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Reunion

Last Monday, London Historians enjoyed a long-anticipated lunch and tour at Ironmongers’ Hall. It was superb. This was On the staircase, I immediately recognised an object which I remember from some years ago. It is “The Estridge”, a wooden carving from 1629 on the occasion of the Lord Mayor’s pageant for Sir James Campbell, three times Master of the Company (1615, 1623, 1640). That’s some old bird. The connection with ironmongery is that back in the day, it was thought that ostriches were able to eat and digest iron, hence the horseshoe in the animal’s beak. If you went to the superb Royal River exhibition at the Maritime Museum, Greenwich, you will have seen this same ostrich on display, on loan from the Company.

estridge, ostrich, ironmongers' hall

Three years ago, in Greenwich.

Three years ago, in Greenwich.

You can see a gallery of pictures from our visit to the Ironmongers’ Hall here and here.

More on ill-conceived myths relating to animals.

A guest post by LH Member, Laurence Scales.

Herbert William Garratt (08 Jun 1864–25 Sep 1913)

In 1902 engineer Herbert Garratt patented ‘an improved egg-opener’ for dealing with boiled eggs. In the words of the patent ‘A spring strip or band is bent to form a circular portion a and handles b, and provided with teeth c on the circular portion, preferably by stamping, and is used for breaking-off or opening eggs.’ Unfortunately for Garratt the egg opener never achieved the indispensability of the tin opener, and he did not make his fortune. But greatness still lay ahead.

When my mother, a lover of nature and a painter, reminisced about her childhood in the Transvaal and her journey to school, the words ‘Bayer Garratt’ sounded as incongruous as if I had turned a page of Pride and Prejudice and suddenly found Elizabeth Bennet kicking the tyres of a Harley Davidson. The name of Herbert Garratt, tends to resonate with those of southern African heritage in a way that not even Sir Nigel Gresley could manage with those born near King’s Cross.

Garratt was born in Loddiges Road, Hackney and apprenticed at Bow Locomotive Works on the North London Railway. He then embarked on a career in and beyond the far outposts of the British Empire.

From 1889 to 1906 he worked on railways in Argentina, Cuba, Nigeria and Peru, all the while mulling over the problem of pulling heavy loads along steep and winding mountainous routes. The obvious solution to the problem was to couple several small locomotives together. But this was expensive in manpower and equipment. The alternative was to have one big fat locomotive. But then the boiler and firebox could not sit between the driving wheels or fit through the tunnels.

In 1907 Garratt patented his solution to the big fat problem, a very long articulated steam locomotive. In his design, rather than having the boiler directly above the wheels, a short fat boiler was slung like a hammock between two widely separated bogies (sets of axels). These bogies also carried the pistons, water and fuel. He was supported by Beyer, Peacock & Co. in Manchester. Garratt locomotives did not just sell around the British Empire. There were already rival designs notably those of Robert Fairlie (who lived in Clapham) and Anatole Mallet (Swiss) but the Garratts had advantages: energy efficiency, gentleness on the track and higher top speed.

The Garratts were a strange sight. In a sense they were like man-made elephants – enormous and with strange appendages. Perhaps they commanded in Africa the same awe and affection as the elephants with which they co-existed.

Rhodesia Railways

Rhodesia Railways

Rhodesia Railways

Rhodesia Railways

Rhodesia Railways

Rhodesia Railways

The first Garratt locomotive, known as K1, was more of a mouse built in 1910 for the narrow gauge of Tasmania. Sadly, Garratt died at his Ellerker Gardens home in Richmond in 1913 before he had lived to see his locomotive design succeed. Eventually 1,600 Garratt locomotives ran on 86 railways in 48 countries, greatly assisting their trade and development.

Although a rarity in Britain some Garratts, including the first, from Tasmania, can be seen working today on the steep narrow gauge Welsh Highland Railway where the same requirement for power with economy drove the choice of motive power when the defunct line reopened in 2011.


 

Further images of Garratt Locomotives
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tasmanian_Government_Railways_K_class#/media/File:K1_works_photograph.jpg
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:K1_Garratt_at_Caernarfon.jpg
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garratt#/media/File:Class_GMAM_4122_July_2004_%287863980914%29.jpg

A guest post by LH Member, George Goodwin.

Today, 18 March 2016, is the 250th anniversary of an event in Britain that was the cause of great celebration in America. This was the repeal of the hated Stamp Act, which, a year earlier, had been foisted on the American colonists by the British Parliament. However, today also marks the 250th anniversary of another British Parliamentary Act, which was ultimately to have far greater consequences for the relationship between Great Britain and its American colonies.

Contemporary cartoon illustrating the funeral of the Stamp Act.

Contemporary cartoon illustrating the funeral of the Stamp Act.

Unlike other imperial crises, the Stamp Act controversy was not a product of military defeat. Completely the opposite: it was caused by the complete success of Britain in the Seven Years’ War that ended in 1763. The French had been routed in both the West and East Indies and their power destroyed in North America. Britain was now the greatest power in the world, but it had come at a cost – the national debt had increased by over 50%. The British Government thought the American colonists should fund the ongoing cost of the British Army on American soil. This may or may not have been unreasonable. However the means they used to bring it about – the Stamp Act – most certainly was. It was unconstitutional. According to the charters of the American colonies, it was their right to introduce internal taxation and not a power of the British Parliament.

There was uproar in the American colonies, because the stamp duty was a tax on all paper products – all licences, newspapers, even playing cards. In fact it was a tax on everyday living. Opposition in the colonial assemblies was matched by mob violence in the Streets.

Sensibly, in response to months of protest, the British Government set up a Committee of the whole House of Commons to consider repeal. Expert witnesses were called, including most importantly, Benjamin Franklin (then living in London), who convinced them of the necessity of repeal.

Yet, the government needed a sop to give to the Parliamentary backbenchers who had been appalled by the violence in the colonies. This was The Declaratory Act, which declared the right of the British Parliament to tax the colonies. Americans, including, at this point, Benjamin Franklin, were assuaged by the assurance that it was a mere assertion of a right and would never be enforced. In the event, after a change of government, a new Chancellor of the Exchequer did enforce it with duties on glass, paint, paper and tea. But that is another story…….


George Goodwin is the author of Benjamin Franklin in London: The British Life of America’s Founding Father, just published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson (UK) and Yale University Press (North America).

As we celebrate the anniversary this day of the opening of Selfridges in 1909 and mourn the end of ITV’s Mr Selfridge, we remember the genius of retail who began it all. A guest post by David Long. 

DSC01750_250‘Only xx shopping days before Christmas’ is a phrase to cheer the heart or chill the bones, depending who hears it. Either way it was coined by the American-born retail magnate Harry Gordon Selfridge, one of many snappy and effective marketing slogans he came up with – ‘the customer is never wrong’ is thought to be another – most of which were quickly adopted by his rivals.

A partner in the US giant Marshall Field (still with us, as part of the Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s empire) Selfridge and his wife arrived in Mayfair in the early 1900s. Unimpressed by the quality of London department stores, he decided to establish his own, ploughing an estimated £400,000 (equivalent to more than £120 million today) into a large plot at what was then the decidedly unfashionable end of Oxford Street. The result was the building familiar to visitors today, its giant Ionic columns the work of English architects R.F.Atkinson and Sir John Burnett with a clock as its centrepiece, nearly three and a half metres in diameter and called The Queen of Time.

The Queen of Time

The Queen of Time

Selfridge’s timing was fortunate, and he was a canny and highly perceptive operator. An early advocate of paid advertising, one who recognised that a generation of newly emancipated women looked upon shopping as a recreation not a chore, he worked tirelessly to promote Selfridges as a destination rather than a mere shop. He even lobbied to get the nearest underground station renamed Selfridges, and when his friend Lord Ashfield, Managing Director of the Underground Electric Railway Company, decided to stick with the name Bond Street serious consideration was given to running a private tunnel from the top of the escalators right into the store.

From the start Selfridge was also a great innovator. In 1910 his emporium became the first in the world to have a ground floor beauty department, and today – when almost every rival has followed suit – its beauty hall is still the world’s largest (It sells more than 7,700 lipsticks, 2,800 mascaras and 1,000 nail polishes every week.) For years the store ran its own private Information Bureau, equipped with more books than the average local library and a trained staff dedicated to finding answers to literally any question a customer might put to them. Movie directors were also invited to film scenes in the store, providing yet more valuable publicity for the company. (They still are: in Love Actually Rowan Atkinson is maddeningly meticulous service when he enquires of Alan Rickman’s agitated customer ‘Would you like it gift wrapped?’)

While he turned down the chance to sell the revolting sounding ‘Sitwell Egg’ (a porable confection of rice, artificial lime and pressed meat devised by the eccentric serial inventor Sir George Sitwell) Selfridge frequently called on new technologies to boost his business.

In 1909 Louis Bleriot’s aeroplane went on display here shortly after the Frenchman had become the first to fly across the Channel – more than 150,000 Londoners queued to see it. In 1925 the Scottish inventor John Logie Baird was paid £25 a week to demonstrate his new machine to customers, Selfridge identifying at once that what its creator called the ‘Televisor’ was not a toy but ‘a link between all peoples of the world’. Four years later, to celebrate the store’s 20th anniversary, the exterior was lit up by an unprecedented display of more than 30,000 electric lightbulbs.

Already rich when he arrived in London the popularity and runaway success of the new venture made Selfridge richer still, and following the death of his wife in the post-war flu pandemic he settled down to enjoy it in fine Mayfair style. For a while he flirted with the idea of building a huge square tower on top of the store, one which would have dominated the whole of the West End had not his architect warned that it was so massive that the entire edifice might collapse under its own weight.

Instead, in the absence of such an obvious monument, a Blue Plaque at 9 Fitzmaurice Place is now all there is to give one an indication of the scale on which he chose to spend his fortune. Now home to the Lansdowne Club, this was once a truly magnificent Adam mansion, with wings either side of the main Palladian block and private gardens so extensive that even into the 20th century it could still be described as ‘secluded’.

The house had originally been built for the fabulously rich Marquess of Bute (1713-92), Britain’s first Scottish Prime Minister. It was later sold to William, Earl of Shelburne who renamed it after himself when he was created Marquess of Lansdowne.

When Selfridge took over the lease in 1921, Adam’s masterpiece was still very much one of the great West End houses although sadly its façade and wings were soon afterwards demolished so that a road could be cut through from Berkeley Square to Curzon Street and Piccadilly. Two important rooms were saved: a Drawing Room now installed in the Museum of Arts in Philadelphia; and the Dining Room which found its way to the Metropolitan Museum in New York

Ahead of this act of architectural vandalism Selfridge’s period as custodian of such a landmark house scandalised London society even more than his decision in 1922 to allow waitresses in the store’s restaurant to wear trousers. (This was to allow them to move more quickly from table to table.)

The cause of the scandal this time was his love life, which included affairs with a divorcée (Syrie Barnardo Wellcome, who later married Somerset Maugham) and the Dolly Sisters, a fashionable pair of cabaret artistes of middle-European origins. The idea of cabaret girls was in itself enough to make dowagers feel faint; what made Selfridge’s behaviour even more outré was that discreet enquiries into which sister he was with – Jenny or Rosie? – seemed to point to his carrying on with both of them simultaneously.
While the girls gambled recklessly, Selfridge spent in much the same manner on a wild parties, fleets of Rolls-Royces to ferry friends to race meetings, and for a while a truly mad plan to build himself a castle in Hampshire surrounded by more than four miles of high stone walls.

The whole thing was deliciously decadent, typically 1920s and oh-so-Mayfair, but unfortunately taking his eye of the ball in this way meant that control of Oxford Street’s mightiest retail phenomenon soon slipped from its founder’s grasp. Before long he was manoeuvred out by his fellow directors and with his fortune much diminished by the Depression of the 1930s Harry Gordon Selfridge, incredibly, fell into debt. In 1947 he died, a poor man, living in a tiny flat with his daughter, at 81 Putney Hill, SW15.


David Long‘s latest book on the capital is a companion to the West End called ‘Paved with Gold’ (Fort Publishing).‎ It includes a detailed examination of its history, art, architecture and inhabitants.

Disaster at Drury Lane

On this day in 1809, the Theatre Royal Drury Lane was destroyed by fire. Theatres were always burning down, so nothing really unusual in fact. What made this conflagration different, is the involvement of the magnificent Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Dublin-born, Harrow-educated Sheridan is one of my favourite Londoners. A duellist, MP, playwright, impresario and much besides, he obtained full ownership of Drury Lane in 1778. In 1791 he demolished the 120 year old building which had opened in 1674 (replacing the short-lived 1663 original), and built a fabulous modern theatre more to his liking and ambition. Designed by Henry Holland, it opened in 1794, apparently with the latest fire-prevention features. Here is Rowlandson and Pugin’s depiction of its interior, only a year before disaster struck.
trdr

Sheridan himself witnessed the destruction of his beloved theatre from the street, glass of wine in hand, remarking laconically: “A man may surely be allowed to take a glass of wine by his own fireside.”

A guest post by London Historians member Robin Reynolds.
You can see higher resolution versions of all images in this article in our Flickr space, here

Visscher’s view of London has long been a puzzle. If, as many people believe, he never visited the city, how was his panorama researched, and by whom? The further puzzle is why did his neighbour and rival, Ludovicus Hondius, publish the London panorama when Visscher himself was already an established and successful publisher?

We may never know for sure, but perhaps there’s enough, in the many engravings and etchings that he left behind, for us to understand something about the man, and to make a reasonable guess as to how the London engraving was compiled.

Visscher's London Panorama of 1616

Visscher’s London Panorama of 1616

Existing documentation allows us to sketch his life in outline. Son of a shipyard carpenter, he was born in Amsterdam around 1587. So he’s 13 at the turn of the century, and 16 when Queen Elizabeth I dies, to be succeeded by the Stuart King James I.

Visscher marries Neel Floris in 1608, and the following year they buy a house in the city centre, where he bases his studio and publishing operation. So already, aged just 22, he’s a thrusting businessman, originating new work and reviving worn-out second-hand plates sold off by other publishers. (In those days an engraved copper plate was limited to 1,000 prints or so before the grooves faded under the weight of the press. Visscher’s craftsmen would recut the grooves and print off new editions.)

He runs a highly productive workshop up to his death in 1652, and he hands on to his son one of the most successful publishing businesses in Europe.

His own achievements as an engraver are humbling. His series of small landscapes capturing the rural life and scenery of the Low Countries are the subject of academic studies today. He produced posters – for example promoting a lottery to fund an old people’s home. The creation of polders – large-scale drainage and land reclamation projects – began in his time, and he produced maps of the new farmland, in which he promoted the precision of the surveyors’ measurements alongside the quality of his own work.

Dutch countryside by Visscher_500

Dutch countryside by Visscher.

His most profitable line was publishing Reformation bibles, and his most spectacular work is Leo Belgicus, a stunning statement of the defiance of the protestant Low Countries in their long-running and bloody conflict with Catholic Spain.

Then there are his city panoramas. Not many prints survive, but we know that at least 28 came out of the Visscher workshop.

And finally there is his most intriguing line, news pictures.

Together, these works help us to picture the man and to get some measure of his personality.

Amsterdam’s Kalverstraat, where he lived and worked, was the publishing hub of the city, and a shared sense of humour and self-mockery seems to have attached itself to this emerging industry. Hondius names his workshop The Watchful Dog (Hondius = de Hondt = dog). Dancker Danckerts calls his publishing house In Gratitude. Likewise Visscher makes a joke of his own name, adopting as his trademark a fisherman with two rods. The figure appears again and again in different works, so perhaps this image – a cross between Father Christmas and a garden gnome – is how he saw himself.

Trademark fisherman_500

On the face of it he’s a likeable fellow, referred to fondly in a poem by one of the writers with whom he collaborated:

‘The young should rack their brains
And with great diligence strive for knowledge,
As did Visscher, who teaches in his prints
How one may become a master in this art’

But to judge from his news prints, he’s far from being Father Christmas. He’s a Calvinist activist, supporting the House of Orange in the Dutch Revolt. He produces diagrams and illustrations of battles on land and at sea, and he revels in atrocities perpetrated by the Calvinists against their enemies.

Witness the fun he has over the execution of Hendrick Slatius, an Arminian protestant who plotted to kill the prince of Orange. As the sword falls, Slatius throws up his hands. One is sliced off and the other dangles by a thread. How do we know this? Visscher gives us a grisly close-up. Another image shows the headless torso exposed for the crows high on a wooden plinth. Thoughtfully nailed to the perch beside him is the severed hand.

slat 6_500

slat 10_500

slat 5_500

Visscher produces a veritable comic strip of ensuing events. The body, head and hand are retrieved under cover of dark by friends unknown, and buried decently – albeit secretly – in a farm field. But not for long. The farmer’s plough turns up the coffin, and the bits, including the hand with its distinctive nail-hole, are dragged back to town.

Visscher has a final laugh as the body is reinstated. The clumsy handlers lose their grip, and the headless, naked body slips off its perch and dangles upside down.

That was in 1623. Seventeen years earlier, Visscher produced a news sheet depicting the execution of the Catholic Gunpowder Plotters in what is supposedly St Paul’s Churchyard, London. But, revealingly, the bodies are being chopped and burned by men in Dutch clothing against a Dutch townscape.

So we can say with certainty that in 1606 Visscher didn’t know what London or Londoners looked like. Ergo, he did not make sketches of Elizabethan London three or more years earlier.

The way Visscher went about his 1611 Amsterdam panorama tells us this is a man for the short cut. Rather than row across the river to make his own sketches, he buys the plates of a relatively sparse 1599 Amsterdam panorama by Pieter Bast, adds extra ships and foreground characters, and bish-bosh, we have what is probably his first wide city view.

Amsterdam panorama by Bast.

Amsterdam panorama by Bast.

Amsterdam panorama by Visscher

Amsterdam panorama by Visscher

I think this is further evidence that Visscher wouldn’t have taken time out to go to London, but I also think it’s where Visscher’s involvement in the London project begins.

The London project almost certainly belongs to the publisher, named as Ludovicus Hondius following the recent death of his father Jodocus Hondius. In fact Ludovicus would have been just 14 at the time, so in all probability his mother Colette (of the Van den Keere engraving family) was pulling the strings.

But it’s a solid guess that the idea originated with the late Jodocus, who was familiar with London and had substantial London connections. A Flemish cartographer and artist, Jodocus spent nine years in England, a refugee of the religious troubles in his homeland. In that time he hooked up with, among others, the seafaring hero Francis Drake. Two Drake portraits at the National Portrait Gallery are attributed to Hondius.

It’s possible that when he moved to Amsterdam in 1593, he took with him a sheaf of sketches of London, made from the top of St Mary Overie (today’s Southwark Cathedral). However it’s more likely that he remained in touch with artists in London, and was sent a sketched view, by an acquaintance unknown to us, of the city around the turn of the century.

Either way, nothing is done with those sketches until several years later. Possibly not until after Hondius’s death in 1612. By then Visscher’s Amsterdam panorama is in circulation, and no doubt doing well.

I fancy that at Number 9 Kalverstraat Visscher is thinking it’s time for another city panorama, while a few doors away Mrs Hondius is going through the papers of her late husband. She comes across the London sketches, knocks at Visscher’s door, and a deal is done. She supplies the sketches, Visscher does the engraving, she takes it to market.

Neither of them, evidently, takes much notice of content. That the royal barge is still flying the Tudor flag, 13 years into the reign of the Stuart King James, is neither here nor there. One of them – probably Mrs H – decides that for this first edition, there should be a tract of Latin text, lifted from William Camden’s Britannia, describing London in glorious terms. When the copy falls short, their solution is to drop in a few paragraphs about, of all things, glass-making, taken from Johan Pontanus’s recent History of Amsterdam. Again it doesn’t seem to matter that people might notice.

Visscher London with Latin

Visscher London with Latin

Some thirty years after Visscher’s death, the family produced a catalogue of the prints they had on offer. The inventory includes 28 four-plate city panoramas, from Lisbon to Constantinople, Augsburg to Vlissingen, Rome to Cracow.

It seems unlikely that Visscher engraved all of these himself, and still less likely that he researched them in person, on location. But in the world that explorers such as Drake had opened up, there was undoubtedly an appetite for the exotic, and Visscher exploited it to the full.

You can see higher resolution versions of all images in this article in our Flickr space, here


Visscher Redrawn, the brainchild of Robin Reynolds, is a project in which Robin drew a panorama for 2016 from the exact viewpoint of Visscher’s famous 1616 version. Both images are on display at the Guildhall Art Gallery from Saturday 20 February until November. Robin will be speaking at a London Historians evening event at the gallery on 8 March. Over a glass of wine. Event details and booking here.

London panorama by Reynolds, 2016.

London panorama by Reynolds, 2016.

 

old pennyNew pee. Such an ugly phrase, introduced this day in 1971 with the decimalisation of the currency. It was, I suppose, to differentiate it from the outgoing old pennies – or pence: huge copper items which carried every monarch’s head from Queen Victoria onwards. On the reverse was the image of Britannia and the year. In written form, the old penny was “D/d” as in the Roman denarius. Most of them were tarnished dark brown or black. The old Victorian, Edwardian or George V ones were heavily worn.

Cui bono? Well, I suppose it was easier to teach and to learn.

But what did we lose? We lost the thrupenny bit and the Tanner (6d). We lost the bob (12d), the sov (sovereign, old pound: archaic), the crown (5s = 60d) and the half-crown (2/6 = 30d). We lost the ten bob note – that’s 50p to younger readers. Thankfully the word “quid” has survived. But let’s face it, it was an altogether more colourful currency than that which we have today.

Why did we have to learn the twelve times table? That’s the reason. You had to be pretty good at basic mental arithmetic to know you had the right change when you bought your newspaper. I contend that our complex currency made us a more numerate people before 1971.

Somehow the guinea survived, a wonderful anachronism. It remains the currency unit of choice at livestock sales and the Turf. It is worth, bizarrely, £1.05, or 21 shillings old money. The guinea was introduced during the reign of Charles II. Struck from pure west African gold (hence Guinea), it had an initial value of 20 shillings. But as the value of gold increased over time, its value went up to as much as 27 shillings. Eventually in the early 19C it was pegged at 21s. Strictly the currency of the wealthy (few ordinary people had more than a quid to spend back then), the guinea was used in horse and livestock sales, gambling, the art market and so on.

I realise that all this makes me sound a grumpy old reactionary: I don’t care.

Long live the mighty guinea!

More on the guinea.

 

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