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A guest post by LH Member Catharine Arnold. This article was previously published in London Historians Members’ Newsletter of November 2014.

Playwright Ben Jonson [1572-1637], scholar of Westminster School, soldier and one time bricklayer, a trade he hated, is best known for his satires Bartholomew Fair and Volpone. As a dramatist, Jonson was Shakespeare’s greatest rival, and he was fortunate to survive the knockabout world of the London stage, as this anecdote illustrates.

By 1598, Ben Jonson’s dramatic talents ensured that he was much valued by his acting company, the Admiral’s Men, which performed at the Rose. While Francis Meres recorded that Jonson was considered ‘the best for tragedy’, Jonson’s satirical skills were also in the ascendant and he would see a positive reception for his comedy, Every Man in His Humour. This was in spite of the debacle of his previous play, The Isle of Dogs, a political lampoon regarded as so contentious by the authorities that the theatre was raided on the first night and Jonson and his comrades thrown into jail. However, as Jonson’s star rose, so another actor’s reputation sank. Gabriel Spenser, Jonson’s cellmate in the Marshalsea after the disastrous production of The Isle of Dogs had joined him in the Admiral’s Men but a bitter feud had developed between the pair, and plummeted to new depths over the following year. As the 26-year-old Jonson scaled the professional heights, the unpopular Spenser sank deeper into drink and developed an implacable hatred of Jonson. Unpopular among the actors, Spenser had a reputation as a troublemaker, and worse.

Two years earlier, on 3 December, 1596, Spenser had been present at the house of Richard East, along with a man named James Feake, between five and six in the afternoon. According to witnesses ‘insulting words had passed’ between Spenser and Feake. Feake had seized a copper candlestick which he threatened to throw at Spenser, whereupon Spenser seized his sword and stabbed Feake in the right eye, penetrating the brain and inflicting a mortal wound. Poor Feake ‘languished and lived in languor at Holywell Street’ for three days before he died. Despite being accused of murder, Spenser was not executed, or required to forfeit any goods. Perhaps the three days between the fight and Feake’s death gave Spenser the opportunity to assemble friendly witnesses to testify that Feake had provoked him. It was a violent age and men such as Spenser did not hesitate to resort to their weapons if the opportunity demanded it. But Nemesis came for Gabriel Spenser two years later.

On the evening of 22 September 1598, Ben Jonson encountered Spenser in Hoxton Fields in Shoreditch, just around the corner from the Curtain Theatre. The men quarrelled and Spenser challenged Jonson to a duel. Fighting came naturally to both men. Jonson had been a soldier, but as an actor Spenser had trained for fight scenes. All Englishmen had the right to bear arms, and fencing was regarded as a vital accomplishment and an extension of one’s masculinity, as indicated in these lines from The Merry Wives of Windsor. ‘I bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence.’ Elizabethan youths flocked to the fencing schools, and swordplay was an everyday occurrence in Elizabethan London, part of the throbbing violent pulse of the times.

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Fighting for his life. Sword fighting in the late Tudor style. Jonson’s weapon is considerably shorter than that of his assailant, Gabriel Spenser.

So here stood Jonson, the provoked, and Spenser, the provoker, with weapons drawn, about to fight to the death. The protagonists were equally matched in terms of skill, but as the younger man, Jonson had the advantage. The fight between Jonson and Spenser must have been as theatrical as any performed on stage. Once violence is imaginatively re-created, it gains its own momentum. Did this skirmish start as a drunken taunt, a play-fight between two hot-headed hell-raisers? In terms of weapons, it was scarcely a fair fight. Spenser’s sword was ten inches longer and it was only the fact that Spenser had been drinking all day that gave Jonson the advantage. As Spenser staggered about waving his sword, Jonson swiped back at him and, within minutes, Spenser was dead at his feet.

Although he maintained that Spenser had struck first, wounding him in the arm, Jonson was charged with ‘feloniously and wilfully’ slaying Gabriel Spenser’ with ‘a certain sword of iron and steel called a rapier, of the price of three shillings, which he then and there had and held drawn in his right hand.’ According to witnesses, Jonson inflicted a six inch wound to Spenser’s right side which killed him instantly. Despite claiming to have been acting in self-defence, Jonson was arrested and taken to Newgate, charged with murder. For all his genius, it looked as if Jonson’s final performance was to be upon the scaffold at Tyburn. But Jonson had one trump card left. As a former pupil at Westminster School, he possessed one item which nobody could take away from him, and that was his education. Jonson’s life was saved by a legal loophole which permitted the literate man to escape sentence ‘by benefit of clergy’ on the grounds that any man with a working knowledge of Latin was a cleric and therefore immune to secular law. The ‘Benefit of Clergy’ posed no difficulty for Jonson, who was required to do nothing more than recite an extract from Psalm 51 which began Miserere Mei or ‘Have mercy upon me, O Lord.’ This stratagem saved so many prisoners from the gallows that it became known as ‘the neck verse’. Jonson emerged from Newgate with an ‘x’ branded on his thumb to prevent him claiming benefit of clergy a second time. This was a lasting reminder of his imprisonment, but he had at least escaped with his life.

Philip Henslowe, owner of the Rose Theatre, was horrified by this turn of events. On 26 September 1598, he wrote: ‘I have lost one of my company, which hurteth me greatly, that is Gabriel, for he is slain in Hogsden Fields by the hands of Benjamin Jonson, bricklayer.’ Jonson, no doubt, would have been hurteth greatly to be referred to as a bricklayer, the trade which he so despised.

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A guest post by LH Member Lissa Chapman.

B2002.15It seems significant that so many modern studies of Aphra Behn and her work feature a mask on the cover.  Famous as the first-ever professional woman playwright, Behn was also a novelist, poet, translator – and spy.  And she was adept at suppressing information about herself.

By the time of her death in 1689, Behn had become something of a celebrity, and was allowed the honour of a grave in the cloisters at Westminster Abbey.  In a 20-year career in the theatre, she had written and had staged nearly 20 plays.  And for a time her work remained popular – for several decades her play The Emperor of the Moon was staged every time a Friday, 13th came round, as theatre managements knew the show would pull in a crowd whatever the date.  But the world changed, and Behn’s work began to be regarded as too coarse to read.  By the nineteenth century she was firmly forgotten:  the Victorians, disliking the Restoration as a period anyway, could not forgive Aphra Behn for having been a woman, and regarded her work as “too coarse to open”.  Even when, in the next century, Virginia Woolf wrote of placing flowers on Behn’s grave, it was as a trailblazer she was to be remembered:  there was no discussion of the quality of her work. In recent years at least some of Aphra Behn’s work has begun to emerge from the shadows.  A number of her plays, most notably The Rover have been staged, and it is generally agreed that her best writing is at least as good as that of her most famous contemporaries;  there have been new editions of her work, two biographies and innumerable articles.

As part of this, at least some of Aphra Behn’s life story has emerged from the shadows.  And it is now clear just what odds she overcame in order to survive at all, let alone to get her work staged and published and to maintain her independence.  Aphra Johnson, born near Canterbury in 1640, was the daughter of a barber and a wet nurse who worked for an aristocratically connected family.   It was probably as a result of this that Aphra was recruited, first as a courier for Royalist plotters during the Commonwealth years, and then as a fully fledged spy.  She was sent first to Surinam, then to the Low Countries, on each occasion to watch and connect with the dissident William Scot.  Aphra, only in her twenties, was a total failure as a spy:  she fell in love with her quarry, who double crossed her, and finally returned to London, badly in debt and with little to show for her mission.  Yet only a few years later, after a short lived marriage to a German merchant, Aphra Behn was established in London as a professional writer – this is the ferocious and misogynist world of the Restoration theatre.

But not all Aphra Behn’s work receives the attention it merits.  Her final play, The Widow Ranter, set in Virginia and featuring not only the reimagined story of a rebellion but satire, music, dance, spectacle, several different love stories and a cross-dressed, drunken, pipe smoking former servant for a heroine, was staged only once, just after its author’s death.  It was published with a defensive preface explaining it had been badly cast, and then laid aside and forgotten.  A couple of years ago Clio’s Company became interested in the play – a reading one afternoon told us it deserved another chance to live on stage.  After Aphra, written by Lissa Chapman and Jay Venn and incorporating scenes from The Widow Ranter as well as new work, is also part of a sequence of productions which will lead up to a full scale production of  in 2020, the 250th anniversary year of the staging of Behn’s first play, The Forc’d Marriage.


After Aphra: The Story of Aphra Behn and “The Widow Ranter” will be performed at the atmospheric. Watermen’s Hall on 23rd October for one night only. A time of writing there are a few places still available.


Editor’s Note
In Our Time on BBC Radio 4 devoted an episode to Aphra Behn in October 2017.

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Yesterday I went along to three exhibitions by City of London institutions which opened recently. All are well worth visiting; all are free.

Guildhall Art Gallery: Sublime Symmetry
This exhibition features the works of William De Morgan, the late 19th century London ceramicist, friend and collaborator of William Morris, GF Watts and many others. We are long-standing fans of De Morgan. The closure of a dedicated gallery in Wandsworth some years ago tragically meant that a huge collection of his work, which is owned by the De Morgan Foundation, has been kept behind closed doors. It’s important therefore to do all you can to get to this show. The theme is De Morgan’s background in mathematics, how that meshed with his interest in Islamic symmetical forms and from there informed his decorative work. The artist’s father and brother were both celebrated mathemeticians. Augustus De Morgan was the founding Professor of Mathematics at UCL, friend and correspondent of Ada Lovelace among others, and clearly a warm and funny character. It felt good to meet him. But of course, the stars of the show are De Morgan’s sumptuous, exquisite works. Vases, bowls, dishes, tiles all beautifully decorated with figures from nature and myth.
This runs until 28 October.

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Guildhall Library: Worshipful Company of Tylers and Bricklayers
More a display than a full blown exhibition, this is the latest in the library’ series which features the City’s livery companies. This year celebrates the 450th anniversary of this company’s first Charter, granted by Elizabeth I 1568, although the company can trace its origins back to 1416. We are shown many objects from its collection, well complemented by items from the library as well. This includes probably my favourite, the so-called “Breeches” Bible from 1589, which was used for the administration of oaths. It is, of course, a late generation English bible before the advent of the Authorised Version (1611) and furhermore is the only example of a chained book in the library’s collection.  In addition we have a trowel (of course), ledgers, ordnances and minute books, a loving cup and a portrait miniature of its most famous member, the playwright Ben Jonson who was a bricklayer before he made it big in the London theatre.
Runs until 31 August.

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The ‘Breeches’ Bible, 1598.

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Ben Jonson’s overdue subscription recorded as paid.

London Metropolitan Archives: Picturing Forgotten London
What I love about the LMA exhibitions – and this one is no exception – is that you see historical images that you’ve never seen before. Not one. This is remarkable considering the hundreds of London history books out there, not to mention what’s online. To choose one example, I thought I’d seen everything on frost fairs: not so!

The headline title is a broad topic indeed which features not forgotten London necessarily, but a London which simply no longer exists, whether the obvious things such a buildings, but also professions, animals, forms of government, everyday life, religion, commerce, housing, transport, technology, sport, food and welfare. The images which bring these themes to life – whether maps, engravings or photographs – are clearly heavily researched astutely chosen.

Warmly recommended. Runs until 31 August.

© London Met Archives 28160 Frost Fair low_500

London’s last frost fair, 1814.

By the time this print was published, just few days later, the ice had melted, and the fair gone forever. London Bridge can be seen in the distance.

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Rural Archway, 1841.

A winding lane with barns and a farmhouse. It is hard to imagine London’s built-up suburbs as open country but the last farms in the area only disappeared in the early twentieth century.

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Commercial warehousing, buildings and shops in front of St Pancras Station, 1871.

St. Pancras station opened in 1868 but the hotel and grand entrance were not completed until 1876. Older buildings were demolished as part of the project, including this row of houses and shops which stood nearby. It’s hard to imagine this picturesque scene on one of the busiest parts of Euston Road today.

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South Bank, 1952. Featuring County Hall and the Skylon.

This seemingly free-floating steel structure stood outside the Dome of Discovery on the main Festival of Britain site on the South Bank. With no particular function or message, ‘Skylon’ was nonetheless much loved. It was removed shortly after the closing of the Festival.

 

 

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A guest post by Stephen Halliday, first published in London Historians Members’ Newsletter April 2014. .

Borough Market, in Southwark, has a claim to be the oldest of all the capital’s markets still trading on its original site and celebrating its 1,000th anniversary in 2014. By 1276, according to a document of that date, it had become a nuisance by spreading to the south side of London Bridge. The bridge had been rebuilt in stone 100 years earlier by Henry II and was itself a severe bottleneck, being congested by over one hundred shops and houses whose construction on the bridge had helped pay for it. The bridge also provided a home for London’s first public latrine. The proximity of the market accentuated the problem, causing a serious impediment to the City’s commercial life. Almost three centuries passed until the reign of Edward VI (1547-53) when the young king granted a charter in 1550 vesting the market rights in the Lord Mayor and citizens of the City who were thereby able to regulate the management of the market and the space which it occupied. The market sold grain, fruit, vegetables, fish and some livestock. In 1671 a new charter from Charles II fixed the limits of the market as extending from the southern end of London Bridge to St Margaret’s Hill which lay close to the present site of Guy’s Hospital and to the former home, in today’s Talbot yard, of the Tabard Inn from which Chaucer’s pilgrims set out for Canterbury.

Modern Borough Market

Modern Borough Market

By 1754 the continued chaos caused by traffic to and from the market prompted the City Corporation to petition Parliament to relieve them of the responsibility of the market whose growth, in response to the increasing population of London, had proved to be unmanageable. The Borough Market Act of 1756, therefore abolished the ancient market but gave the parish of St Saviour’s Southwark (later Southwark Cathedral) the right to set up a market on a new site. A group of Southwark residents raised six thousand pounds to purchase land known as The Triangle, south of St Saviour’s which remains at the heart of the market. The present buildings were designed in 1851 by Henry Rose who had earlier redesigned the nave of St Saviour’s with further work in 1863-4 by Edward Habershon. Both architects were chiefly associated with ecclesiastical designs which no doubt accounts for the “Gothic” character of some of the market buildings, particularly the elaborate wrought ironwork. An Art Deco entrance from Southwark Street was added in 1932 and in 2004 the south portico from Covent Garden’s Floral Hall was installed when the Royal Opera House was redeveloped. By 1851 Borough Market had become one of London’s most important. Its position close to the wharves of the Pool of London made it readily accessible to ships unloading their cargoes and it was well placed to supply retail and catering outlets both in the City and in the rapidly developing suburbs of South London.

Flying leasehold
The market is situated beneath a railway junction whose tracks are the most heavily used in Great Britain, where trains from south of London, having passed through London Bridge station, proceed to Cannon Street, Blackfriars, Waterloo East and Charing Cross. This was a mixed blessing. On the one hand access to the railway meant that market traders had additional sources of produce from Kent and Sussex but on the other hand the market did not wish to give up any of its precious land for railway tracks and was prevented from doing so by the terms of the 1756 Borough Market Act. An arrangement was made whereby the railway companies were granted a flying leasehold enabling them, from 1860, to build a viaduct carrying the permanent way while the market continued to trade beneath the arches. This arrangement continues and every time the railway viaduct is widened compensation is paid to the market trustees who number sixteen and who have to live in the area. An excellent view of the market can be had from the viewing platform of The Shard, Europe’s tallest building.

Over one hundred stallholders continue to sell fruit and vegetables, a Blue Plaque recording that theirs is the site of London’s oldest market. To these have been added meat, fish and cheese and gourmet outlets such as De Gustibus breads, Furness Fish and Game and the Brindisa tapas restaurant amongst many others. The wholesale market operates on weekdays from 2 am to 8 am and the retail market on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays from 9 to 5, after which the area’s restaurants and cafes continue to trade. The market has its own inspectorate which operates in partnership with Southwark’s trading standards department.

The Area
In Shakespeare’s time Southwark was home to many theatres which were regarded as too disreputable to be accommodated within the City itself across London Bridge and the area was run down until the second half of the twentieth century. It then underwent a major revival with the South Bank developments, beginning with the Royal Festival Hall and the National Theatre. These were followed by the opening, in 1995 of Shakespeare’s Globe, within walking distance of the market. The original Globe was destroyed by fire in 1613 and the present theatre, Inspired by the American actor Sam Wanamaker, is as faithful a reproduction of the original as fire regulations will permit. Three years later the Tate Modern art gallery was opened in the converted Bankside power station so the South Bank, from being a poor relation of the City, has become its cultural neighbour and many visitors combine a visit to the bustling Borough Market with a visit to the Globe or Tate Modern followed by a meal at one of the many restaurants which are found in the vicinity of the market.

Shakespeare's Globe.

Shakespeare’s Globe.

The market has its own website with an interactive map at boroughmarket.org.uk. with an entry for its magazine Market Life which is produced every six weeks and can be obtained in the market or at London Bridge station.


Stephen Halliday is the author of numerous books on the history of London, beginning with The Great Stink of London: Sir Joseph Bazalgette and the Cleansing of the Metropolitan Metropolis (History Press, 1999) and including London’s Markets : from Smithfield to Portobelllo Road (History Press, 2014). He lives in Cambridge and contributes articles and reviews regularly to national newspapers and magazines
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Guest Post.
Fifty years past. The Summer of Love ; Sgt Pepper; homosexuality decriminalised. Momentous events. Ursula Jeffries remembers her time as a young executive in London. 

It is hard to see yourself as part of history but there comes a time….

I was always a south London girl but July 1967 was when I really started to get to know the city. There were few gap years in those days so my graduate traineeship began straight away and I was whisked from the dreaming spires into what was known by the inmates as the tomb of the unknown borrower. The Abbey National headquarters building in Baker Street can still be seen in its imposing nearly art deco glory. Now divided into flats, it was then the ultimate functional commercial building of the sixties straddling the old and the new. Almost the whole of the ground floor was taken up by the computer, below ground were machines devoted to efficient direct mail and deep dark corridors of client files. The public view was mainly a grand banking hall and sight of an elegant lift to the working offices; this was operated by a Hungarian refugee, by all accounts a professor in his time. Visitors often looked for Sherlock Holmes and would get a response to a letter.

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The Abbey National Building, Baker Street. Today only the facade survives.

While modern management sought to brand the building society as up to date and swinging with cutting edge advertising campaigns and window displays (Happy National) many of the old guard clung to the old ways especially the logo of a couple holding an umbrella shaped like a roof. Much time was spent on keeping the silhouette of the lady in contemporary style. The length of skirts affected me as well. For the last three years I had been assiduously cutting off the hems of coats and skirts as the mini skirt took over. I literally had nothing to wear in a traditional office except my interview suit and only expensive shops had anything of suitable length. I had to wait until 1968 to afford Carnaby Street. My mother had sorted the problem of my waist length hippy hair by buying me a haircut at Vidal Sassoon and the change was so radical that my own boyfriend didn’t recognise me. I found the formality of the organisation difficult to absorb and I was the first female graduate in this post but they were very welcoming to me despite paying less salary on account of my gender. I had subsidised lunch in the middle management dining room and my own secretary; hierarchies were still firmly embedded.

Outside, the noisy, dirty streets were familiar to me. Red buses, telephone and post boxes, commercial traffic. Although much of the war damage had been dealt with the place was grimy, not helped by the massive level of cigarette smoking indoors and out. Nobody thought twice about it and the beleaguered nonsmokers didn’t complain much. I soon took a room in a shared flat which was affordable and near Baker Street – I could walk to work alongside Regents Park if I chose. I felt very safe as I started to get to get to know the different villages of London and there was an air of change for the better, unthreatening and fun. The only problem being that there was far too much to do.

On the South Bank the Festival Hall floated by the river representing British design and the modern London to come. The cafeteria was a great meeting point, snug between the bridges, ugly Hungerford and elegant Waterloo, and the promise of the Festival of Britain still hovered in the air as the riverside developments continued. The Old Vic had evolved from a Shakespeare rep to an embryonic National Theatre. Anyone lucky enough to be working and to have connections to the arts was privileged to be witness to a confident flowering of culture. I missed seeing Jimi Hendrix and Ray Charles but I did get to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. I didn’t have time or money for a television although I did have my Dansette record player. Back in the suburbs life was changing at a slower pace but pop music was a shared revolution and although views varied as to its ‘suitability’ it was absorbed much more than hippy culture was ever going to be.

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And what became of the hippies? On a hot summer afternoon we came out of the Curzon where we had watched Blowup. A commotion in Hyde Park attracted us and we found ourselves in the midst of hundreds of flower children dancing, ringing bells and floating in a fragrant mist. Music thumped in the distance and a poet declaimed from the top of a step ladder to anyone still in a state to listen. Free marijuana was the message; the demonstration was very gentle as were the police that we saw. One could trace their many influences but on that day it just felt like a dream – and you only had to breathe in to feel part of it!

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Hairposter49 years ago this very evening, the stage musical HAIR opened at the Shaftesbury Theatre, heralding the dawn of the Age of Aquarius, whatever that was. A troupe of hirsute performers led initially by Oliver Tobias and including Richard O’Brien and Tim Curry (yes, the seeds of Rocky Horror) delighted London audiences for the next five years until the theatre roof literally came down.

The previous era –  the Age of Stage Censorship – had ended the previous day with the Theatres Act 1968. This new law extinguished the considerable and centuries-old powers of the Lord Chamberlain to curtail all sweary bits, nudy bits and politically subversive bits from the theatres of the nation.

As the title suggests, the Lord Chamberlain is a Royal official. Originally, the approval or otherwise of new productions fell to the Master of the Revels, a powerful and lucrative royal sinecure. His physical office between 1578 and 1607 was based at St John’s Gate in Clerkenwell. Whenever I visit there, I always imagine the work of Shakespeare and his great contemporaries  having their first airing in front of the Master or his officials.

This situation pertained (not forgetting, of course, outright suppression during the Commonwealth) until 1737. Robert Walpole happened to be the Master of the Revels at that time. Weary of anti-government satire by the likes of Henry Fielding, Walpole put censorship on a statutory footing with his Licensing Act 1737, giving the responsibility of stage censorship directly to the Lord Chamberlain. Under the Act, the Lord Chamberlain could suppress any performance without recourse of appeal. The measures were softened with slight modifications in 1788 and 1843, but essentially our public entertainment remained thus bridled for over 200 years.


Interesting article on HAIR and contemporary theatre censorship here.
Complete 1968 HAIR soundtrack on YouTube here (terrific!).

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A Guest Post by Robert Cox.

The Life of the Inimitable Mrs Jordan

“Thank you my dear, for twenty years of love, happiness, financial support and ten children – now kindly leave the stage!”

200 years ago last year (2016) Dora Jordan died in poverty in St Cloud, Paris, aged 54. Her death followed an incredible life from impoverished Irish actress to greatly loved and admired celebrity, causing ‘Jordan-mania’ as one contemporary newspaper described her impact on the British public. She was the best-loved and greatest comedy actress of her day, alongside the acclaimed Mrs Siddons.

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Mrs  Jordan as Hypolita, 1791, after Hoppner. British Library.

As a star of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, Dora caught the attention of the Duke of Clarence, later to become King William IV, and for twenty years they lived and loved together as ‘husband and wife’ at Bushy House, Richmond Park. During all these years she maintained a furious pace on the theatre circuit whilst giving birth to ten children by William, acting throughout her pregnancies – often feeding the latest new arrival between scenes.

So why did she die penniless and alone – and how is her name virtually unknown?
Quite simple. This devoted hard-working mother who ‘kept’ her wasteful man for most of their twenty years together was ultimately betrayed by the Royal Family and their ruthless advisers.

This is nothing unusual you may think, but how could it be that Dora Jordan (born Dorothea Bland), until quite recently, failed to appear in the official history of the theatre where she was greatly acclaimed as actress and singer in roles from Shakespeare to farce, and where she was close friends with the theatre’s owners as well as major public figures of her day?

In 1994, Claire Tomalin’s brilliantly researched book, “Mrs Jordan’s Profession”, told for the first time the complete story of Dora Jordan’s rise from poverty in Ireland to the pinnacle of fame, fortune and adoration on the London stage. Dora was The Duchess of Drury Lane for 30 years – a testimony to her sheer hard work, enchanting personality and a comic talent second to none. A lady whose infinite goodness contrasts starkly with the deeds of those responsible for her wholly avoidable downfall. The fact that she and the Duke were so close – genuine soul mates as evident from the hundreds of letters they exchanged – makes her story all the more heart-breaking and the actions of royalty all the more contemptable. A poignancy resonating sharply with more recent events involving royal betrayal, as Michael Arditti writes of the biography, “Enthralling … brilliantly brings to life a saga in which the 19th century House of Hanover foreshadows the House of Windsor”.

The first person to attempt a biography of Dora was Elizabeth Inchbald – a contemporary and friend – but she lost her nerve and destroyed her manuscript on the advice of her confessor. For she was a Roman Catholic, and this was 1821.

In June 1830 the Duke of Clarence, son of George III, suddenly and unexpectedly found himself King of England. He was 64 and with his older brother George IV on the throne, had imagined seeing out his days as he’d spent most of his life – with no real responsibility or job. But overnight, King George’s sudden death turned that prospect on its head.

Soon after he took the throne, as King William IV, he was seized with remorse at the way he’d treated Dora. She had been dead for 15 years but one of the new king’s first acts was to commission a statue of her by England’s leading sculptor, Francis Chantrey, soon to be Sir Francis. Lost or forgotten for nearly 200 years, ironically the statue now rests where Dora was never invited, at Buckingham Palace. Not invited because of her wrong blood. A successor to the crown was not allowed to marry a commoner – his wife had to have blue blood. But it was the theatre, not royalty, that pumped through Dora’s heart.

Thankfully Dora Jordan has now been restored to her rightful place in the history of English theatre. Her name now echoes through the corridors and corners of The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane where once her beautiful voice and unique talent graced the stage and thrilled audiences for thirty long, extraordinary years. She is in the theatre’s Souvenir Brochure, talked about in the highly entertaining guided tours, and even on some occasions brought alive in lavish costume beneath an abundance of hair, laughing and lovely as ever she was.

Finally, the words of one of Dora’s contemporary admirers, Leigh Hunt – critic, poet and essayist – speaking straight from the heart after her tragic passing.

“The way she would take a friend by the cheek and kiss her, or make up a quarrel with a lover, or coax a guardian into good humour, or sing (without accompaniment) … trusting as she had the right to do, to the sole effect of her sweet, mellow and loving voice – the reader will pardon me, but tears of pleasure and regret come into my eyes at the recollection, as if she personified whatsoever was happy at that period of life, and which has gone … like herself.”
Robert Cox (February 2017)


More on Dora Jordan here.

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