years. Under the Aztecs, cocoa beans were used as currency, while the drink itself (the solid form being unknown at the time) was a luxury beverage, enjoyed by the most high in society. It was used for medicinal and ceremonial purposes, particularly religious rituals – I’ve even come across the suggestion that it was mixed with the blood of sacrificial victims, though I suspect the author was using a little dramatic licence. At that time, it was mixed with chilli, a flavouring that has only recently come into fashion in Europe.

Indeed, in the 16th century, when it was first brought to Europe by the Spanish, it was not immediately popular. Chocolate was considered too bitter and spicy for most, and so did not become popular until chilli was removed from the recipe and milk and sugar added. In this form, it became a hit among the smart set. Casanova would later complain that “the Spanish offer visitors chocolate so frequently at all hours that if one accepted, one would be choked.”

Mr Casanova’s fellow countrymen disagreed, and Italy enthusiastically took up drinking chocolate. So too did Germany and Switzerland, both noted for their enthusiasm for the stuff to this day.

It came to Britain in the 1650s, and strangely became associated with radical politics – chocolate houses, i.e, shops where drinking chocolate was sold, were popular meeting places. Indeed, they were the direct and immediate ancestors of the coffee houses which, as I have previously described within these pages, were basically the foundation of modern London. Sir Hans Sloane, pictured left, introduced a supposedly medicinal form of the drink in 1689. He also invented the British Museum or something.

Of course, the moral guardians of the nation were quick to point out how evil chocolate must be. I think the normal train of thought among such killjoys is to condemn whatever it is that people are enjoying at the moment and then to figure out what’s wrong with it. One Dr Daniel Duncan cautioned in 1712 that drinking of hot beverages like chocolate would damage the delicate tissue of the stomach, and that sugar rendered such drinks “poison.” Pamphlets were even published warning that excessive consumption of the drink would lead to women giving birth to “blackamoor” babies – this rather nutty idea seems to have originated with Madame de Sevigne of Paris, who wrote that the Marquise de Coetlogon had experienced this side effect personally. Not being a cynic, it hasn’t even crossed my mind to say “or at least, that was her story.”

Harry Potter, prior to another chocolate-fuelled rampage.

King Charles II, despite being one of the pimpingest monarchs in the history of Britain, wanted to see chocolate (and coffee) banned, mostly for the aforementioned association with radical politics. The Church, too, was strongly against this joyous substance, condemning it as “the damnable agent of necromancers and sorcerors,” which I think is perhaps going a bit far.

That being said, it can’t be denied that there is a strong association between chocolate and sin. Chocolate, particularly the high-end luxury stuff, is invariably marketed as something sexual, as the unsubtle advert on the left shows. In 1772, the Marquis de Sade was imprisoned after spiking chocolate pastilles at a party with Spanish fly, resulting in a riotous orgy. The old perv also once requested a chocolate cake “as black inside from chocolate as the Devil’s arse is black from smoke.”

In the 19th century, it lost some of its lustre in Britain, perhaps in part due to the adulteration of chocolate powder with potato starch, brick dust or whatever else was to hand (see the link below for more details of his practice). Indeed, it became positively respectable, and by the 1850s the Moral Guardians had decided that actually, chocolate was okay because it wasn’t alcohol. At around this time, solid “eating” chocolate became available, and a reduction in the duties levied on cocoa made it affordable to all.

Now, of course, it’s enjoyed by everyone. Well, actually, that’s a lie – in Cote d’Ivoire and Ghana, where 80% of the world’s cocoa originates, the cheapest way to get those beans harvested is by the use of child slavery. Despite the best efforts of campaigners, the position remains grim – in part, because the process of selling cocoa beans is so complex that by the time they get to the factory, it’s difficult to tell where your beans actually came from. US Congressman Eliot Engel proposed in 2001 that a new labelling system be introduced whereby chocolate that could be proven untainted by forced labour would be entitled to the label “slave free.” Perhaps predictably, the chocolate manufacturers resisted this. If some chocolate is labelled “slave free,” that rather implies that the rest is not, which is not exactly in line with the luxury marketing. It’s enough to put you off your Snickers.

Further reading

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/09/26/adultery-at-the-produce-counter/ - Food adulteration for beginners.

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2010/03/24/coffee-society/ - The coffee houses and their role in the shaping of Our Fair Metropolis.

Snuff and nonsense

I see Terry Pratchett is working on a book by the title of Snuff. He says this title will play on the fact that the word “snuff” has more than one meaning (I can think of three). I’m guessing the scenario will be something along the lines of “snuff becomes popular in Ankh-Morpork and there’s a murder, also some candles need putting out fast.”

Snuff, perhaps sadly (perhaps not, depending who you are) is a habit that’s virtually dead in this country. Despite the fact that smoking is becoming less and less legal, there’s no sign of any major resurgence, either. Snuff, if you aren’t familiar with it, is powdered tobacco taken nasally. It’s normally taken either in the form of a pinch between the forefinger and thumb, sniffed from there, or snorted off the back of the hand. Particularly enthusiastic snuffers may choose to snort a line of the length of their forearm. It commonly induces sneezing, but I’m informed this is more common among beginners.

Enthusiasts of the brown stuff point out that it’s probably safer than smoking, and the British Medical Journal notes that it doesn’t involve taking carbon monoxide and tar into your lungs – they note that there may possibly be a risk of nasopharyngeal cancer. I’m going to put in the fact that nicotine – the most addictive substance on the market – is still a thing with snuff. However, one thing both its enthusiasts and detractors have to admit is that the habit is so uncommon these days that it’s impossible to come to any definite conclusions about it. Still, speaking as a non-smoker, it’s a lot less annoying to the rest of us than smoking. Just don’t sneeze on me, yeah?

Snuff first appeared in the sixteenth century, but reached the height of its popularity in the eighteenth. The reason for this was largely availability. During the 1702 Battle of Cadiz, Sir George Rooke seized fifty tons of fine Cuban snuff, which was distributed among the sailors and sold on dirt-cheap at the English ports. With the habit firmly established, a kind of snuff culture began to grow up. Accessories such as the rather exciting snuff box above began to appear (and now fetch a pretty penny at antiques markets). Rules and etiquette were established for the offering of snuff – depending on the person, you could offer them the Pinch Careless, the Pinch Surly, the Pinch Politick, the Pinch Scornful, and presumably some nice ones as well. There were those who condemned the habit on health grounds, but also those who believed it could be beneficial (for instance, the Gentlewoman’s Magazine advised that it could cure sight problems).

There were many varieties of tobacco available, and more could be created by careful blending. Later in the century, artificially scented varieties became available. Ingredients used included prunes, port wine, ale and even strong cheese. Why you’d want prune-flavoured tobacco, I don’t know. Mind you, I also don’t know why you’d want to wear a periwig, but people still did it.

I think I can safely say that the most devoted snuff-taker in England is one described by H. W. Morton, one Mrs Margaret Thompson of Burlington Gardens. Such was her enthusiasm for the powder that when she died in 1776, she stipulated in her will:

I desire that all my handkerchiefs that I may have unwashed at the time of my decease, after they have been got together by my old and trusty servant, Sarah Stuart, be put by her, and by her alone, at the bottom of my coffin, which I desire may be made large enough for that purpose, together with a quantity of the best Scotch snuff (in which she knoweth I had the greatest delight) as will cover my deceased body; and this I desire more especially as it is usual to put flowers into the coffins of departed friends, and nothing can be so precious and fragrant to me than that precious powder.

She also requested that the aforementioned Ms Stuart should walk in front of her bearers, scattering snuff in their path and on to the crowd. The said bearers should the six greatest snuff takers in St James, each of whom should carry a box of snuff from which they should feel free to take as much as they fancy. Instead of black, they were to wear brown.

I think if I were a smoker, I should demand similar arrangements as an up-yours to the healthcare profession.

What really killed snuff as a habit for all but a handful of devotees was the appearance of cigarettes in the middle of the nineteenth century, again as a result of war – British soldiers in the Crimea picked up the habit from their Turkish allies. Another contributing factor may have been a fashion for white handkerchiefs – without getting too detailed, it’s a little difficult to keep a clean handkerchief when you spend your day shoving brown powder up your hooter.

Will snuff ever make a return? I rather doubt it, unless cigarettes were banned outright. Still, it is worth noting that it’s not covered by the smoking ban, so you can get a snozzfull in the pub and no one can stop you. Try it some day.

The Astonishing Adventures of Dr Bendo

No one likes a puritan, when you get down to it. They’re the religious equivalent of indie music snobs. So when Oliver Cromwell became Lord Protector of England in 1649, it marked the start of an eleven-year period of no fun. Theatres closed down, Christmas banned as a holiday and forget getting hammered on Saturday night, my droogs. For a brief rundown of Cromwell’s rise to power, I refer you to Messrs. Monty Python:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJ1yPz14LrU

Now, I’m not even going to think about going into the question of whether Cromwell was a Good Thing or a Bad Thing. That’s a whole nest of hornets I’m not sticking my head into. In any case, we’re not here to talk about Cromwell.

Charles II in stockings and suspenders. The dude just didn't care.

See, when Charles II took the throne on 29th May 1660, it meant that fun was legal again. The day was declared a public holiday, and the Venetian Ambassador set the tone by having free wine on tap outside his house all day. Charles had been chilling out, maxing and relaxing all cool in the Netherlands and brought some of the Continent with him. For instance, it became legal for women to perform on stage for the first time, and filthy jokes were viewed as funny again.

Charles himself tends to be viewed as a “Merry Monarch,” and is today notorious for partying very hard. However, the hardest-partying of all his social circle was John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester.

Like so many of us, Rochester learnt debauchery while at university. He enjoyed a distinguished military career fighting against the Dutch. He first got to know his wife by kidnapping her, and still slept around. Indeed, at one stage, following a scandal, he posed under the name “Dr Bendo,” who claimed to be able to treat infertility in young women with great success. It’s fair to say that a lot of the women who came to his private surgery did indeed get up the duff, so I suppose the claim was technically correct. He and George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham also on one occasion rented an inn, posed as the landlords and offered the husbands in attendance several rounds on the house apiece, then made time with the wives.

Buckingham. Apparently this chap had no trouble seducing women.

It is fair to say that Rochester was a total bastard. One tale he and Buckingham would often tell was of the time they heard of a wealthy old miser with a pretty young wife. During the time they were posing as landlords, Buckingham invited the miser over for a free drink. While the miser was away, Rochester sneaked over to his house, dressed as a woman, and drugged the maiden aunt who was guarding the wife in question. He then seduced the wife and persuaded her to steal all her husband’s money. Then he took her back to the inn, where Buckingham enjoyed her favours as well, before the two of them robbed the wife and kicked her out, telling her to return to London to “follow the only trade she was now fitted for.” The punchline was that the miser returned home and hanged himself. This story always got a good laugh.

Rochester and chums were in the habit of getting roaring drunk and generally making nuisances of themselves, with a particular habit of flashing passers-by when sozzled. Rochester summed up his lifestyle in bawdy verse:

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,

I get drunk before seven, and the next thing I do,

I send for my whore, when for fear of the clap,

I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;

Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,

When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.

Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge the affront,

At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.

If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,

What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!

I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage.

And missing my whore, I bugger my page.

Hardly Aphra Behn, but you know.

Charles II seemed to accept Rochester as one of those friends who keeps doing awful things, but is always forgiven afterwards. We all know someone like that. For most people it’s me. However, Rochester took it too far one night. You see, Charles’ particular hobby was astronomy, and to that end he had had a very elaborate, very expensive sundial installed in the Privy Garden. Rochester and chums stumbled across this one night on their way back from another night of sin. Rochester apparently became somewhat annoyed by the sundial’s insolence, demanding, “Dost thou stand there to fuck time?” before smashing it to pieces. Charles was so angry he actually left the country for eleven days without telling anyone, causing no small consternation at home.

Ironically, given what he’d said about “fear of the clap,” Rochester died of syphilis in 1680.

Rochester has inspired many works of fiction over the years, from the protagonist in George Etheridge’s The Man of Mode to the modern dramatisation of his life, Stephen Jeffreys’ The Libertine.

Most of his poetry seems to have been pretty much along the lines of what I have quoted above, but perhaps his best known verse was on the subject of his old buddy Charles:

God bless our good and gracious king,

Whose promise none relies on;

Who never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one.

It’s certainly a lot more eloquent than the time he toasted the King’s health by dipping his penis into a glass of wine. Oh, Rochester, you crazy cat!

Further Reading

http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/show/16673-Lord-John-Wilmot-Signior-Dildo - More of Wilmot’s poetry. NSFW, as they say.

Not a drop to drink

I had a bit of a serendipitous find the other day. I had decided, more-or-less on a whim, to go for a long walk on Monday. Good old bank holidays. I eventually decided to do what I’d been meaning to do for a while, and walk from Islington to Shoreditch. I’m familiar with both and their immediate surrounds, but I’d never “linked” the two.

Due to bloody engineering works, the bane of the random traveller’s life, I took the Victoria Line to Highbury & Islington and began my walk there. On the left you may see the abandoned station entrance. The present station entrance is of little interest to anyone. Incidentally, back in Yr. Humble Chronicler’s acting days, I used to use this station regularly to get to the King’s Head Theatre in Islington, where me show was on. Nothing to do with the entry, just thought I’d share.

I took a walk down towards Canonbury and in doing so, came across something I’ve been meaning to look for for months, but never got around to. I’m talking about this:

This is the New River. It’s not particularly new these days, nor has it ever technically been a river. It’s an artificial watercourse.

See, even in the seventeenth century, the expansion of London made it difficult to supply everyone with fresh water that was not contaminated with various nasties. So in 1606, an Act of Parliament was passed authorising the construction of a new river – the New River. I’m sure they thought long and hard about that name.

The river ran from Ware in Hertfordshire, taking a somewhat circuitous route due to the necessity of running downhill all the way, to reservoirs at Clerkenwell. It was eventually opened in 1613. The project was started by Edmund Colthurst, who ran into money troubles in 1609. Hugh Myddleton took over, only to run into money troubles himself and approach the extravagant King James I for a top-up. James agreed, on the condition that he receive a share of the profits.

Here is a fish I saw.

The venture was a success, so much so that it remains a significant part of London’s water supply up to the present day, having been taken over by the Metropolitan Water Board in 1904. After the Second World War, it was decided to take the Clerkenwell reservoirs out of use, but the river was instead diverted into the main water supply at Stoke Newington.

Probably the strangest use of the river was to flood the stage at Sadler’s Wells Theatre in order to stage “aqua drama.” This is not to be confused with what happens when you try to do the plumbing for yourself (“I mean, how hard can it be, right?”) but instead was a novel form of show set at sea. A notable production, The Siege of Gibraltar, featured 117 miniature ships with firing cannons, as well as child actors to represent drowning Spanish sailors. It’s just not the same with CGI.

Aqua drama at Sadlers Wells, circa 1808.

Number Ten

Well, chums, it’s election time again. Yr Humble Chronicler must confess to being uncertain who to vote for. I have no confidence whatsoever in the major political parties and that nice Mr Saxon isn’t running this time (what happened to that guy, anyway?)

I’ll probably just end up writing an obscene message on the ballot paper. Why don’t we have the “None of the above” option like they do in Australia?

Well, I suppose I might as well write something vaguely politics-related. So let’s talk about Downing Street, shall we?

Westminster has been the home of British politics, one way or another, since the 11th century. The misprint-inviting King Cnut was believed to have been resident here during his reign, long before it was even called Westminster. At that time, it was known as Thorney Island for two very obvious reasons. Firstly, it was thorny, secondly, it was an island. Originally simply a royal residence, the Palace of Westminster was sited where it was simply in order to have access to the river – then by far the quickest way of getting from place to place. Under Henry VIII, who had just acquired some fancy new digs from Cardinal Wolsey at Whitehall, its function became primarily a meeting place for Parliament. In 1834, the much-altered Houses of Parliament were burnt down when a clearout went horribly wrong (we’ve all been there, amirite?). Despite William IV’s suggestion that Parliament move to Buckingham Palace, the new house that he hated, Charles Barry’s new Gothic-style buildings were constructed at Westminster. John Soane’s proposal for a neo-Classical building (which can be seen in his house) was turned down, despite Soane’s work on the old buildings.

So that’s a brief history of Parliament at Westminster. From this, we may conclude that a) tradition was important and b) monarchs saw Parliament as a handy way of filling houses they didn’t want any more.

Sir George Downing in an extremely pimp outfit.

As for Downing Street, that was built in the early 1680s by Sir George Downing, a deeply shifty figure described by Samuel Pepys as a “perfidious rogue” – and not in a good way. He was undoubtedly a capable politician, but he was also something of a turncoat when it suited him – he served under both Cromwell and Charles II, claiming to the latter that he had been undergoing some sort of incredibly long moment of madness. He also made a heinous amount of money in property, although I suppose it would be churlish to hold that against him.

Sir Robert Walpole in an extremely pimp coat.

Number 10 Downing Street, as we know it today, was originally three houses. The house behind Number 10 was owned by the Crown from 1733 and, by coincidence, the Crown also had a lease on Number 10 itself at the time. These, together with the house next door (owned by the delightfully-named Mr Chicken) were given to Sir Robert Walpole by King George II in gratitude for his services. Walpole was not technically the first Prime Minister, as the title didn’t exist as such, but as near as dammit. His actual titles were First Lord of the Treasury, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House of Commons. He was offered these titles in 1721, in large part due to the fact that he was one of the few major politicians not to have played some nefarious part in the notorious South Sea Bubble, and held office for 21 years. If you assume him to be the first Prime Minister, that also makes him the longest-serving Prime Minister.

Back to the address. Walpole semi-refused George II’s gift. He said that he would take it on condition that it was a present to the First Lord of the Treasury rather than to him personally. George agreed. The three houses were joined together to form the massive residence that exists today, and they have been the traditional home of the Prime Minister ever since.

In fact, passing time would show the houses in Downing Street to have been rather badly constructed, prone to subsidence. Few of the Prime Ministers (or First Lords, or whatever) actually lived there – in any case, most of them already had much nicer houses of their own. It was only really in the mid-19th century that it became effectively de rigeur for Prime Ministers to actually live there.

The present Number 10 is not, technically, the original building given to Walpole. Further architectural problems were becoming evident throughout the 20th century, and in 1960 the whole lot was pulled down and replicated on site with better foundations using as much original material as possible. Even then, there were extensive problems with dry rot in the “new” building, and work was undertaken to address this in the late ’60s and early ’80s.

One of the oddities of the current building is that, as you can see, it’s built of dark grey bricks. Except it’s not. It is, and always has been, built of yellow Kentish bricks. But what with over a century of pollution, the bricks had been stained quite black with soot. This was discovered during the 19th century rebuild when the bricks were cleaned up. In order to maintain a sense of consistency, the cleaned bricks were painted black. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Anyway, happy voting tomorrow, as long as you’re not voting for any of the people I hate.

Further viewing

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdXfML9gUmU - If politics is depressing you, here is a video of an Italian woman singing about potatoes.

Coffee Society

For Yr. Humble Chronicler’s money, the finest coffee in London is to be found at the Queen of Sheba, an Ethiopian restaurant in Kentish Town. The coffee is roasted right there in front of you, and the freshness imparts a slight citrus flavour to the resulting brew. The waitress when I first visited explained that coffee is in fact an Ethiopian invention. There’s some debate over this, and quite a lot of historians who take an interest in this sort of thing disagree, favouring Yemen as the birthplace of this delightful beverage.

Regardless of the truth of its origins, these days coffee is everywhere. On every major road in London you can find at least one representative of the major coffee chains, and often more than one. They like to project an air of sophistication. Starbucks is particularly guilty of this, and to be honest I find the bought-in refinement a little tacky. Particularly when it’s busy and no one’s cleaned up the crap from the last people at your table.

Despite Starbucks’ best efforts, though, they can’t hold a candle to the coffee houses of London in the seventeenth century. The first of these was opened in 1652 on St Michael’s Alley in Cornhill – an alley that appears to have come straight out of a Dickens novel.

[PARENTHESIS: Looking at this book here, it really is straight out of a Dickens novel. In The Pickwick Papers, Mr Pickwick and Samuel Weller stop at the George and Vulture public house on this very alley]

The coffee house in question was opened by Pasqua Rosee, an Armenian gent, formally the servant of one George Edwards. Edwards traded in the Middle East, and while there had developed a taste for this exciting Arabic drink. He assisted his Rosee both financially and practically in setting up the business. The first coffee house in London (the first in Britain had opened two years previously in Oxford) was an instant success. Firstly, because this was Cromwell’s Britain, where boozing was strongly discouraged – coffee was seen as a more respectable alternative and therefore to be encouraged. And secondly, because unlike the standard breakfast drinks at the time (wine and small beer), coffee would actually wake you up. By the end of the century, literally hundreds of coffee houses had sprung up across the city.

The mild mind-sharpening buzz of coffee meant that it was favoured as a drink for intellectuals, as it had been in the Middle East. It should therefore come as no surprise to learn that coffee houses became known as hotbeds of debate and discussion. The Restoration of Charles II was plotted in coffee houses, and Charles II would later attempt to ban the coffee house in case someone else was plotting against him. Newspapers were available, as in the modern Starbucks, and often news would be displayed on the walls. Some customers even had their favourite coffee house as their postal address. And, of course, they were a great way to spread underground news without discovery. For this reason, foreign visitors were often astonished by how freely subversive information could be exchanged. Indeed, when Voltaire was exiled from France, he wrote a series of letters praising this freedom – the ideas he developed during his time in Britain would later influence the French and American Revolutions.

Voltaire

Voltaire was far from being the only notable to frequent the coffee houses. Samuel Pepys, Robert Hooke, John Locke, Christopher Wren and Edmund Halley were among the many notables seen enjoying a dish of java. Anyone who was anyone in London had a favourite house. Both the Stock Exchange and Lloyd’s of London were founded in coffee shops. Isaac Newton’s Principia arose from an argument between Halley and Hooke – you might say that the fruit that inspired Newton wasn’t an apple, but a coffee bean.

Different coffee houses attracted different clientele. Garraway’s was the haunt of scientists and natural philosophers. St James’ was favoured by traders and mariners. Will’s was for poets and White’s for actors and musicians. The mark of a true Renaissance Man in those days was to regularly patronise as many different houses as possible.

Christopher Wren

But not only were great ideas formulated in such places, they were freely disseminated. As anyone (provided they were male) could sit in a coffee house for the price of a single dish of joe, one could spend a highly intellectual day listening to new concepts being bandied about, refined and disputed. If one was feeling particularly confident, one might even join in.

In short, the modern descendent of the 17th century coffee house is not Starbucks, but the whole of the modern world. Over a couple of caffeinated beverages, the ideas that shaped the Age of Enlightenment and finally dragged Britain out of the medieval era were discussed. The impact of such places, both in London and elsewhere, is hard to overestimate.

John Locke

Ironically, though, the coffee itself would have tasted pretty awful. Coffee was taxed by the barrel, i.e. it had to be made up long before it was served. As a result, what you’d be buying would have to be reheated. And filtering wouldn’t be invented for three hundred years.

And what of old Pasqua Rosee, the man who started all this? Well, sadly, being a pioneer isn’t always as rewarding as you’d hope. He was persecuted for much of his career by tavern owners who didn’t much care for the competition, especially not from a foreigner, and drove him out of the country. Alas.

Like Avatar, only without aliens

You know you’re bored when you find yourself on YouTube watching old cartoons. One I came across was this clip from Disney’s Pocahontas:

Pocahontas was quite entertaining as kids’ films go. A bit bland on the story front, but some nice musical numbers and some superb animation. Also, the young-looking red-headed chap in the above clip? Voiced by none other than a pre-fame Christian Bale. All in all, a fine piece from the period after Disney had had its so-called Renaissance (which began with The Little Mermaid) but before they ruined it all by trying to be ironic and self-aware.

The thing is, it’s based on historical events. Of course, that’s Hollywood “based on,” which means “loosely inspired by, and we reserve the right to completely change.” And knowing how history went, the happy “Why, English settlers and Native Americans can now live in peace thanks to John Smith and his hot girlfriend!” ending is a little uncomfortable. It’s true that there was a period of peace in Jamestown following the initial unrest, but that was more because the wealthy investors of the Virginia Company didn’t want to lose their money (which was a heinous amount) and told the settlers to chill the fuck out. Seven settlements had already gone down the pan, and Jamestown was short of food and surrounded by hostile Powhatan. The Powhatan were hostile because the English were in the habit of setting fire to their stuff, and the English were short of food because they relied on trade with the Powhatan for their supplies. Slow handclap, everyone. In fact, the peace was largely brought about by the British capture of Pocahontas in 1613 and a series of blackmail-style demands, followed by Pocahontas’ marriage to tobacco farmer John Rolfe.

Chief Wahunsenacawh of the Powhatan, father of Pocahontas

Unfortunately, this didn’t last. In 1624 the Powhatan, under Chief Opechancanough, massacred a quarter of the population of Jamestown. The English retaliated with a series of attacks against the Powhatan. Opechancanough attempted to sue for peace, and the English invited them to a banquet. Where they poisoned their booze, killing 200. And so it went on, with both sides generally being dicks to each other.

The big exciting climax of the film, in which John Smith is about to be executed and Pocahontas throws herself in front of him, would appear to have been entirely made up by Smith. The only account of this event is from Smith himself, and he only mentioned it nine years after it supposedly happened, when Pocahontas was presented to Queen Anne. It’s also suspiciously similar to a tale he would tell in 1630 in which he had been captured by Turks, but fortunately the daughter of their leader…

Also worth noting is that not even Smith claimed to have had any sort of romantic relationship with Pocahontas (who was ten years old at the time, and whose real name was Matoaka). Nor is there anything to suggest that Smith raped Pocahontas, which seems to be the popular alternative suggestion.

Anyway, here’s Disney’s account of the First Anglo-Powhatan War.

That’s all very well, I hear you cry (metaphorically), but what does all this have to do with London? Other than that clip up at the top there? Calm down, I’m getting to that.

As you may have gathered, the Virginia Company was based in London. One of the things the Disney movie got right was that the Company hoped that the settlement would result in the discovery of insane amounts of gold, as the Spanish had found further South.

Unfortunately, they found nothing. The Jamestown settlement didn’t start to turn a profit until John Rolfe started growing tobacco there. Oddly enough, the strains growing native did not lend themselves to mass cultivation, but plants imported from the Caribbean did a whole lot better, and the shareholders of the Virginia Company hoped to finally be able to achieve their ambition of swimming through money like Scrooge McDuck.

But still, the colony wasn’t doing as well as expected. As a publicity stunt, Rolfe was asked to bring Pocahontas to London in 1616, showing her off as a sort of “tame savage” in order to encourage more people to go over. Pocahontas by this time had been baptised in accordance with her pious hubby’s wishes and taken the name Rebecca. This, by the way, was when Smith’s account of her saving his life first appeared. This was also when Pocahontas discovered that Smith was alive, having been told in 1609 that he was dead. She was not, by all accounts, too pleased to learn the truth. She also didn’t realise when she had been introduced to King James I, as he was utterly wet and a weed.

Brentford

Thereafter, she lived with Rolfe in Norfolk and – of all places – Brentford. Yr. Humble Chronicler heard about this some years ago in one of Robert Rankin’s books, but assumed it to be a throwaway joke (given that the other books by Rankin feature Brentford as the original site of the Garden of Eden and the Great Pyramid being teleported into Brentford FC’s grounds). It was a little weird to discover that, in fact, this one was the real deal.

Pocahontas died the following year in Gravesend of an unknown illness while returning to Virginia . Her last words, supposedly, were “All must die, but ’tis enough that my child liveth.” That child, Thomas Rolfe, had been born before she left Virginia. He would go on to have children of his own, and so on, and so on, until eventually Nancy Reagan was born. I’m not even joking – Nancy Reagan was straight-up a descendent of Pocahontas. Sadly, Disney missed that part out.

Coming soon: Tom ruins The Lion King by revealing that lions can’t talk.

Further Reading

 James I was not a fan of tobacco, and here is his 1604 pamphlet A Counterblaste to Tobacco. This presumably caused the executives of the Virginia Company to hiss “Shut up!” at him.

And if you want to hear about some other Disney sources, try this blog for size.

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…