Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Invisible Hands

Review: Trading in War: London’s Maritime World in the Age of Cook and Nelson, by Margarette Lincoln. 

What is the opposite of a spoiler, I wonder? Some six months late, I am able to announce our Book of the Year for 2018. It is this one.  I had already established this at the time but felt a bit daft to broadcast the fact having failed to publish a review. I have therefore now read it twice – no hardship, I can assure you.

This book describes the unsung heroes, heroines – and villains too – who rarely felt the bite of salt water whip across their cheek, but nonetheless played a vital role in keeping Britain’s fleets afloat in the vital period when this country gained hegemony of the oceans.

As the title suggests, this era is characterised by almost constant warfare by both land and sea, but particularly the latter. Great Britain’s only significant reverse was the loss of the American colonies while enjoying great gains in the sub-continent and further afield. War ran in parallel with massive gains in exploration and trade. The end of our period, covered in the final chapter, sees the arrival of steam and the construction of London’s first deep water docks, changing fundamentally East London’s relationship with large shipping until the arrival of containerisation in the 1980s ended it forever.

Trading in War puts the spotlight on the maritime parishes of London, upriver of the City: Wapping, Rotherhithe, Bermondsey, Deptford, Greenwich. These communities built, maintained, provisioned and indeed broke up the ships of both the Royal Navy, mainly stationed in Deptford, and the nation’s merchant fleet (increasingly dominated at this time by the East India Company).

The conditions and well-being of these communities, as the author demonstrates, were affected to a huge extent by war, hence the title. The two main wars in our period were, of course, war against the American colonies and various wars against France after the Revolution to 1815. Through the chapters, the author closely examines the lives of all strata of maritime society on the Thames, men and women, rich and poor. These societies were by definition, largely artisnal: shipwrights, carpenters, rope makers, sail makers, caulkers and so on.

The busiest shipyards in the biggest port in the world offered a myriad opportunity for all. Wealth for the owners; employment for the local populace; and rich pickings for smugglers, pilferers and fences, particularly on high-duty goods. Stakes were high and criminals bold: customs men often met with extreme violence and even death. The author has used the wonderful Old Bailey Online to shed light on this criminality. It is interesting to note that women played a significant part.

Indeed, Margarette Lincoln has taken particular care to address the lives of women in these districts. A huge number, as you might expect in maritime communities, had to cope without their husbands. But it wasn’t just sailors’ wives. Many were widows, whose knowledge of their late  husbands’ work enabled them to keep family businesses not only running, but thriving. The Navy Board, in particular, increasingly recognised the inherent value of these women and wisely let them get on with it. But also, there was a supporting community spirit and, in at least one case, even from a rival shipyard. The imperative to churn out ships in time of constant national emergency was paramount.

I’m sure, like me, you will enjoy in particular, the pen-portraits of various individuals in this story. Benjamin Slade, the Navy Board’s purveyor in Deptford. His job was to procure every piece of material that went into a ship, from the anchor to the topsail. The best quality for the best cost he had to do a balancing act between shipwright and Navy. Mary and Elizabeth Slade, spinster sisters who ran a habidashery business in Deptford and lived to a great age. Some of their properties have survived to this day. Betsy Bligh, the wife of the famous sea captain, whose sensible management of his affairs at home underpinned his success such as it was and hedged against his tribulations. Her efforts at last remembered here. Frances Barnard, widow of the shipbuilder William Barnard. Following his death in 1795, she continued to run his business just as he had done: for the Navy Board, seamless continuity was the first priority.

I can but scratch the surface here. The author explores many other important areas: the rise of organised labour and the use of strike action, in effect proto-trade unionism; theatres, boxing and other entertainment in the maritime communities, including debating societies (the Government wasn’t keen!).

Then there are the interesting snippets. Did you know? Many ships were 499 tons or less to avoid the obligation by law of carrying a surgeon and priest; an average East Indiaman was only good for up to four voyages before being scrapped (this surprised me) – copper bottoming could extend a ship’s life by 50%; a ship’s owner or manager was known as its ‘husband’; a large ship would typically take three to four years to build. There is much more.

This book paints a detailed and very human picture of London’s maritime communities over a couple of generations at a time when Great Britain became the dominating world power. In sprite of the nation’s success and growing wealth and self-confidence, it highlights, in particular, the hard and precarious existence of all levels of society in the maritime parishes. It is a beautifully well-rounded work of history and deservedly our Book of the Year for 2018. I trust that is some compensation for not scooping the Woolfson Prize a few weeks ago!

 


Trading in War: London’s Maritime World in the Age of Cook and Nelson (292pp), by Margarette Lincoln, is published by Yale University Press, 2018.

Advertisements

Faber & Faber

Review: Faber & Faber: The Untold Story by Toby Faber. This review is a guest post by London Historians member Sally-Anne Thomas. 

ffThis is a wonderful book for anyone interested in history, literature, poetry or publishing. It’s also the result of meticulous record keeping, and told in a series of letters, minutes, memoirs and memos, with the occasional explanatory intervention by the author.

It begins in London with an account of the early life of the firm’s founder, Sir Geoffrey Faber, the writer’s grandfather. He made an uncertain start in terms of a career. Born in 1889, he spent the First World War on the Western Front, wrote some critically acclaimed poetry, was elected as a fellow of All Souls, Oxford, and eventually became a director of Strong and Co., a beer manufacturing company in Hampshire. But he had little talent for brewing, and soon lost his job.

By this time he was living in London, married, and with a growing family. He was writing unsuccessful plays and a novel, but was rescued by another fellow of All Souls, Maurice Dwyer who, with his wife Alaina, had an interest in a publishing company called ‘The Scientific Press’, whose primary title was The Nursing Mirror.
In 1924, Geoffrey was installed as Chairman and Managing Director of the firm. The Nursing Mirror was sold.

The early part of the book marks Geoffrey’s battles to move the firm towards a literary path. One of his first appointments was that of the poet, T. S. Eliot, as a literary adviser. Eliot, as you might expect, was good on poetry, but has the distinction of rejecting an early version of George Orwell’s Down and Out in London and Paris and Animal Farm.

There are constant battles within the firm, involving Geoffrey and later his son Tom, an academic and physicist who rescued the company from severe financial problems in the 1970s.

A series of irate letters cover rows between members of the family and with the directors, disagreements with authors, and a series of other problems.

However, this small firm managed to survive the Great Depression, paper shortages in the Second World War, and numerous financial crises subsequently. It remains one of the best-known and respected publishing houses in the world.

If I were to list all the authors who have been published by Faber, I would far exceed the word allowance for this review. But to name just a few, we have Eliot, of course, Siegfried Sassoon, Ezra Pound,. William Golding, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Harold Pinter, Lawrence Durrell, P. D. James, Seamus Heaney, Samuel Beckett, Kazuo Ishiguro, Peter Carey and Orhan Pamuk. The Faber Finds imprint, established in 2008, makes copyrighted out-of-print books re-available, using print-on-demand technology and includes works by John Betjeman, Angus Wilson, A. J. P. Taylor, H. G Wells, Joyce Cary, Nina Bawden, Jean Genet, Lousis MacNeice, F. R. Leavis, Jacob Bronowski, Jan Morris and Brian Aldiss.

The detailed story ends in 1989. But Toby Faber – who no longer has a hands-on responsibility for the company – makes it clear that much is still to come.

The structure of the book is interesting. Since it involves very little narrative, just the use of historical letters and memos, it can seem a little staccato. But because it’s been expertly collated, the volume flows. It is raw history, fascinating and hugely entertaining. And running through the book is a sense of fun, of how exhilarating and challenging the company was and is.

Faber and Faber marches on. I’m sure there will be another volume soon, followed by one on the two-hundredth anniversary in 2129.


Faber & Faber, The Untold Story (426pp) by Toby Faber was published in May 2019 by Faber & Faber with a cover price of £20.

Noisy Hogarth

It seems obvious now you mention it, but it took someone to notice and then do something about it: Hogarth’s pictures are often very noisy. Whether outdoors or in, his compositions variously feature musicians, crying babies, street criers, yapping dogs, yowling cats, noisy children, yelling crowds and sometimes all of the above. Cacophony. This new exhibition at the Foundling Museum is called Hogarth & The Art of Noise.

Anyone who knows a little Hogarth if prompted about noise, will of course cite The Enraged Musician (1741), for many, his most amusing piece.

The Enraged Musician 1741 by William Hogarth 1697-1764

The curators claim 19 sources of racket in this image. I only managed to pick out 14. How about you? Here’s a bigger version.

But the centrepiece of this exhibition, the painting from which all else in the show is derived, is the museum’s own Hogarth masterpiece: The March of the Guards to Finchley (1750). It is Hogarth at his most opinionated, prejudiced and spiky. In short, at his best. It depicts the then fairly new Guards regiments in their mitre style headgear carousing in Tottenham Court prior to marching off to quell the Jacobite rebellion of 1745. Many of the noisy elements from The Enraged Musician are present – e.g. yowling rooftop cats: Hogarth was never shy of recycling a good visual joke. The point of the picture is to contrast the virility and virtue of Hanoverian Protestant Britain on the left with the weak, immoral and Catholic late Stuarts on the right.

finchley
Larger version of this painting here.

Elsewhere in this quite small exhibition we have other examples from many of Hogarth’s work and noise, e.g. The Laughing Audience, alongside comparisons with his near contemporaries. To add further context, you can also listen via headphones to readings from Henry Fielding, Daniel Defoe and others.

William Hogarth and the Founding Museum are inextricably connected. He was a founding Governor of Captain Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital (1739)  for (mainly) illegitimate babies. Along with GF Handel and others, he did pro bono work for the hospital, such as designing its logo, as well as participating in fund-raising art exhibitions along with contemporary artists. He and his wife Jane – childless themselves – also occasionally fostered children from the hospital at their home in Chiswick.

This is a very thoughtful and thought-provoking exhibition. It’s further reassuring to see one of its consultants was Elizabeth Einberg, author of  the most scholarly book on Hogarth’s work ever produced. Most of all, though, it presents the opportunity to examine a Hogarth masterpiece completely unhindered by glass, distance or crowds. Don’t miss it!


Hogarth and the Art of Noise runs at the Foundling Museum until 1 September 2019.

Guest post by LH member Mike Rendell. This article was first published in our Members’ Newsletter from February 2015.

In 1775 my ancestor went to Leicester Square to see an exhibition of natural curiosities at a museum recently opened by Ashton Lever. He wrote “Went with Wife, Daughter and Son Francis to see Sir Ashton Lever’s Collection of Natural Curiositiers, and curious they indeed are. Din’d at a beefstake house.”

Lever, who went on to be knighted by George III, had been a remarkable magpie of a collector of everything from stuffed birds, historical artefacts, fossils, shells and other natural history items. For a number of years in the early 1770’s he had exhibited them to casual callers at his home at Alkrington House near Manchester. He was used to getting more than 1000 visitors in a single year, scrambling to inspect his vast collection which filled over 1300 glass display cabinets. Running an open house with that number of visitors cannot have been easy. He hit on the idea of bringing the collection to a wider audience – and that meant opening a museum in London. He chose Leicester House, and took a lease of the premises in 1774. He then spent time and a considerable amount of money, in adapting it as a suite of display rooms, twelve in all, leading off a staircase in one long gallery. Walls were knocked down, doorways opened into wide archways, so that visitors could walk through from one room to the next without hindrance, looking at the 24,000 exhibits, mostly displayed in glass cabinets.

leverianmuseum

View of Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum in Leicester Square, 1785.

He opened to the public in February 1775, giving it the name ‘Holophusicon’ (a made-up word from the Greek ‘holos’ meaning ‘whole’ and ‘phusikon’ meaning ‘of nature’). It must have been an extraordinary sight, with stuffed animals such as elephants and monkeys, alongside fossils and shells, stuffed birds, and Oliver Cromwell’s armour. Captain James Cook was apparently an admirer of the erudite Sir Ashton, and gave him a considerable amount of material brought back from his first and second voyages. This helped fuel a mania for Oceania – the public were enthralled at the display of artefacts from Tahiti etc, all displayed in a special Otaheite Room. After Cook died on his third voyage, further items were purchased for display in a Sandwich Islands Room, with weapons such as clubs and spears, ceremonial robes, paddles, utensils and so on.

The public were required to pay a fee – either by taking out an annual membership at a cost of two guineas, or by paying a single entrance fee of a quarter of a guinea (5/3d). Sir Ashton was forced to reduce this to half a crown (2/6d) because of falling visitor numbers. Poor Sir Ashton, he spent more and more money on his exhibits until the obsession got quite out of hand – the exhibits were independently valued at over £50,000. Facing bankruptcy, Sir Ashton wanted to sell the collection to the British Museum, which had opened thirty years earlier, but the trustees declined. It was also offered to the Empress Catherine II of Russia but she too turned down the chance to acquire the display as a single collection. Following the example of the jeweller James Cox, who had tried to sell his exhibition of automata by private lottery, in 1784 Sir Ashton applied to Parliament for permission to “dispose of the contents of his Museum, as now exhibited at Leicester House, by Way of Chance.”

sirashtonlever

Sir Ashton Lever.

Parliament approved the scheme but only eight thousand tickets were sold, at a guinea each, out of a planned figure of 36,000. It was a pretty poor return for a man who had laid out thousands of pounds over many years. The lottery prize was drawn in March 1786 and went to a Law Stationer called James Parkinson, who got some 26,600 exhibits including over 1850 ethnographic items from the Pacific. After a year at Leicester House, where the entrance fee was dropped to one shilling a head, Parkinson decided to relocate the collection to the Rotunda in Albion Street, on the south side of Blackfriars Bridge. He dropped the name ‘Holophusicon’ and called it the Leverian Museum. By then Sir Ashton had died, and had nothing further to do with the museum which bore his name. For twenty years the exhibition continued to amuse and amaze the public at 3 Blackfriars Road, but in declining numbers. In 1806 the decision was made to sell the entire collection by auction. Once again the British Museum declined to have anything to do with it, and instead this remarkable collection was spread to all corners of the globe, furnishing many important museums with the cornerstone of important collections. These include Museums in Vienna, Honolulu, Berlin, Wellington and Sydney. The auction lasted a full 65 days, with the collection divided into 7879 lots. It raised a mere £ 6,642 13s 6d. For anyone wanting more information about the collection and the way it was divided up, have a look at Adrienne L. Kaeppler’s book Holophusicon, the Leverian Museum which came out in 2011. She is Curator of Oceanic Ethnology at the National Museum of Natural History at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC, and she has put together a remarkable detective work in establishing ‘what went where’.

A guest post by LH Member Laurence Scales. This article first appeared in London Historians Members’ Newsletter for February 2015.

London has been at the forefront of exploration beyond the naked eye by telescope and microscope. But another inspiration behind this article was Will Self, the sesquipedalian writer, who recently left London for the underground particle collider at Geneva to see if he could ‘feel the wonder’. (Self Orbits CERN, BBC Radio 4.)

He could not, and who could blame him? The instrumentation engineers, metaphorically looking under the bonnet of the detector, were somewhat detached from the wonder, and the absurd public relations people were bowling him sound bites as if he were a person unused to thinking. Nobody seemed to say to him that particle colliders are continuing an age old exploration of both the infinitesimally small and the infinitely large. A succession of Russian dolls has been opened up, often by Londoners. We may regard ourselves as one doll somewhere in the middle of the set.

Alicelead3_500

Particle collisions studied at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN (European Centre for Nuclear Research, known as CERN)

Through the Lens
The first astronomers were limited to studying where the heavenly bodies appeared, and it helped them to cultivate and to navigate. A few weeks before Galileo obtained his telescope in 1609 Thomas Harriot at Syon Park pointed one at the moon and, drawing its imperfections, made the kind of observation that we are all capable of: ‘[It] lookes like a tarte that my Cooke made me last Weeke.’ Galilieo’s discovery of Jupiter’s moons was probably more significant in the long run.

In simple form the optical microscope and telescope both involve a pair of lenses. The main difference lies in where the focus of the lenses needs to be. Robert Hooke bought a microscope from Christopher Cock and published, despite terrible lenses, fine drawings he made of familiar objects such as a body louse in Micrographia in 1665. (Familiar? Eek!)

HookeFlea01

From this we get the Hooke’s word ‘cell’ for the biological building block. Samuel Pepys found the book ‘so pretty that I presently bespoke it.’ Even before Micrographia, Pepys was already succumbing to the wonders of the microscope in 1664.

‘After dinner up to my chamber and made an end of Dr. Power’s booke of the Microscope, very fine and to my content, and then my wife and I with great pleasure, but with great difficulty before we could come to find the manner of seeing any thing by my microscope. At last did with good content…’

A lens usually has a spherical surface because it is easy to make it that way. Unfortunately it is not quite the right shape to focus properly and, even if it were, it would not focus the different colours in the same place. For the telescope, Isaac Newton solved the problem in 1668 by using a curved mirror instead of a lens, bouncing rather than bending the rays. Optician John Dollond, one of the Huguenot silk weavers of Spitalfields, was able to correct the problem for the lens by adding a layer of a different glass in 1758 (Actually, the idea came from a barrister of the Inner Temple). It is sad that such a name as Dollond should be discarded from the high street by the Philistines of our own time.

craig telescope

1852 saw the construction of Reverend John Craig’s telescope on Wandsworth Common. The lens, two feet in diameter, was flawed and the tube dangled at the mercy of the wind. Not a failure of Victorian big science, this was one man’s folly.

Similar problems afflicted microscopes but as the microscope was more a toy than a scientific instrument it had to wait until 1826 for a similar solution by Joseph Jackson Lister. In 1827 botanist Robert Brown of Soho noticed pollen grains jiggling about under the microscope as if pummelled by unseen fists. This ‘Brownian motion’ is caused by invisibly small atoms and molecules striking the pollen. But no one knew it at the time. Atoms were, in 1827, only a theoretical abstraction.

We probably associate the microscope more with microbiology now than any other discipline. It is no coincidence that Lister’s son, the famous surgeon and pioneer of antiseptic surgery, unlike so many others, was receptive to the notion that invisible particles might contaminate and putrefy wounds. A few stones of Joseph Jackson Lister’s house remain in an east London park. Most accounts of the house do not bother to mention him.

408px-Lister

Joseph Jackson Lister

New Images
Particle physics had to be developed over the next century before there were further significant advances in microscopy, such as the electron microscope. If you can crystallise a substance then X-ray diffraction can reveal the structure. The beautiful patterns captured by researchers, some at the Royal Institution, sufficiently excited interior and fashion designers to incorporate them in their products and at the Festival of Britain in 1951. An X-ray image made at King’s College London in 1952 resolved the structure of DNA. Atomic force microscopes now make it possible to see single atoms as fuzzy blobs. Poking about inside the blobs is where particle colliders come in.

Early Victorian astronomers such as those at Greenwich were still limited to studying the position and motion of the heavenly bodies. William Hyde Wollaston, who lived just off Fitzroy Square, found in 1802 that the light from the sun, refracted to display a spectrum, was missing certain narrow bands of colour. It was found on the continent around 1860 that chemical elements held in a flame burn with light characteristic of that element. The two discoveries were combined and for the first time it was possible to consider stars as objects of varied substance rather than points of reference.

Three people who explored that substance through studying spectra were draper William Huggins of Tulse Hill who had his own observatory there; Margaret Murray whose own interest in spectroscopy led to her marrying Huggins in 1875; and civil servant Norman Lockyer whose first purchase of a telescope was sparked by socialising at the Wimbledon Literary and Scientific Society and having a house there with a good hilltop position. He identified a new chemical element, helium, in the sun in 1868. Today we need liquid helium to cool magnets in MRI scanners in hospitals.

Dig for the Sky
The nuclear reactions in the stars that forge those elements also produce splinters in the form of cosmic rays. Paradoxically the rays are often studied underground so as not to overwhelm the detectors. We now know that all of the heavier atoms in our own body (the iron from your spinach) formed inside stars.

In the 1930s nobody was thinking of building a 27km cavern for research underground but a cosmic ray detector (an instrument called a cloud chamber originally created to study… clouds) was installed in the unused Aldwych platform at Holborn underground station. Cloud chambers like this one were designed so that invisible particles stealing across them would photograph their own visible trails. This development won Patrick Blackett a Nobel Prize. Some of the detectors at CERN (bubble chambers and spark chambers) are descendants of his cloud chambers.

The Hugginses and others assayed the stars and interstellar dust. But from Hubble telescope observations it turns out that the substance we have come to understand over several centuries only adds up to about 5% of the mass of the universe. The collider will help to find the rest. So, we now find ourselves down a hole, using a descendant of the microscope, to explore what is too distant or too ephemeral to see with the telescope. Do you feel the wonder yet? Would you want the exploration to stop? The hole may be in Geneva, but London has always provided explorers, and a vital prerequisite: scope to wonder.

learToday is the birthday of Edward Lear  (1812 – 1888), born in Holloway and hence a Londoner of Note. His early career was as an accomplished ornithological illustrator. But failing eyesight forced him to abandon this and take up instead writing nonsense verse illustrated by surreal and slightly creepy cartoons. He is credited with inventing the Limerick. Here are some London-themed ones which I plucked from dozens on this excellent web site.

There was a young lady of Greenwich,
Whose garments were bordered with Spinach;
But a large spotty Calf,
Bit her shawl quite in half,
Which alarmed that young lady of Greenwich.

leargreenwich

There was an old person of Putney,
Whose food was roast spiders and chutney,
Which he took with his tea,
Within sight of the sea,
That romantic old person of Putney.

There was an old man of Blackheath,
Whose head was adorned with a wreath,
Of lobsters and spice,
Pickled onions and mice,
That uncommon old man of Blackheath.

There was an old person of Barnes,
Whose garments were covered with darns;
But they said, ‘Without doubt,
You will soon wear them out,
You luminous person of Barnes!’

There was a young person of Kew,
Whose virtues and vices were few;
But with blameable haste,
She devoured some hot paste,
Which destroyed that young person of Kew.

There was an old person of Bow,
Whom nobody happened to know;
So they gave him some soap,
And said coldly, ‘We hope
You will go back directly to Bow!’

There was an old person of Ealing,
Who was wholly devoid of good feeling;
He drove a small gig,
With three Owls and a Pig,
Which distressed all the people of Ealing.

There was an old person of Pinner,
As thin as a lath, if not thinner;
They dressed him in white,
And roll’d him up tight,
That elastic old person of Pinner.

There was an old person of Sheen,
Whose expression was calm and serene;
He ate in the water,
And drank bottled porter,
That placid old person of Sheen.

There was an old man of Thames Ditton,
Who called for something to sit on;
But they brought him a hat,
And said – ‘Sit upon that,
You abruptious old man of Thames Ditton!’

NMC Brochure2_blog

This watercolour from 1931 depicts the astonishing building which the Company of Newspaper Makers was hoping to build for its London headquarters. It reminds me a lot of  the Daily Planet building from Superman. Or the apartment block in Ghostbusters. At any rate, the style is firmly anchored in its period.

At 84m it would have been the tallest office block in London, some 30m taller than Charles Holden’s 55 Broadway, completed in 1929 at that time London’s tallest commercial building. St Paul’s, at 111m, remained the tallest overall.

The signature on the image is J J Joass. John James Joass (1868 – 1952) was a Scottish architect practising in London. A close contemporary of Holden’s, his work included Swan & Edgar, Whiteleys and an extension to Chartered Accountants’ Hall in the City.

Very much a latecomer by livery standards, the Newspaper Makers Company was founded in 1931, the same year as this painting. But it only lasted as an independent body for six years when, by Royal Charter, it amalgamated with the Stationers’ Company (1403, Royal Charter 1557, 47th in precedence) in 1937. This must have been something of a come-down for many newspaper makers, considering the company initially rejected the Stationers and Stationers’ Hall as being too small for their purposes,  meetings and banquets. Their launch meeting on 31 December 1931 had been held at the Institute of Journalists and their inaugural banquet was at the Mansion House the following 26 February.

The first question one would rightly ask, is: where in London was this site? At time of writing we don’t know but looking into it! One would imagine on or near Fleet Street. It could be that this proposed livery hall was at that time, simply an aspiration, bearing in mind it was an illustration in what was a launch brochure for the Company which included its constitution.

Had the Newspaper Makers’ fantasy been realised, one can easily picture this skyscraper being a fitting neighbour to old Fleet Street favourites such as the Telegraph Building (1928, now Goldman Sachs) and the Express Building (1932).


Our thanks to the Stationers’ Company for use of this image.