tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26516413566188617352024-03-18T02:07:57.950-07:00The VictorianistOr: The Victorian Period Presented in Concise and Regular Articles:The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-52165059462593337342014-11-08T02:18:00.002-08:002014-11-08T02:18:59.955-08:00Guest Post: "A Victorian Institution in the Twentieth Century." Or: The Ongoing Mockings of Punch Magazine:<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Its getting to that time of year again when
the sun becomes but a fleeting acquaintance and a chill draws itself upon us
during the stark days, making home a snug and contended place to spend ones
time.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Around this time of year I enjoy a Sunday
evening with old books, be they novels or periodicals – or even Victorian
newspapers – to bask in the warmth of their pages as our ancestors did in the
days before electricity, when home entertainment on a dark autumn evening came
in the form of a few hours spent with the a Tennyson or Dickens, or, for a bit
of fun-poking and scathing wit, Punch.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m lucky enough, as I’ve boasted upon
these pages in the past, to own a few Punch’s myself, and I never tire of
thumbing the pages of them and marvelling not only at the incredible sketches
and cartoons, but the marvellously clever humour that simply isn’t available in
today’s society.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just over eighteen months ago I was lucky
enough to have Andre Gailani write a superb history of Punch (which you can
read <a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/a-loud-mocking-clamour-of-noise-punch.html">here</a>), and I’m delighted to say that he has furnished me with a second installment, this time exploring the magazine’s development and evolution coming
out of the Victorian era and into the twentieth century, where it continued to
mock and satirize the establishment.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>A Victorian Institution in the Twentieth
Century.</u></span></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Part 1: A Brave New Century</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72nL4wKUiLjFID1yJTNb0AKrjPEznvw6icTP0B5LMlp0m9l4R6JVjNeYanvsBACuVBic37Y6HihLDKTCe8RyRngNpykuc9atCNOTIBWhAWxXhTi2BvBxoLBrgNQeW2kU_AvdyNhYl-pZ_/s1600/Colour+Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72nL4wKUiLjFID1yJTNb0AKrjPEznvw6icTP0B5LMlp0m9l4R6JVjNeYanvsBACuVBic37Y6HihLDKTCe8RyRngNpykuc9atCNOTIBWhAWxXhTi2BvBxoLBrgNQeW2kU_AvdyNhYl-pZ_/s1600/Colour+Image.jpg" height="400" width="306" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't All Change in 1900 for PUNCH magazine,
but steady-as-she-goes. For one, the editorial staff, writers and cartoonists
were all Victorians: Editor Francis Burnand had contributed since 1863, Linley
Sambourne since 1867, and its greatest asset Sir John Tenniel who would retire
a year later, drew his first Punch illustration in 1850. A few of them
continued into the mid Twentieth Century: Lewis Baumer, George Stampa, Leonard
Raven-Hill and Bernard Partridge worked into the Thirties, Forties and Fifties
while a new generation of writers and artists such as PG Wodehouse, AP Herbert,
EV Lucas, George Morrow and EH Shepard began their long associations with the
magazine at the start of the century. The weekly issues from 1900 saw a wide
range of content and cartoon styles that celebrated the new century and
exported English-British culture on the back of its Responsibilities of
Empire while Mr Punch’s Extra Pages had guest authors such as Arthur Conan
Doyle and Somerset Maugham contributing one-off stories. But as change and
progress at home and abroad were being pushed through by powerful undercurrents
of organised labour, voting equality and rising nationalist independence, PUNCH
was firmly anchored in its own Victorian imperial glory. That year the PUNCH
offices moved from 85 Fleet Street a few hundred yards south to 10 Bouverie
Street where their printer-owners Bradbury and Agnew had already published (as
Bradbury and Evans) the Daily News, Thackeray and Dickens.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDeZ-yWoQieQ_xtZfZZtL4yucaNaXzS5nlftzqtRm02g_at5qJjnCmW6ECFAo0wkCM0Eh5pVSs0geyjjKJWWGzJgW6k9h-RpzDQm4D3u_0kY41GYf1xB3JuBp4Y78-qNDLhqej9mYOciL/s1600/War.And.Famine.The.Responsibilities.of.Empire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDeZ-yWoQieQ_xtZfZZtL4yucaNaXzS5nlftzqtRm02g_at5qJjnCmW6ECFAo0wkCM0Eh5pVSs0geyjjKJWWGzJgW6k9h-RpzDQm4D3u_0kY41GYf1xB3JuBp4Y78-qNDLhqej9mYOciL/s1600/War.And.Famine.The.Responsibilities.of.Empire.jpg" height="320" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Responsibilities of Empire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Optimism and Civilisation were the order of
the day: a dialogue called "The Coming Century" in 1898 may have described
a dystopia of a women-only parliament but in presenting a fantastical prophesy
it attempted to reinforce the established order. Real change however was
already afoot. The British government set up the Fawcett Commission in 1901, an
all-woman body led by moderate Suffragist leader Millicent Fawcett to
investigate concentration camps during The Boer War. <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region>’s
victory in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">South Africa</st1:place></st1:country-region>
caused widespread international criticism and approached the high watermark of an
Empire globally managed with the use of telegraphy and steam ships. The great threat
to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region> in the 19th
Century which had been <st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Russia</st1:country-region> became in the
20th a new imperial, naval <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
PUNCH’s finest hour was to be in the looming Great War, re-asserting English
and British patriotism while pulling together its reader/subjects into duty for
‘king and country’ during social unrest (Suffragettes) and nationalist independence
movements (Ireland) using humour, wisdom or outrage. Maintaining the <st1:place w:st="on">British Empire</st1:place>, defending both Civilisation and its own state
required vast human and political resources, not least in morale; and the
cartoons portrayed, reinforced and convinced accordingly. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0c81j2KHsre3M3WWKLHFY2k4W5iKUxjtFe35JAvyKjOVQbBBHzLe-sOYCry_inmQ5QFwb59JtJsqQI0VlGLhK5e9Ip6QPjrD0TNEksjyfr1DwXjIysMPGIdq-d_UhX2FKxIm5FqaXo_iD/s1600/Poker+and+Tongs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0c81j2KHsre3M3WWKLHFY2k4W5iKUxjtFe35JAvyKjOVQbBBHzLe-sOYCry_inmQ5QFwb59JtJsqQI0VlGLhK5e9Ip6QPjrD0TNEksjyfr1DwXjIysMPGIdq-d_UhX2FKxIm5FqaXo_iD/s1600/Poker+and+Tongs.jpg" height="536" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Look very closely at the New Year cartoon
for 1902 by Linley Sambourne and you will notice a muse with a mirror and
symbols reflected back-to-front and upside-down. A closer inspection reveals
the letters of the word TRUTH. Through satire and illustration PUNCH never
really alters underlying truths- however grotesquely disproportioned its
drawings, comical its characters or slanted its Conservative / Liberal / patriarchal / Imperial / English / male
bias. Rather, it reflects them back with a mirror of humour, intelligently
blending wit, opinion and observation into popular artistic expressions of the
highest order. Because a truth remains somewhere in the message, like comedy,
the whole thing works. Collectively the magazine described a culture and period
of time from within, and in so doing became the definition of Englishness: its
worldview, sensibilities, politics, fashions, hobbies and humour.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNODEiKy41R4X54AwFcSmfnDRwbwuaF8VjWON25bmRqKHwoyme9uMzY_IAPD07dGbrOVfOOnoZgVL9Iy9fFz1TntEija25LjE2fI7csd5N4SkW-hi7ypHoBusWcjB7mXDVoPtWx-G5q9cx/s1600/TRUTH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMjm3svnVRKMoE5onn6ymD5IGGs8zIcjnOrYwM8UhbTaXOHpa6tLu19TA1HGiFTwVu6soEO1qeJhDFElbjmhAz-vNiwgcUCc8ycBaWGBdByUW01aWxWjK-1sEl59QYbn3_ZYN6rI2Cuxe/s1600/TRUTH.Detail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMjm3svnVRKMoE5onn6ymD5IGGs8zIcjnOrYwM8UhbTaXOHpa6tLu19TA1HGiFTwVu6soEO1qeJhDFElbjmhAz-vNiwgcUCc8ycBaWGBdByUW01aWxWjK-1sEl59QYbn3_ZYN6rI2Cuxe/s1600/TRUTH.Detail.jpg" height="200" width="142" /></a><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNODEiKy41R4X54AwFcSmfnDRwbwuaF8VjWON25bmRqKHwoyme9uMzY_IAPD07dGbrOVfOOnoZgVL9Iy9fFz1TntEija25LjE2fI7csd5N4SkW-hi7ypHoBusWcjB7mXDVoPtWx-G5q9cx/s1600/TRUTH.jpg" height="640" width="456" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PUNCH has a wealth of topics found between
its covers, bookending perfectly the growth of the <st1:place w:st="on">British
Empire</st1:place> to the end of the Cold War. In its original weekly incarnation
from 1841-1992, it celebrated and 'had fun with' rather than 'made fun of'
everything from American bloomer fashions, crinolines, flappers, moustaches and
beards; new technologies like cooking with electricity, catching criminals with
telegraphy; photography, telephones and television; the ‘monster’ motorcars and
air travel. It demonised the Irish and the Socialist, and marvelled at the
Suffragette. Since its early days PUNCH observed footmen, butlers, taxi
drivers, maids, actors, teachers, shopgirls, dandies, Society women, soldiers
and politicians. It was one of the first papers (registered a paper, one would
fold out the pages into broadsheet size; the pages were stapled at the turn of
the century) to send a correspondent, draughtsman T. Harrington Wilson to report
on the Crimean War from the Prussian court. WW1 saw contributors Kenneth Bird
(Fougasse), EH Shepard, AA Milne, EV Knox and AP Herbert serve at the front. EV
Lucas went on a ‘battlefield tour’ in December 1914, reporting movingly the
aftermath of the Battle of the Marne, the destruction of towns, the soldiers'
graves freshly dug. During both World Wars we have the housewife, Land Girl,
war worker, Boy Scout and profiteer during rationing, evacuations, the Zeppelin
threat and the Blitz.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PUNCH didn't just have its finger on the
pulse of English culture, it was the pulse. Its cartoonists illustrated for the
top authors, adverts and information posters. Its writers were respected
authors and librettists, playwrights and poets, journalists and critics witnessing
first-hand the politics, arts and social developments recorded in Sketches of
Parliament, At the Play and the many ‘social cut’ cartoons. A handful were
knighted: John Tenniel, Francis Burnand, Bernard Partridge, AP Herbert; Owen
Seaman's 1914 knighthood was upgraded to a Baronet upon retiring as PUNCH
editor. William Haselden was offered a knighthood, and long standing
contributors PG Wodehouse and John Betjeman given the honour late in life. Many
regular contributors and staff were trained barristers, journalists, teachers,
designers, university dons (Owen Seaman), MPs (AP Herbert, Christopher Hollis,
Clement Freud, Giles Brandreth, Roy Hattersley), a publisher (EV Lucas,
chairman of Methuen) an architect (Acanthus designed Gatwick Airport’s Beehive
lounge), jazz musicians (Trog, Humph, Benny Green, Miles Kington, George
Melly), actors (Bernard Partridge, Joyce Grenfell), artists (Jack Butler Yeats)
an inventor (Rowland Emett), sportsmen (RC Lehmann, Bernard Hollowood),
engineers (Fougasse, Sambourne), novelists (George du Maurier: Trilby; Anthony
Powell: Dance to the Music of Time; Patrick Ryan: How I Won The War; Ernest
Bramah: Kai Lung; Keith Waterhouse: Billy Liar; Alan Hackney: Private's
Progress; Margaret Drabble, Elspeth Huxley, Peter Dickinson, C.S. Lewis) poets
(John Betjeman, Virginia Graham), military intelligence (AA Milne, Malcolm
Muggeridge), War Propaganda Bureau (Thomas Derrick was its Art Editor)
broadcasters (Michael Parkinson, Frank Muir, Joan Bakewell, Ann Leslie) and several
served in either of the World Wars including in WW2 Ronald Searle, David
Langdon, Alfred Bestall (WW1 and WW2), and Basil Boothroyd.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Fougasse", Kenneth Bird's
nom-de-plume (French for an unreliable WW1 landmine), was a product of the
frontline: his first contribution sent into PUNCH was from a war hospital bed
in 1916 where he was critically injured. The series of articles Our Man in
America in the 1950's were written by the iconic PG Wodehouse who had been a
regular contributor to PUNCH from 1902-1914. In the 1970's the staff tried to
get his signature on the Punch Table but couldn't overcome the problem of him
being in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Jan Struther (who's PUNCH work was noticed by The Times and went on to write
Mrs Miniver) wrote several stories and poems illustrated by Anne Harriet Fish
and EH Shepard. And PUNCH theatre critic Eric Keown's short story Sir Tristram
Goes West was turned into the successful <st1:place w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place>
film The Ghost Goes West (1936) starring Robert Donat.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Various high profile regulars and guest writers,
historians and thinkers crop up such as John Steinbeck, Graham Greene, JB
Priestley, Margaret Drabble, Alan Bullock, and TV personalities David Frost,
Clive James, Michael Parkinson, Frank Muir and Harry Secombe. The cartoonists Partridge,
Illingworth, Fougasse and Langdon all produced public information posters for
government ministries, the most celebrated of which were the Careless Talk
Costs Lives campaign for the Ministry of Information by Fougasse in 1940.
Fougasse was awarded a CBE in 1946 in recognition of this contribution. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNrNvd2lStSzeFdlHNF4mo6Yd82hyphenhyphenOPDrwDedMP6gtlvtoRfVpMwVrUmXQiC_RFzFc6TXUci7skdv4uzYGcZscOo0LhC5pYpa36hxegt8DEGgX_bqex1NcHeHDgcHaiDB5aBXQkNz6USq/s1600/Fougasse-Cartoons-Punch-1945.01.03.7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNrNvd2lStSzeFdlHNF4mo6Yd82hyphenhyphenOPDrwDedMP6gtlvtoRfVpMwVrUmXQiC_RFzFc6TXUci7skdv4uzYGcZscOo0LhC5pYpa36hxegt8DEGgX_bqex1NcHeHDgcHaiDB5aBXQkNz6USq/s1600/Fougasse-Cartoons-Punch-1945.01.03.7.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PUNCH is a record of massive cultural
change in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>
during a century and a half. It also charts the continuity and struggle of
British identity, or more accurately, Englishness as produced for and consumed
by the middle classes at home and abroad in the imperial/colonial Empire. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisqOBCHk0lNvtObnD9y2mSzt50ahyphenhyphenvLPuam4mSVk_POkgJaE284mfe4zfmbDNzzDgi-BgXkNMKDtISZBVZ-w-gCy3A5h1QUfZZ18gjcv3RUlt4isE1eJzCgTwAI6JsbsEmGzSkbP2cn7O/s1600/1975.Hardcastle.United.Kingdom.Punch.Magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisqOBCHk0lNvtObnD9y2mSzt50ahyphenhyphenvLPuam4mSVk_POkgJaE284mfe4zfmbDNzzDgi-BgXkNMKDtISZBVZ-w-gCy3A5h1QUfZZ18gjcv3RUlt4isE1eJzCgTwAI6JsbsEmGzSkbP2cn7O/s1600/1975.Hardcastle.United.Kingdom.Punch.Magazine.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our modern preoccupations with celebrity,
crime, fashion, science and technology, the arts, film and leisure are
delivered in Victorian and Edwardian cartoons with the freshness of a new diary
entry often lacking in posed and lifeless contemporary photos. It was at the
forefront of describing and re-imagining a new world of exciting discoveries,
scientific breakthroughs, New Art and New Politics and shows how these layers
enhance or challenge the normal man or woman on the street. When a new form of self-defence
called Jujitsu becomes popularised in Western media, we see it applied to
politics with The Suffragette that knew Jiu-jitsu. The Arrest: one woman,
sleeves rolled up, and police casualties impaled on the railings. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When a new dance called the Tango arrives we see a policeman arresting a Suffragette using his latest dance move. The Spread of Tango:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Politicians naturally, were fair game.
Gladstone, Disraeli and Lloyd George were praised and pilloried, but respected
in equal measure. Members of Parliament, Prime Ministers and Totalitarian
leaders all went through the mill of satire, from Asquith to Eden, Atlee to
Wilson, Macmillan to Thatcher, Louis Napoleon, Tsar Nicholas I, Kaiser Wilhelm
II, Stalin and Hitler. The young Churchill grew up reading PUNCH seeing his
father Randolph mercilessly ridiculed, and learnt about history and the world
through its full page political cartoons. These often depicted Britannia, the
British Lion, John Bull, the German Eagle, Russian Bear, French Poodle or
Cockerel, Indian Tiger or Afghan Cat. Early on, PUNCH's staunch
anti-Irish/Nationalist/Catholic stance depicted Irish Monkeys, Frankensteins
and sub-human Fenians.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A recurring Imperialist tone of saving
various peoples (and by extension, taking control) such as the Irish damsel
Eire from a separatist dragon, Africans in the Congo from the snake-like Belgian
rubber coils, or Indians from Famine, all echoed Britain's burden of
responsibility to tame nature and Civilise the world. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> was
'Little Jonathan', a rowdy upstart that a paternal John Bull had trouble
guiding. By the time the Great War ended, that relationship had turned upside
down along with the old orders: Europe, the <st1:place w:st="on">British Empire</st1:place>,
Class, Gender, Culture itself. The once successful pattern of Britannia or the
British Lion meting out vengeance on rebel Sepoys in <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region>
or arguing the moral case against <st1:country-region w:st="on">Belgium</st1:country-region>
in <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place> was over. But just as the sun began
setting on Empire, the shoots of a 'brighter' London and the Bright Young
Things appeared in the 1920s, the term ignited by reports of scientific
discoveries such as Einstein's Relativity theory in 1919 and the requirement
for a new way of looking at the world and living in it. Readers were consumers:
gadgets, inventions and popular science fed this need for a new society that
was at once broken and breaking away from the devastation of WW1.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOB9hY5S_bGI9qpZKgwYlo5Wx96LunGX93h0M9X5lyjb7PIanLNzVTFUOsJoX8zmc8arRWG8MjT9_5o62LPWsIt2J1jYoMF21_HrpiffSpj0wkHuUizO8BEfSrsQaG5Ymp9Cg_QQ0E_VZC/s1600/World-War-1-Wilhelm-Atrocities-Belgium-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-Partridge-1914.08.26.185.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOB9hY5S_bGI9qpZKgwYlo5Wx96LunGX93h0M9X5lyjb7PIanLNzVTFUOsJoX8zmc8arRWG8MjT9_5o62LPWsIt2J1jYoMF21_HrpiffSpj0wkHuUizO8BEfSrsQaG5Ymp9Cg_QQ0E_VZC/s1600/World-War-1-Wilhelm-Atrocities-Belgium-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-Partridge-1914.08.26.185.jpg" height="400" width="296" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The age of the consumer coincided with the Golden
Ages of illustration, mass journalism, advertising, radio and cinema, and PUNCH
through its anti-hero Mr Punch rode these horses simultaneously like a circus entertainer.
But at its inception the magazine was not a commercial venture: it was a labour
of love started by a few talented humourists, became a magazine, later a Club,
and, adopted by an eager public, a “National Institution”. Early on in December
1842 editor Mark Lemon agreed to be bought-out by printer-proprietors Bradbury
& Evans (from 1872 Bradbury and Agnew) essentially saving a struggling but
popular publication in what was at the time in publishing a highly vulnerable
venture. They used a new, fast, accurate press to distribute the magazine
efficiently and give it the edge over rivals; less than a hundred years later
PUNCH had to increase its editorial pages because its advertising pages had
grown significantly and it made more money through advertising revenue than
circulation. In 1918 PUNCH had 16 pages of editorial content. By 1925 it had to
increase them to 28 pages in order not to be swamped by the adverts.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While new forms of expression such as
Modernism and Art Deco took off and Futurism and Dada were appropriated by
Fascism and Soviet neo-realism, the New Woman too was constantly evolving and
pushing the limits of what was permissible in dress, vocation and behaviour. Fashions
changed with the practicalities of physical movement in leisure and employment
such as cycling, dancing, ice-skating or factory work. If mid-Nineteenth
century daring would be to visit the criminal courts un-chaperoned with a male
friend or cycling in the fin-de-siècle, then in the first half of the Twentieth
century it was Votes for Women and female aviators. PUNCH was at hand to take
note of these structural and cultural shifts in society. The Victorian New
Woman from the 1860s onwards: usually a university graduate or doctor, had, by
the turn of the century become a cycling, smoking, card-playing and altogether
more confident, physical, intrepid, politicised and sexualized creature. Women
started to match men's leisure activities and professions, and it was a natural
progression to demand the right to vote. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSciAAaZleUqrDvzWbXrpPGiadDQZfw5NrvPOpwS0fJuOdXMcE2US1lLAFOWupvxjeNSPfFEGQMR3yftB1xMg_ioypVR2gz67VPyNSr-qv09N_CTLfScq4qu-wDxUZULBg1cu7QX2Arjo_/s1600/Sex-Sexism-Relationships-Cartoons-Punch-1905.01.25.69.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSciAAaZleUqrDvzWbXrpPGiadDQZfw5NrvPOpwS0fJuOdXMcE2US1lLAFOWupvxjeNSPfFEGQMR3yftB1xMg_ioypVR2gz67VPyNSr-qv09N_CTLfScq4qu-wDxUZULBg1cu7QX2Arjo_/s1600/Sex-Sexism-Relationships-Cartoons-Punch-1905.01.25.69.jpg" height="481" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The New Woman was reinvented every decade
from Actress in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras, munitions worker in WW1,
the Flapper/Bright Young Thing in the Twenties, female aviator and business
owner in the Thirties, Land Girl and WAAF transport pilots in the Forties, sophisticated
Mary Poppins type in the Fifties with the New Look; sexually liberated and
objectified in the Sixties, Feminist in the Seventies; social climber, power
dresser, politician and Prime Minister in the Eighties. The expedient gender
equality of WW1 and WW2 which included work at operations desks, as Bletchley
code breakers, Make Do and Mend, and Dig for Victory developed further in the
post-war austerity period with rising aspiration, travel, mass consumerism,
Rock & Roll, the Pill and Feminism.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cCRzTcgGptUgiv7jbiWwdNfIs1aKofZibuxGWNqaviIhSdhGOMvZF695DhkhDse-MVLci9EJFP_OCMEfzlZVfzRFqvIIbepyqV96z26mTSSgD8p3DcGnFMvLpzNCZmKTpZXVclVRyuxS/s1600/InterWar-Bernard-Partridge-Cartoons-Punch-1919.12.10.491.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cCRzTcgGptUgiv7jbiWwdNfIs1aKofZibuxGWNqaviIhSdhGOMvZF695DhkhDse-MVLci9EJFP_OCMEfzlZVfzRFqvIIbepyqV96z26mTSSgD8p3DcGnFMvLpzNCZmKTpZXVclVRyuxS/s1600/InterWar-Bernard-Partridge-Cartoons-Punch-1919.12.10.491.jpg" height="640" width="475" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
Battle of Britain was replaced with the ‘Battle of the Sexes’ and the cartoons
in PUNCH, mostly drawn by men, show assertive women demanding chivalry or
equality in ironic settings; secretaries, doll-like, sat forcibly on boss's
laps; nightclub hostesses, cleaners or long suffering wives. But women hadn't
just demanded equality and empowerment, they started controlling the levers of
power: in 1919 Nancy Astor became the first woman MP.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span>Fast-forward to 1967 and future PUNCH
editor William Davis wrote a congratulatory open letter to Minister for Transport
Barbara Castle in the series Letters to Our Masters. A few years later he
invited her to be PUNCH editor for one issue replacing the editorial staff with
women and sub-titling it Judy. </span><br />
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</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhYBgb2q8MunV9aGL9WpjysZSgEWrEOygLLL6p4aKU9aNgKk8SDNqDULkvwXSW5dwx1FydEi3rxQpFruA3jeG2oAYDxQ1dL55pGJpbBUezGkCwIFl3fMnS1bJcoa4zQNslHj_UJ6PGmpY/s1600/1969.Parliament.Women.Punch.Magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifhYBgb2q8MunV9aGL9WpjysZSgEWrEOygLLL6p4aKU9aNgKk8SDNqDULkvwXSW5dwx1FydEi3rxQpFruA3jeG2oAYDxQ1dL55pGJpbBUezGkCwIFl3fMnS1bJcoa4zQNslHj_UJ6PGmpY/s1600/1969.Parliament.Women.Punch.Magazine.jpg" height="395" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span style="line-height: 115%;">The cartoons drawn by women over the years: Anne
Harriet Fish, Antonia Yeoman, Sheila Dunn, Sally Artz, Riana Duncan, Merrily
Harpur show assertive female characters concerned with fashion and social
one-upmanship, cynical and sharp witted, at times ruthless with inadequate men,
at others pretentious housewives and ambitious mothers. In this sense not much
had changed since Society cartoonist George du Maurier's day, except that women
were now making the jokes. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9a5u5fPtgudYOxkAuSsoMTaB3rHeHu4c0gc5LlA42As9dGDd7eKWo0FX1n23nJlWhqu1UhUBSv6Z2LIFLA2J8EjbGoK4Mh__lZpkpRS55KxSxqwoyrU-sSOL7pStN1aYoDq2-y89NMpqT/s1600/Suffragettes-Votes-For-Women-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-1905.05.10.327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9a5u5fPtgudYOxkAuSsoMTaB3rHeHu4c0gc5LlA42As9dGDd7eKWo0FX1n23nJlWhqu1UhUBSv6Z2LIFLA2J8EjbGoK4Mh__lZpkpRS55KxSxqwoyrU-sSOL7pStN1aYoDq2-y89NMpqT/s1600/Suffragettes-Votes-For-Women-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-1905.05.10.327.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Sexism and chauvinism however hadn’t changed; female
suffrage and greater control of women’s lives (choosing whether or not to have
sex/babies/careers) in an increasingly sexualized culture only increased these
tensions, and the cartoons reflected this. The corporate world was still male
dominated. PUNCH’s largely male middle class readers would have simply
acknowledged the message in the cartoons confirming a misogynistic status quo
rather than being made to ask questions or prompt social change. Gone was the
moral guidance of Mr Punch (some might say thankfully) regularly popping-up to
tell off Strikers and Socialists, or venting off about Suffragette vandalism, while
balancing it with cartoons such as The Dignity of the Franchise. By the 1960s
Mr Punch's job was redundant: the cartoon preaching more to the dyed-in-the-wool
type than to the New Man. The joke cartoon, social cut, political full page (Big
or Large Cut) and later the Front Cover took over in revealing the surreal and
the cynical. Just as these cartoons dealt with racial issues in the 60s and 70s
with 'token blacks' now it was the irony of ‘token women’ in corporate
boardrooms</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">or exclusively male committees on female
equality. Later however, the dynamics of this </span><st1:city style="line-height: 115%;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Battle</st1:place></st1:city><span style="line-height: 115%;"> of the Sexes was superbly translated with
savage irony by William Haefeli, one of a handful of great American cartoonists
working for PUNCH, in what could be described as his New Man and New Woman cartoons
of the 80s and 90s.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mass travel, motoring and cheap flights in
a new Jet Age from the 1950s enhanced a global economy: cartoons on regional
dialects or cultural differences, holidays, corporate settings and immigration appear
in the 60s acknowledging a re-evaluation of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region>'s
status within <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place> and the World. The Come
to Europe and Come to Britain cartoons of 1960 developed into questions of the English North-South divide; while Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech, economic
recession, unemployment, De-valuation, strikes and neo-fascism by 1970 are counterpointed
by anti-British immigration cartoons from an Australian perspective. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And a
spine-chilling 1977 front cover cartoon by Jensen If We Had A Fascist Britain highlights how far the country had gone, could go and in so doing, how it had
to retreat. By being extreme or surreal, cartoons infuse important issues with
humour and like the best comedy, question and re-balance a country's morals.
This was PUNCH's strength: it showed you the abyss in advance. It was an early
warning alert, a satnav for the cultural psyche. On many occasions the Big Cut
political cartoon was a cautionary tale of what could happen: The Awful
Warning by EH Shepard, still pertinent in today's international affairs, was
superbly cynical in its anti-appeasement stance when British and European
opinion at the time was largely pro-appeasement. We also see Neville
Chamberlain building a sand castle as Mussolini splashes with him in the rising
tide; or as a hesitant firefighter as buildings burn, a foretaste of the Blitz and
WW2.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YB3P5UCuMetyxPnXvEORFnCkhYA4rPCj_sbcZ5WJEQn7tgq-1sdDENPTmFfjIuZDkWjsoAQ2zbUM2rnjdmR1XIYvVmUG37_nT9xCyBoGa3gwgxr2k7OL0teFx0it-tsqBYP813Id0bOU/s1600/1969.North.South.Squalor.Punch.Magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YB3P5UCuMetyxPnXvEORFnCkhYA4rPCj_sbcZ5WJEQn7tgq-1sdDENPTmFfjIuZDkWjsoAQ2zbUM2rnjdmR1XIYvVmUG37_nT9xCyBoGa3gwgxr2k7OL0teFx0it-tsqBYP813Id0bOU/s1600/1969.North.South.Squalor.Punch.Magazine.jpg" height="328" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North-South Divide</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNcLSD0ga2S_wsgh1u9UByw-ksZFMFrZXiB-XZnIrJtCRewQ6b3As2t1VmFeS16ApnuQlSAqaFYIWWH1HwVLensuxCUxKvzhoooHb3yI4spKh7uqe-6OsAF5jlj_SzOLgzCDQLsrkutDFQ/s1600/1977.Fascist.Britain.Punch.Magazine.BW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNcLSD0ga2S_wsgh1u9UByw-ksZFMFrZXiB-XZnIrJtCRewQ6b3As2t1VmFeS16ApnuQlSAqaFYIWWH1HwVLensuxCUxKvzhoooHb3yI4spKh7uqe-6OsAF5jlj_SzOLgzCDQLsrkutDFQ/s1600/1977.Fascist.Britain.Punch.Magazine.BW.jpg" height="640" width="474" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If We Had a Fascist Britain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZQ3XQAuEv_GE9R759VBFGWY0t-C6X2Fky8Y3dsurro1hqc1EvpjBcoXaxVDiNLvS6KWgjmJv2xqDmrUZisCLj2TJbaPWcSijp1HXsgOcM2dhr9BVrtJenD0YJLCdObcRHhzHRMLrr72d/s1600/World-War-2-Cartoons-Punch-1935.08.14.183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZQ3XQAuEv_GE9R759VBFGWY0t-C6X2Fky8Y3dsurro1hqc1EvpjBcoXaxVDiNLvS6KWgjmJv2xqDmrUZisCLj2TJbaPWcSijp1HXsgOcM2dhr9BVrtJenD0YJLCdObcRHhzHRMLrr72d/s1600/World-War-2-Cartoons-Punch-1935.08.14.183.jpg" height="640" width="449" /></a> </td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Awful Warning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PUNCH regularly surprised the reader by
what characters in cartoons would say or do, whether through familiar
recognition or anachronistic shock. What makes those characters more impressive
is that their clothing and accessories, living rooms and gardens, carriages and
streets, shops and art galleries are drawn in authentic contemporary detail.
For the 1970s series Upstairs Downstairs the producers used George du Maurier's
cartoons to help create their sets, while many of the ‘one-liners’ heard in
Downton Abbey sound typical of the jokes which appeared in thousands of PUNCH
social cartoons.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the nature of ‘detail’ changed: from du
Maurier’s fascinating Society cartoons of the 1860s-1890s rendering every
crease and crumple of a lady's dress (including theatrical instruction in the
caption), to Phil May's simplified Art Nouveau lines of street life in the
early 20th Century, to Fougasse’s distanced view of crowds as detailed
squiggles, to the fine-art illustrative colour detail of Frank Reynolds and Leslie
Illingworth; the graphic style starting from Linley Sambourne and running
through to Norman Thelwell, Mike Williams and Quentin Blake, to the gradually
changing facial expressions in HM Bateman's panel cartoons; Pont's backgrounds
and genteel familiarity, Rowland Emett's surreal fantasies, Michael ffolkes’
delicate, comical rococo line, Ronald Searle and Ralph Steadman’s sharp scrawls,
David Myers’ childlike simplicity and Andre Francois' cartoons where readers
deciphered the joke by making connections within the details. These were all
masters of their art.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kUN4FE_wRURdCa9EzpDT0wlQieVgSsWaktmVhLyPvOiIzb9w831-8DQ0VoI6y8ZZBEKdBTKZOuiPIY2itRiVB0O7WTsRvMHp5pxwRg3JDB78Y3ybgkf7tbnCb5O-SUf4Gcq_KSx4-i97/s1600/InterWar-Bernard-Partridge-Cartoons-Punch-1936.12.16.687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kUN4FE_wRURdCa9EzpDT0wlQieVgSsWaktmVhLyPvOiIzb9w831-8DQ0VoI6y8ZZBEKdBTKZOuiPIY2itRiVB0O7WTsRvMHp5pxwRg3JDB78Y3ybgkf7tbnCb5O-SUf4Gcq_KSx4-i97/s1600/InterWar-Bernard-Partridge-Cartoons-Punch-1936.12.16.687.jpg" height="400" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Choice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In ‘cartoon reality’ people go about their
daily business conversing with neighbours, going to the office, boating, buying
houses, holidaying, driving, playing tennis or parlour games, dining and
entertaining; and tripping over metaphorical objects, concepts or speech. In so
doing they distil the dreams and harsh truths of ‘our reality’. And we also see
the imagined but likely, private conversations of politicians and royalty in
their offices and chambers. Bernard Partridge places you directly inside the
room where Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin addresses Edward VIII over the
abdication crisis in The Choice. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is this privileged 'fly on the wall
history' that PUNCH invites us into that is most exciting. Another cartoon parodying
the Concert of Europe shows foreign powers waiting to dance with a partner; one
chooses an unsatisfactory partner to John Bull’s consternation. The real-life Ping-Pong
Diplomacy of 1971 between the <st1:country-region w:st="on">USA</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
was borrowed from PUNCH in 1901.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YMPBo5vOKwDDCpXQwrUMwAVQbaxTQLwQLNBdNcFdWQGuq65fIWvcRueAG8G5BiI9y4Q3EG8S6zsLFsZD9e8LpkWxQ_s9DH4lWDXQQr4v_3OIgPrfqbW6qwnqHU53gcSKQZMYWT9fffFL/s1600/Edwardian-Cartoons-Punch-1901.04.24.305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YMPBo5vOKwDDCpXQwrUMwAVQbaxTQLwQLNBdNcFdWQGuq65fIWvcRueAG8G5BiI9y4Q3EG8S6zsLFsZD9e8LpkWxQ_s9DH4lWDXQQr4v_3OIgPrfqbW6qwnqHU53gcSKQZMYWT9fffFL/s1600/Edwardian-Cartoons-Punch-1901.04.24.305.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Frequently cartoons dared to go even
further than what was possible in an age of optimism and discovery. One could hardly
imagine a plasma TV with two-way communication in the 1870s but PUNCH ‘made it real’
in one of George du Maurier's visionary cartoons, the Telephonoscope. Another
by Charles Harrison in 1901 shows a flying policeman stopping speeding cars in
the sky. As soon as a new invention appeared, PUNCH re-invented it with its
attendant quirks. This was the cutting edge of PUNCH’s Brave New World: humans
combining with technology and creating confusion. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQXOPzEOUQfhU8Q67jxqTubbvNr-1CisU_yxUYA0HLeKgPIzS8O0keMCmxFhfQ4V1WKdJSJZolR8UK3lTL0Kc-tOK-ufnhi5NbkkjjUxjxfts6RDlHXoR5MmfuWTkZ2Oa8E3tZ4EyYYSI/s1600/Science-Cartoons-Punch-1879.4.1.ALM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQXOPzEOUQfhU8Q67jxqTubbvNr-1CisU_yxUYA0HLeKgPIzS8O0keMCmxFhfQ4V1WKdJSJZolR8UK3lTL0Kc-tOK-ufnhi5NbkkjjUxjxfts6RDlHXoR5MmfuWTkZ2Oa8E3tZ4EyYYSI/s1600/Science-Cartoons-Punch-1879.4.1.ALM.jpg" height="444" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Telephonoscope</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqmf11Ac_-dhUI5zmEoJuYVUFYu4Am5V6idGJByVGJZNQV7qz5WcNxDb4hVg_NcmU-fL02T3LsSzogf-Vqon3fB609GILpXVYjYdHc5gB9jda1l8vqhMqfJdncWPgmbg2aFDXPoPed4U_/s1600/Technology-Video-Phones-Televisions-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-1927.05.04.477.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqmf11Ac_-dhUI5zmEoJuYVUFYu4Am5V6idGJByVGJZNQV7qz5WcNxDb4hVg_NcmU-fL02T3LsSzogf-Vqon3fB609GILpXVYjYdHc5gB9jda1l8vqhMqfJdncWPgmbg2aFDXPoPed4U_/s1600/Technology-Video-Phones-Televisions-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-1927.05.04.477.jpg" height="434" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Video Calling</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a study of social character, Pont’s The British
Character series of cartoons is the most celebrated but thousands more by
numerous other cartoonists appeared weekly. One example shows a man crashing
through the ceiling, his legs dangling above a husband and wife nonchalantly
reading a newspaper and knitting: the woman tells
her husband, "It’s that horrid Mr Oozley from the flat above who was so
rude to me" (Sherwood, 1933). Another by Bateman - The Man who Paid off
his Overdraft (1930) - shows a man happily striding out of a bank manager's
office as a row of cashiers cheer him on.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cBGLqOWwd01A3CbXiVI6E9XaQHnVak7Zy_U7jqJme1xSeobd9vZYOzSrKWdhaB4QCK9jDq5Xx4b_z0Db-5mYbpzENljFu7ZHIRjsxLp9Gavj8IjuapP50FEtr1hH-3BUaISWbkJFYl6E/s1600/InterWar-Social-History-Debt-Banks-Cartoons-Punch1930.38.SUM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cBGLqOWwd01A3CbXiVI6E9XaQHnVak7Zy_U7jqJme1xSeobd9vZYOzSrKWdhaB4QCK9jDq5Xx4b_z0Db-5mYbpzENljFu7ZHIRjsxLp9Gavj8IjuapP50FEtr1hH-3BUaISWbkJFYl6E/s1600/InterWar-Social-History-Debt-Banks-Cartoons-Punch1930.38.SUM.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This contrasts with Tenniel's
political cartoon fifty years earlier of The Lady of Threadneedle Street bailing out the banks - represented as naughty boys, heads bowed in shame.
Corporate and institutional capitalism of the previous century had given rise
to personal capitalism in the Thirties just as the European nations were
beginning to settle their Great War debts.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 1951 the Festival of Britain renewed the
legacy of the Great Exhibition of 1851 and PUNCH had its own Festival of Punch.
In this special edition sub-titled The New Elizabethan Age the modest yet proud,
quirky yet sure-footed English are examined through cartoons and humorous
articles. Kenneth Bird, whose non-de-plume "Fougasse" was famous for
his wartime Careless Talk Costs Lives posters resurrected his own type of Mass
Observation, The Changing Face Of Britain from WW2: a series of
spot-the-difference cartoons showing London crowd behaviour before and after
war.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Charivari pages at the start of each
issue were the equivalent to today's Twitter: short snippets of news, trivia, jokes
and gossip from the previous week and sparked off a dialogue with its readers.
In the Victorian era the magazine was postage-stamped so one could re-post the
magazine- this media sharing was as high technology as you could get in the
1860s. For every 1 magazine of PUNCH sold 9 other people would have held that
copy as it was passed around, re-posted or left on coffee tables to enjoy. In a
circulation of around 125,000 in 1973 this equated to more than 1 million
readers, or ‘followers’ in today's currency. But it wasn't a one-way dialogue. Starting
in 1958 PUNCH started a weekly Toby Competition setting readers challenges: to
write a fictional review on a well-known work of art, or a poem in the style of
Homer; the top prize being a cartoon original. In 1965 PUNCH published reader
letters for the first time and held a cartoon competition for children (a teenage
cartoonist Ken Pyne was discovered) and in 1969 started the long-running
Caption Competition, really a cartoon 'remix' by readers. Winners received a
cash prize of five pounds (later rising to ten pounds). These important
features of the magazine made PUNCH a companion in the livingroom or a home
from home for Colonials abroad, a small A4-ish sized corner of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region> in a
remote outpost of Empire.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Fancy Portraits series in the 1870s of
Victorian celebrities, politicians, authors, do-gooders, innovators and icons
re-emerged in the 20th century with Punch Personalities and Heroes of Our Time.
In one portrait Arthur Conan Doyle is dramatically chained by an evil Sherlock
Holmes in Bernard Partridge's excellent full page cartoon. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlmqAJAWYCiYs7621TycTZEMjBc9pnA57l8EU7Lxgz4lYkv1lXhm-oc3Bls3_Z_y-ho1mjvX38wAAxKuSJScnrtG9UzzXDh1S6BfElPF7ES3XPnHiE3EZw1tYfHxGvVFMlbzuhZN6UH40/s1600/InterWar-Sherlock-Holmes-Arthur-Conan-Doyle-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-1926.05.12.517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlmqAJAWYCiYs7621TycTZEMjBc9pnA57l8EU7Lxgz4lYkv1lXhm-oc3Bls3_Z_y-ho1mjvX38wAAxKuSJScnrtG9UzzXDh1S6BfElPF7ES3XPnHiE3EZw1tYfHxGvVFMlbzuhZN6UH40/s1600/InterWar-Sherlock-Holmes-Arthur-Conan-Doyle-Cartoons-Punch-Magazine-1926.05.12.517.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the 1950s
PUNCH made brilliant use of Ronald Searle's talents to produce double-page
colour posters of Princess Margaret, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh,
Bertrand Russell and Sir Malcolm Sergeant among others, while William Hewison
added Sporting Heroes and Artist's Corner. His As They Might Have Been re-cast
celebrities such as Graham Greene, Richard Dimbleby and Joe Orton in different
occupations.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later the portrait became an illustrated
interview in Passing Through. The actors Roger Moore, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Telly
Savalas and many legends from film, music and the arts were interviewed by
David Taylor and sketched by the inimitable ffolkes. Michael Parkinson, Melvyn
Bragg, Clement Freud, Humphrey Lyttelton and Harry Secombe were regular
contributors and occasional pieces appear by Michael Palin, Terry Jones and
John Cleese, Joanna Lumley and even Paul McCartney. PUNCH had not just absorbed
a readership of the 'silent majority' but the glitterati.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Several lightbulb moments go off: the
future poet laureate John Betjeman regularly contributed to PUNCH and was an
editorial member of the Punch Table; Alfred Lord Tennyson in the 1840s
submitted two poems (and was accepted, unsurprisingly). Caran D'Ache in the
1890s drew one of the first captionless panel cartoons in PUNCH (though there
is evidence of a Charles Keene panel cartoon in the 1860s), PG Wodehouse was a
regular since 1902, Graham Greene wrote once or twice a year, and the inspiration
for the John le Carré spy ‘George Smiley’, John Bingham, wrote poetry and prose
on occasion: his “Telephone Conversation, 1943” of a supposed cross-wired
eavesdropped exchange is a revelation. Readers at the time would not have known
his day-job was an MI5 intelligence officer. Charles Dickens, Garibaldi and
Mark Twain visited the Punch Table. Winnie the Pooh first appeared in PUNCH as
Edward Bear with the prototype drawing by Alfred Bestall not EH Shepard; and the
illustration of a girl which later became Alice in Wonderland had already been
created by Tenniel in a PUNCH Title Page of 1864, a year-and-a-half before her
official ‘debut’.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although largely male oriented in content
and readership, PUNCH did attract women readers with its “For Women” section
written by women (though edited by novelist Peter Dickinson), and was later
renamed “Judy”. The poets and writers Margaret Drabble, Joan Bakewell, Angela
Milne, EM Delafield, Mary Dunn, Elspeth Huxley and Joyce Grenfell wrote
regularly for the magazine; Virginia Graham's poems are wonderfully evocative
of the struggles that Londoners endured during WW2. Great women cartoonists
included Georgina Bowers in the 19th and Fish, Anton, Merrily Harpur, Sally
Artz and Riana Duncan in the 20th Century. In 1972 with MP Barbara Castle guest-editing
the magazine, an all-female editorial staff included Joan Bakewell, Molly
Parkin and Irma Kurtz.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some great comic characters were created in
the Twentieth Century, (just as the Grossmith's Diary of a Nobody had with
Charles Pooter in the 1880s or the Mr Briggs series of cartoons by Leech in the
1840s-60s), and all first appeared in PUNCH before being published in book form.
In 1924 Winnie the Pooh (as Teddy Bear) in the When We Were Very Young series
of illustrated poems- was a creative merger of two masters: journalist AA Milne
and cartoonist EH Shepard. Geoffrey Willans' Nigel Molesworth first appeared in
1939, HF Ellis' The Diary of AJ Wentworth (1938) and Max the hamster by
Giovannetti (1952). Another hugely successful series was ex-barrister AP
Herbert's Misleading Cases (1924) which parodied the absurdities of British law
using hypothetical cases. These were collected in book form and made into a BBC
series in the 1960s. During WW2 and the immediate post-war era Mary Dunn’s Lady
Addle’s Domestic Front and The Memoirs of Mipsie series were also hugely popular.
In the 1970s and 80s it was Alan Coren's Correspondences of Idi Amin, turning
him into a first-person fan-fiction comedy character, Miles Kington's Let's
Parlez Francais, Merrily Harpur’s The Nightmares of Dream Topping and Michael
Bywater’s Bargepole column.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is often said that cartoons in PUNCH are
great social commentary; while many are snapshots of time that describe the way
people lived and thought, one often overlooks the writing. Even greater
analysis can be found in Bernard Hollowood's serious articles on the state of
the international, political and economic landscape, Elspeth Huxley on how
immigration was changing society in the early 60s and how society was treating immigrants;
William Hardcastle on Britain's crisis of identity, William Davis on strikes
and a New Europe, Francis Williams on the media. And reading Joan Bakewell you
can gather what it was like for a woman living in a changing society: the
sexual freedoms and expression in the 60s hadn't translated to equality in the
70s where sexism and misogyny still reigned. As a whole, PUNCH is a barometer
for measuring <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
status in the world, measuring class struggle, measuring sexual and racial
equality; measuring its own medium against the media. The magazine absorbed,
magnified, parodied and re-imagined reality in its own parallel universe
threaded with a needle of home truths that were particularly English. This
interplay of the Arts, Science, Politics, Fashion, Technology and Class in the
form of a cartoon, poem, comment or story makes for a fun, engaging experience.
</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the end, PUNCH remains the chronicle of
English culture from its minutest foibles to its grandest achievements. In
terms of years served, three cartoonists: John Tenniel, Bernard Partridge and
David Langdon span 142 years from 1850-1992, overlapping and working for more
than 50 years each to continue the line from the Victorian Age to the Modern Era.
Just as the East India Company boldly forged its own destiny and that of the <st1:place w:st="on">British Empire</st1:place> in the 19th Century, PUNCH had done so in
the media, achieving world coverage. But just as the East India Company had
been absorbed by the Empire, PUNCH belonged to a certain greatness, to a period
of time, to History. No longer an institution, but a monument. Like Father
Time, Mr Punch could never be wrong: he was merely an observer; an actor on the
finest stage reciting lines that we the public, through the satirists, had
given him.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Andre Gailani</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Punch Ltd</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All images copyright Punch Ltd. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://punch.co.uk/">punch.co.uk</a></span></span></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com98tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-64897614569107106612013-09-13T02:37:00.000-07:002013-09-13T02:37:01.848-07:00“A Story of Human Wrong, of Human Suffering; of Evil, of Good; of Sorrow, of Succour…The Weakness and Trust of Woman, and the Treachery and Infidelity of Man.” Or: The Unwanted Children of the 19th Century:<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Victorian era gave birth
to many institutions, most of which were hugely beneficial to society’s
neediest lives, such as <st1:placename w:st="on">Great</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Ormond</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Street</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype>, the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Ragged</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Schools</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and Battersea Dogs and Cats home. Such gestures, however, were not confined to
the period of the Victorians, and whilst The Foundling Hospital may conjure up
images of Oliver Twist-esque waifs and strays being educated by strict
Victorian schoolmasters,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Hospital (<i>not actually a hospital, but a place that
offered hospitality</i>) was established in 1741, but ran from then, all the
way through the nineteenth century, and well into the second decade of the
twentieth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Its purpose was to act as a
home for destitute children, and to care for and educate them until they were
old enough to seek work and look after themselves, thus removing them from the
streets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The children who occupied
the Hospital would be the offspring of mothers who were unable to care for them.
However, a woman could not simply turn up with a child born out of wedlock and
turn it over to prevent a scandal; she had to prove her good character, and
demonstrate that the father had walked out on the family, leaving her unable to
cope, and with no option but give up the infant for its own benefit and hers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The following article from <i>Strand Magazine</i> explores the history of
the Foundling Hospital, and reveals that despite being generally a good thing
for children, when it came time for them to step out into the real world, they
– in particular the girls – could often struggle to adapt:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>
is not an institution for the reception of foundlings. This will be news to
five-sixths of our readers, and it is easy to imagine some of them exclaiming:
“But do you mean to tell us that, if we discover a human mite abandoned on
someone’s doorstep, and take it to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
it will not be admitted?” We do. “Why, then, call the place a <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>?”
Thereby hangs a deeply interesting story – a story of human wrong, of human
suffering; of evil, of good; of sorrow, of succour – a veritable world’s story,
focusing the large-souled sympathy of mankind, the weakness and trust of woman,
and the treachery and infidelity of man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The institution owes its
origin to one of Nature’s noblemen; it is a monument equally to the head and
the heart of Captain Thomas Coram. Captain Coram, in no ordinary sense of the
word, went about doing good. His life was made up of attempts to improve
something or somebody. Early in the eighteenth century, he used, in his walks
between the City, where he had business, and Rotherhithe, where he lived, to
constantly come across young children left by the wayside, “sometimes alive,
sometimes dead, and sometimes dying.” In other countries such children would be
taken up by the state, and cared for; in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region> nothing of the sort had
ever been attempted, or even perhaps dreamed of. Captain Coram’s heart was
touched by surely the most pitiable sight in creation, and to touch Captain
Coram’s heart was to set the machinery of his resourceful brain in motion. He
rightly considered such exposure of infant humanity a disgrace to civilization,
and proceeded to enlist the services of the high-placed and the large-hearted
in the cause. For seventeen long years he laboured against adverse
circumstances, until, in 1739, his efforts were rewarded by a charter
authorising the founding of an institution “for the maintenance and education
of exposed and deserted young children.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A fine statue of Captain
Coram, by W. C. Marshall, R.A., and a stone tablet to his memory, placed on the
wall of the arcade in front of the building, are the first things to catch the
visitors eye. Coram lived, we are told, to be eighty-four, and died “poor in
worldly estate, rich in good works.” To help the new-born infant, he brought
his grey hairs, if not in sorrow, at least in poverty to the grave. Like so
many other benefactors of mankind, in striving to alleviate distress, this “indefatigable
schemist” forgot himself, and had he, in his devotion, not had friends who gave
more regard to his material needs than he gave himself, he might have closed
his eyes to mundane affairs in want by the wayside, even as the objects of his
solicitude opened theirs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvN9REg0rQJWl6M4rB1rbt3BD4OaNOxdtdNaS_x1BnEsyGc_FXVLKj2dBYouU0H5I3mrojLYZKMekqky1zi5VPX1MfohEsBp04HoJdAF2LQ0kVRSKgLMvDWAoPXikhFE4M9RNoDfusxz_/s1600/Foundling+Girls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvN9REg0rQJWl6M4rB1rbt3BD4OaNOxdtdNaS_x1BnEsyGc_FXVLKj2dBYouU0H5I3mrojLYZKMekqky1zi5VPX1MfohEsBp04HoJdAF2LQ0kVRSKgLMvDWAoPXikhFE4M9RNoDfusxz_/s400/Foundling+Girls.JPG" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foundling Girls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It is not necessary to go
here at great length into the early mistakes made, or to describe how the
institution failed of the purpose which the founder had in view. It was
intended by him to meet the necessities of deserted motherhood; it came, in the
middle of the last century, to be a receptacle for all the babes whom worthless
parents did not care to keep. A basket was hung outside gates of the Hospital.
On the first day 117 children were left in it, and a lucrative trade sprung up
among tramps who, for a consideration, carried the little ones from all parts
of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place>
to the Hospital. In less than four years, 14,934 infants were thus disposed of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">These “regiments of
infantry,” as a waggish commentator called them, overwhelmed the resources of
the institution, and it is not surprising to learn that, from various causes,
not more than 4,000 of the 14,934 survived, the indiscriminate admission of
children had to be abolished. Later, it was decided to receive children for
money, but this step resulted in other abuses, and we have the authority of the
admirable account of the Hospital, compiled by a former secretary, and revised
by the present, Mr. W. S. Wintle – a work which may be purchased for half a
crown, and is well worth attentive study – for stating that, since January,
1801, no child has been received into the Hospital, either directly or
indirectly, with any sum of money, large or small.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Today the practice is for
the mother to take the babe before it is twelve months old to the Hospital, to
make her statement before the authorities, and to leave the child to their care
absolutely. She must be poor, she must be anxious to regain her good name, and
no woman who petitions that her child may be admitted to the Hospital stands a
chance of relief if she cannot prove that she has led a life of propriety
previous to her misfortune. This point cannot be too strongly borne in mind. As
the Reverend Sydney Smith, one of the preachers of the Foundling Chapel puts
it:- <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“No child drinks of our cup
or eats of our bread whose reception, upon the whole, is not certain to be more
conducive than pernicious to the interests of religion and good morals. We hear
no mother whom it would not be merciless and shocking to turn away; we exercise
the trust reposed in us with a trembling and sensitive conscience; we do not
think it enough to say. ‘This woman is wretched, and betrayed, and forsaken’;
but we calmly reflect if it be expedient that her tears should be dried up, her
loneliness sheltered, and all her wants receive the ministration of charity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtqYRwkDoqG1aleIDkNIQW52-2_bnfOgFWfg3UVf20Y9TkGSK-oyYvfXrfKhF7hBoSdXvY9CkTc0v4EbZFJLB9PNMcA1zKM7hoMj61OEpVzmYn7bOBMn6L4GYQ2Yq2OLgFAC03ziNzj0O/s1600/Foundling+Boys.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtqYRwkDoqG1aleIDkNIQW52-2_bnfOgFWfg3UVf20Y9TkGSK-oyYvfXrfKhF7hBoSdXvY9CkTc0v4EbZFJLB9PNMcA1zKM7hoMj61OEpVzmYn7bOBMn6L4GYQ2Yq2OLgFAC03ziNzj0O/s320/Foundling+Boys.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foundling Boys</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">No instance of a mother
going to the bad after she has been relieved by the Governors of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> has, we believe, ever come to
notice!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The general public knows
most of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> from a visit to
the chapel on a Sunday morning. Anyone who is prepared to drop a silver coin
into the plate at the door is admitted. The spectacle is impressive. In the
galleries at the west end of the chapel, on either side of the organ, are
seated some five hundred boys and girls, better behaved probably than any other
considerable number of young people who appear in church regularly every
Sunday. Their happy faces are perhaps a greater pleasure to gaze upon than their
healthy voices are to listen to. Divine service over, at one o’ clock they
march into their respective dining-rooms, the boys being in one wing of the
building and the girls in the other. Grace in the former is sung to the
accompaniment of a cornet, which one of the boys plays. When they take their
places at table, the spectator will find none lacking in appetite for the
simple honest repast. On the opposite side of the building the girls are doing
not less justice to themselves and those who have provided and prepared the
dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDaFpyXDIp0ObemXl9dD6q5cB46g7TKNitwoA0mu4rsIpFFxFhm_dvYwue1lFvTf_d4ri3FqHNs_d346QTX-R7vhi8LGNI7sAc6d-WpoBigQPXrwvnJ_rLWeITtDlMbRrLfRs_S3Wv3a3/s1600/The+Chapel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDaFpyXDIp0ObemXl9dD6q5cB46g7TKNitwoA0mu4rsIpFFxFhm_dvYwue1lFvTf_d4ri3FqHNs_d346QTX-R7vhi8LGNI7sAc6d-WpoBigQPXrwvnJ_rLWeITtDlMbRrLfRs_S3Wv3a3/s400/The+Chapel.JPG" width="342" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Chapel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The scene on any Sunday
morning in the year 1891 is precisely that which Charles Dickens described in
“No Thoroughfare,” a quarter of a century ago: - <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“There are numerous
lookers-on at the dinner, as the custom is. There are two or three governors,
whole families from the congregation, smaller groups of both sexes, individual
stragglers of various degrees. The bright autumnal sun strikes freshly into the
wards, and the heavy framed windows through which it shines, and the paneled
walls on which it strikes, are such windows and such walls as pervade Hogarth’s
pictures. The girls’ refectory (including that of the younger children) is the
principal attraction. Neat attendants silently glide about the orderly and silent
tables; the lookers-on move or stop as the fancy takes them; comments in
whispers on face such a number from such a window are not infrequent; many of
the faces are of a character to fix attention. Some of the visitors from the
outside public are accustomed visitors. They have established a speaking
acquaintance with the occupants of particular seats at the tables, and halt at
these points to bend down and say a word or two. It is no disparagement to
their kindness that those points are generally points where personal
attractions are. The monotony of the long spacious rooms and the double lines
of faces is agreeably relieved by these incidents, although so slight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There is not much to see in
the classrooms, which will not be fully conveyed in our illustrations. As we
enter the boys room, we are momentarily startled by the shuffle of feet as
every boy rises respectfully in his place. Not being professional school
inspectors, such honours are not often accorded us. Resuming their seats, the
class work goes on as at any ordinary school. So with the girls. The most
interesting of the classes is that of the infants. On the day on which we visit
the Foundling for the especial purpose of this paper, they are turned out of
their ordinary room, and are squatted on the floor of another in sections
before blackboards, and with slates in their laps. They are the veriest,
chubbiest urchins imaginable, and, as we approach, three or four of them turn
their smiling faces up to ours. They evidently expect to be spoken to, and we
ask them what they are doing?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Writin’,” answers a babe of very few summers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Writing what?” we ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Good,” is the reply, as a little finger points to the
blackboard on which the word is written in bold characters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “And are you good?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Es,” and with a “That’s right!” we pat the baby cheek,
and think many things. Poor little mites, and yet happy withal! Motherless,
fatherless, friendless, and yet inmates of an institution which is not such a
bad substitute for father, mother, and friends. What would they be but for it?
Recruits perchance in the ranks of shame into which their mothers might have
drifted. And their mothers? Who knows but that somewhere out in the world,
women are living, and working, and sleeping; dreaming, wondering how fares the
helpless mortal for whose existence they are responsible, for whom they still
bear a love which no barrier of separation can obliterate?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73ELaUMcWWZPSFvzzhS93ijiwrh3-7_GDbDjpCYYhEBS6lPeW2ZR2hmcHQdzoyupdRTQZU-IM2Ph12YMkTOR5ZgBsoHsKgl9hOitrU8S6GytkrGS4GtQq9DSV4efSbV92mEgu4i7WQyNK/s1600/Foundling+Infants.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73ELaUMcWWZPSFvzzhS93ijiwrh3-7_GDbDjpCYYhEBS6lPeW2ZR2hmcHQdzoyupdRTQZU-IM2Ph12YMkTOR5ZgBsoHsKgl9hOitrU8S6GytkrGS4GtQq9DSV4efSbV92mEgu4i7WQyNK/s640/Foundling+Infants.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foundling Infants</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73ELaUMcWWZPSFvzzhS93ijiwrh3-7_GDbDjpCYYhEBS6lPeW2ZR2hmcHQdzoyupdRTQZU-IM2Ph12YMkTOR5ZgBsoHsKgl9hOitrU8S6GytkrGS4GtQq9DSV4efSbV92mEgu4i7WQyNK/s1600/Foundling+Infants.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73ELaUMcWWZPSFvzzhS93ijiwrh3-7_GDbDjpCYYhEBS6lPeW2ZR2hmcHQdzoyupdRTQZU-IM2Ph12YMkTOR5ZgBsoHsKgl9hOitrU8S6GytkrGS4GtQq9DSV4efSbV92mEgu4i7WQyNK/s1600/Foundling+Infants.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73ELaUMcWWZPSFvzzhS93ijiwrh3-7_GDbDjpCYYhEBS6lPeW2ZR2hmcHQdzoyupdRTQZU-IM2Ph12YMkTOR5ZgBsoHsKgl9hOitrU8S6GytkrGS4GtQq9DSV4efSbV92mEgu4i7WQyNK/s1600/Foundling+Infants.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From the school-rooms let us go to the museum, where are stored some valuable and many curiosities. Pictures by Hogarth and others line the walls, and it is an interesting item of information that the Royal Academy of Arts, to which the fashionable world flocks today, was suggested to the founders by the crowds of people who in the last century went to see pictures exhibited at the Foundling Hospital. Artists rallied strongly to the support of the institution, which also enlisted the services of Handel, who devoted his “Messiah” to its benefit, and presented the organ which is still in use. Lovers of art history and art treasures will find much on the walls and in the show-cases of the Foundling Hospital to gratify them. What will attract the majority of people more, however, than Handel’s gifts, or Hogarth’s or Sir Joshua Reynolds’ canvases, are the tokens which it early became necessary to stipulate should be left with the child for the purpose, if need be, of identification. All sorts of things were left, from a coin or a key, to a trinket of piece of ribbon. Hearts and wedding rings are numerous, the former, no doubt, emblems more often than not of broken hearts, the latter eloquent of disappointed hopes. In some instances, the token took the shape of a verse.</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiddpwDj5jJdqaS3vu7JJtNgN3MKuuK6GhljmjN4WpYqMYyZ_WiVD-vxOyC1RnXmqkE1AsLIW834ux6yyZLlY-I1thzYwjBUftjk1Ryb_fayn6gGxAWvsg52dy9t7oWVAr-GIK9te-6pWJS/s1600/The+Museum.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiddpwDj5jJdqaS3vu7JJtNgN3MKuuK6GhljmjN4WpYqMYyZ_WiVD-vxOyC1RnXmqkE1AsLIW834ux6yyZLlY-I1thzYwjBUftjk1Ryb_fayn6gGxAWvsg52dy9t7oWVAr-GIK9te-6pWJS/s400/The+Museum.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">What becomes of the inmates
of the Hospital when the time arrives to turn them out into the world to gain a
living? The boys, at the age of fourteen, are usually apprenticed to some
trade. A great many of them, however, who have formed part of the juvenile band
at the Hospital, join the bands of the army and navy. In this position they
seem to do especially well. Testimonials of gratitude from lads brought up at
the Hospital are not wanting. One is a handsome Chinese vase, bearing the
inscription:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Presented to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>
by George Ross, Corporal, Band, 74<sup>th</sup> Highlanders, as a small token
of gratitude for the years of childhood spent in the institution. <st1:place w:st="on">Hong Kong</st1:place>, 15<sup>th</sup> February, 1879.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Another is an inkstand made
of Irish bog oak, and was<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Presented to the Governors of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> by Corporal Samuel Reid, a
foundling, of her majesty’s Regiment Military Train, as a token of deep
gratitude. April 26, 1868.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The girls go into domestic
service, and with initial care make excellent servants. In these days, when
good domestics are so difficult to get, the demand for foundling girls is much
greater than the supply. Whatever the deprivations of the children may be on
account of the want of individual motherly love, the real hardships of the
lives of the girls begin when they leave the Hospital. They are educated in
everything save worldly knowledge. Where an ordinary girl runs errands for her
parents, and becomes a little woman by the time she reaches her teens, the
foundling girls remain in absolute ignorance of how to purchase any single
article, or transact the simplest affairs outside the home. This is one
drawback.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUD5XPzuROte70ZEqctlOx12kMxdMtfHXqKlo9vTznx7jhC-jGdEUuKgb3rqG7l_xLMYbgVDzghz6G58Bko86Rkb1bCFM8NqvhIFZtd5Nz5D9B0oEeRs7yQAl4Tia1iGZrlTK6qQhBUEEB/s1600/Girls+in+School.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUD5XPzuROte70ZEqctlOx12kMxdMtfHXqKlo9vTznx7jhC-jGdEUuKgb3rqG7l_xLMYbgVDzghz6G58Bko86Rkb1bCFM8NqvhIFZtd5Nz5D9B0oEeRs7yQAl4Tia1iGZrlTK6qQhBUEEB/s640/Girls+in+School.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Girls in Class</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Another and sadder is when,
standing on the threshold of the great world, they realize that they are not as
the majority of other girls are. They go to service, and they have not a friend
of any kind to see or to talk about. Do what it will, the Hospital cannot
supply the place of relatives, and, however much her origin may be screened
from her fellow servants, in all probability the time comes when the latter
say:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “How strange we never hear you speak of your father, or
your mother, or your sister, or your brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then the lonely maiden
invents little stories and tells fibs, which the most truthful among us may
pardon, respecting the father and mother who are dead, or whatever other
explanation may occur to her. If the inquisitive world only knew what pain its
thoughtless enquiries may cause!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A visit to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> will afford food for many an
hour’s reflection. We are often urged to recognize woman’s equality with man.
The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Foundling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> is a pathetic reminder of her
eternal inequality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">- Strand Magazine, 1891<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Foundling Hospital is no
longer there, but Captain Coram’s name still lives on in Coram’s Fields, a
children’s park <i>(into which adults are
only allowed if accompanied by a child under sixteen</i>) situated between
Regent’s Park and Clerkenwell where the hospital stood for 187 years before it
was moved outside London in the 1920’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A plaque at the entrance to
the park commemorates the history of the area with these words:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">THESE GROUNDS<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">The site of the Foundling Hospital
established in 1739 by Captain Thomas Coram were offered for sale as building
land in 1926 when owing to changing social conditions the old Hospital was sold
and demolished.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">After eight years of anxiety as to its
fate, the site was eventually preserved for the use and welfare of the children
of Central London by the generosity and vision of Harold Viscount Rothermere,
by the efforts of the Foundling Site Appeal Council, by the co-operation of the
Governors of the Foundling Hospital, and of the Education Committee of the
London County Council, and by the enthusiasm of many thousands of donors, large
and small, who contributed their money, or their toil to the saving of these
nine acres, henceforth to be known as<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">CORAM’S FIELDS <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-7564470647668981722013-08-27T05:19:00.001-07:002013-08-27T05:19:59.060-07:00“Pushing the Door Open with a Creak I am at Once Surrounded by the old Familiar Smell; the Acidic and Vinegary Smell of Old Leather Bound Books from a Bygone Age…” Or: A Return to the Dusty Factory of Nineteenth Century Appreciation:<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It's morning. Early. Despite
the recent warm weather there is a fine mist of cool water hanging in the air
as if a cloud has fallen from the sky and landed amongst us. The only sound I
can hear is of the soles of my shoes clacking upon the floor and grinding the
tiny particles of grit on the tarmac. My destination is close now. I have not
been here for some months, but I feel as if I have never left as the familiar
sights and sounds bring the past forward, colliding with the present.<br />
<br />
It is unusually dark, but, for the lack of light and the damp air, unusually
warm, too. It is August, and I suppose as we phase awkwardly from summer into
autumn, the enigmatic weather is wont to contradict itself.<br />
<br />
Looming closer is my destination. Shrouded by the mist and the early morning
twilight it looks like some great animal, watching me draw near, incredulous at
my late return, at once excited, but also vexed at my lengthy absence. As I
approach the door the finer details are painted into the beast by my nearing
proximity, and the broad brushstrokes that made it seem animalistic are
replaced, and the looming creature morphs into a familiar and friendly presence,
excitedly welcoming me back.<br />
<br />
Just as you may be apart from a friend for a length of time, and upon being
reacquainted may notice small differences in them that may have gone unseen had
you been in their presence more frequently, I notice the face of the building
has undergone minor changes; the weeds upon the front step have grown longer
than I have ever seen, the hot summer has caused the once-striking red paint of
the door to fade and begin to peel, and the windowsill has become thick with
dust and dirt. All this will be attended to in time.<br />
<br />
Above the door I read the sign with the same pride with which I read it the day
it was hung almost three years ago. <i>'The
Victorianist'</i>. I whisper it aloud.<br />
<br />
Pushing the door open with a creak I am at once surrounded by the old familiar
smell; the acidic and vinegary smell of old leather bound books from a bygone
age. Paper touched by our ancestors and passed down through the generations to
find its way to me. I am, like previous persons, but a stepping stone for these
old tomes. Long after me they will find new custodians to keep them and enjoy
them. They have outlived so many, and will outlive many more yet.<br />
<br />
The one window in this building of wood is miserly in its allowance of light,
and so I reach for the light switch and flick it, but nothing happens. Stepping
forward over the threshold I stumble upon a pile of mail; it seems I have much
work to do...<br />
<br />
When the light is returned, and the weeds pulled up, and the window cleaned and
the dust is blown from these old books, business can once again resume and this
little wooden factory of nineteenth century appreciation can once again get
running.<br />
<br />
First, I must get a fire going. I tread across the creaky wooden boards to the
knee-high cupboard and take out the matches I knew I had left there, for when I
was last here it was May, yet we were still in the throes of winter. A few
lumps of coal and newspaper still remain and in no time a small fire is burning
in the grate, crackling and throwing obscure orange shadows up the walls. Then
she catches my eye, sitting proudly on the wall of the chimney breast, from
whence she has watched everything for the last three years from behind her gilt
frame. Although she was the first item I brought into this place, I had
forgotten she was here.<br />
<br />
There is no mistaking her mood as she sits regally, staring out at me with a
displeased look. She is photographed here in 1897, the year of her diamond
jubilee, and yet, despite her expression having been captured in a second, all
those years ago, I feel it has been reserved for this moment, as she registers
her annoyance at my lengthy absence.<br />
<br />
I bow my head to her and agree; 'Yes, your Majesty, it<i> has</i> been too long...'<br />
<br />
Then, like an industrious squirrel at the dawn of winter, I scurry off to do my
work...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-20978191837726928352013-05-02T09:04:00.000-07:002013-05-02T09:04:09.843-07:00EVENT: CULTURE AND CONTROVERSY IN MUSIC HALL AND VAUDEVILLE, 11th May 2013 at Hoxton Hall, London:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Last September, this blog
explored the fun, yet often melancholy world of the Victorian music hall and
the lives of those who illuminated the stage. (read those articles <a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Music%20Hall">here:</a>)
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But for a more in-depth
exploration of this fascinating world of gas-light, music, laughs and
celebrity, I direct you toward the fabulous Hoxton Hall – an original 1860’s
music hall – for a day of music hall history and gaiety!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilSyyN73hDgrWfvd50n-lM_jJKEfv9OQgPVKGXP3IhkNu3Kkj4EY8XQa433kLhn9TTg1KE253iQPkqHtsy53Kq9-sAmIlcBK4DWF6I-Yr-89ygVK7byW6v72-zesHDJu6tLCGlmzVZGSP7/s1600/Hoxton+Hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilSyyN73hDgrWfvd50n-lM_jJKEfv9OQgPVKGXP3IhkNu3Kkj4EY8XQa433kLhn9TTg1KE253iQPkqHtsy53Kq9-sAmIlcBK4DWF6I-Yr-89ygVK7byW6v72-zesHDJu6tLCGlmzVZGSP7/s400/Hoxton+Hall.jpg" width="272" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">From Charlie Chaplin to
Vesta Tilley, the working-class theatre and its performers captured the
imagination of the Victorian and Edwardian period. This exciting and unique
conference explores how such a controversial art form influenced popular
perceptions, and still resonates in the world we live in today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Held at Hoxton Hall, on May
11th 2013, and organized by King’s College, <st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city>
and the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:placename></st1:place>, this
one-day conference will explore the history of one of the most exciting,
subversive and controversial forms of theatre from the 19th Century. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The first example of mass
entertainment in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
the music hall’s influence over fashion, language, society, and culture
continues to resonate today, while remaining one of the most enduring art forms
of the Victorian period. On the other side of the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>,
vaudeville had a similar impact, helping produce a mass audience of consumers,
in advance of the development of film and television. In addition, American
performers found opportunities in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">UK</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and vice versa, becoming
carrier of cultural exchange in the process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5rjhDb3KwFO9abcEqxQ3KII3CzF_yJIapQJOLJvJlZwi9fQ4hueW4A9dOqdf9x5e9zxOOGnqZW2z8vtWopbnfGfq0YqQ8Bb-VG7ZtnyT18A9YqZUtl5h8B9r3A4AA42s_IZKvuwnjaxq/s1600/Music+Hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5rjhDb3KwFO9abcEqxQ3KII3CzF_yJIapQJOLJvJlZwi9fQ4hueW4A9dOqdf9x5e9zxOOGnqZW2z8vtWopbnfGfq0YqQ8Bb-VG7ZtnyT18A9YqZUtl5h8B9r3A4AA42s_IZKvuwnjaxq/s320/Music+Hall.jpg" width="242" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">This conference seeks to
bring together all those working on any aspect of the Music Halls, both
nationally and internationally, for a day of discussion and discovery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">We are looking for papers
from all disciplines: Drama, Performance Studies, History, English, Geography,
Music, Social Sciences, and Digital Humanities, etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We welcome submissions from
established scholars, early career researchers, Phd students, as well as
performers, and members of relevant societies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Papers could explore:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This conference takes place
on 11th May 2013 at 9am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">£25.00 Full Admission<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">£20 Concession for Students <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For more information or to
book tickets, please find your way to the event website, or simply allow me to
do all the hard work for you, and click </span><a href="http://events.history.ac.uk/event/show/10194" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #2862c5;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">here:</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-18291660315623268652013-04-19T02:40:00.000-07:002013-04-19T02:40:57.681-07:00“The Show-Case of the East-end Photographer Gives One a Very Fair Idea of the Evolution of the Foreign Immigrant…” Or: A Day With an 1890’s East-End Photographer:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the last post
here we delved into the history of <i>The Strand</i>
magazine and its owner, George Newnes. It felt it quite appropriate, then, to follow
that with an article from that publication.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This article
relates to one of the real heroes of the Victorian era, and one without whom I doubt
my passion and interest for the subject would be so great; <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The
photographer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">One of the great
beauties of studying the Victorian era is the fact that it was the first period
in history ever to be photographed, and Queen Victoria the first ever monarch
to have a portrait done, not by an artist under pressure to hide the blemishes
and bring out the best features of regal subject, but by the ever-truthful
camera. We will never know for certain what former kings and queens <i>really </i>looked like, or what the streets
of the world looked like in earlier eras, but the latter-half of the nineteenth
century is there in photographs for the world to see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Such is my
enthusiasm for Victorian photography that not too long ago I decided to begin
sharing the pictures I have saved on a Tumblr photo blog, which you can find </span><a href="http://amateurcasualvictorianist.tumblr.com/"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">here:</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Although it is a little <i>London-centric</i>, there are nineteenth
century photographs from other parts of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">UK</st1:country-region></st1:place> there too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have many
books containing <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Victorian street</st1:address></st1:street>
photography, which are invaluable research sources, and photographs of people
can provide great insights into the fashions of all classes of the day. Having
looked at so many photos its great to be able to get an insight into the life
of the man behind the lens, and for that, this article is just fantastic, and illustrates
what <i>The Strand</i> did so well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have published
on this blog a few other posts about Victorian photography, for which I will
provide links below the main article:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">A Day with an East-End Photographer<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Here y’are now,
on’y sixpence for yer likeness, the ‘ole thing, ‘strue’s life. Come inside now,
won’tcher? No waitin’. Noo instanteraneous process.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Thus, with the
sweet seductiveness of an East-end tout, was a photographer endeavouring to
inveigle ‘Arry and ‘Arriet into his studio, which was situated – well, “down
East som’ere,” as the inhabitants themselves would describe the locality. It
was somewhere near the Docks; somewhere, you may be sure, close bordering upon
that broad highway that runs ‘twixt Aldgate and the Dock-gates, for within
those boundaries the tide of human life flows most strongly, and the
photographer hoped, by stationing himself there, to catch a few of the
passers-by, thrown in his way like flotsam and jetsam. He was not disappointed
in his expectation. While daylight lasted there was generally a customer
waiting in his little back parlour, enticed thither by the blandishments of the
tout outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The
establishment was not prepossessing to an eye cultivated in the appearance of
the artistic facades of photographers in the West. The frontage consisted of a
little shop, with diminutive windows, which it was the evident desire of the
proprietor to make the most of by engaging in other commercial pursuits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjTVRj2xvUOgwQGAC_ugWU2RC5aX5SRn94c31_AKI1eRUM2SOynFrUV2ZzPPM3br4zslXUuMMcEQmmiGQrZPwGXkL7cENh3qS5cI-TIQf_RvtmDr-ZoBYZpobYDeyVO_n9P4OYGQ99YWbm/s1600/The+Establishment.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjTVRj2xvUOgwQGAC_ugWU2RC5aX5SRn94c31_AKI1eRUM2SOynFrUV2ZzPPM3br4zslXUuMMcEQmmiGQrZPwGXkL7cENh3qS5cI-TIQf_RvtmDr-ZoBYZpobYDeyVO_n9P4OYGQ99YWbm/s640/The+Establishment.JPG" width="524" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There seemed to be
an incongruity in the art of the photographer being associated with the sale of
coals, firewood, potatoes, sweets and gingerbeer, but the East-enders
apparently did not trouble themselves to consider this in the least. There was,
indeed, a homely flavour about this miscellaneous assortment of useful and
edible articles, which commended itself to their mind. What was more natural
than that ‘Arry, having indulged in the luxury of a photograph, should pursue
his day’s dissipation by treating his ‘Arriet to a bottle of the exhilarating
“pop,” to say nothing of a bag of sweets to eat on their holiday journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The coals,
firewood and potato department, so far from being regarded as in any way
derogatory to the photographer’s profession, was rather calculated to impress
the natives, who were accustomed to look upon a heap of coals – to say nothing
of the firewood and potatoes – as a material sign of prosperity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So far as the
photographer was concerned, it was a matter of necessity as well as choice that
he came to be thus associated, for it transpired that he had married the buxom
woman, whom we now see behind the counter, at a time when he was trying hard to
make ends meet in the winter season, when photography is as a discount. She, on
the other hand, had a thriving little business of the general nature we have
indicated, and was mourning the loss of the partner who had inaugurated the
shop, and for a time had shared with her his joys and sorrows, the photographer
had won her heart by practicing his art on Hampstead Heath the last Bank
Holiday, and the happy acquaintance thus formed had ripened into one of such
mutual affection that the union was consummated, and another department was
added to the little general business by the conversion of the yard at the back
into a photographic studio.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The placards
announcing the price coals and firewood, and the current market rates of
potatoes, were elevated to the top-most panes of the window, and the lower half
was filled with a gorgeous array of specimen portraits in all the glory of
their tinsel frames.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">From that day
the shop was a huge attraction, and the proprietor of the wax-work show over
the way cast glances of ill-conceived envy and jealousy at the crowd which had
deserted his frontage for the later inducements opposite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The incoming
vessels from foreign ports brought many visitors, and generally a few
customers. To the foreign element the window was especially fascinating. Many a
face of strange mien stared in at the window, and the photographer being
somewhat of an adept with an instantaneous camera, would often secure a “snap
shot” of some curious countenance, the owner of which could not be enticed
within. These would duly appear in the show cases, and served as decoys to
others of the same nationality.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69EMeB7WwX_ZTKLVxF3boUcuRHmCkqJqdGRdnyPUz_8rPZKvCgnwgVM-W1as-fCQPjp3oH_UQPEEt2dslsPI-L5kzwRMuest75cDW-f5EB10qaXhvQfuZvfPYPn7YgUmJQ-qqQ04rzToL/s1600/In+the+Showcase.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg69EMeB7WwX_ZTKLVxF3boUcuRHmCkqJqdGRdnyPUz_8rPZKvCgnwgVM-W1as-fCQPjp3oH_UQPEEt2dslsPI-L5kzwRMuest75cDW-f5EB10qaXhvQfuZvfPYPn7YgUmJQ-qqQ04rzToL/s640/In+the+Showcase.JPG" width="520" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">There was a
solemn-faced Turk in showy fez, and with dainty cigarette ‘twixt his fingers,
who surveyed the window with immutable countenance, and was impervious to all
the unction of the tout. This latter worthy was not aware that it was against
the religion of the “unspeakable Turk” to be photographed, or he would not have
wasted his energy on such an unpromising customer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The negro sailor
was apparently struck with the presentments of the other members of his race,
but asseverated that he was “stone broke,” and did not own a cent to pay for
his photograph. He had spent such small earnings as he had received, and was
now on his way back to his vessel. “Me no good, me no money,” he told the tout,
who turned away from him in disgust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There has so far
been a good many passers-by today for every likely customer, and the tout is
almost in despair. “Rotters,” he mutters; “not a blessed tanner among ‘em.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Ah! Here’s his
man, though, and <i>he </i>is on the alert
for his prey, as he sees a dapper little figure with unmistakable Japanese
features come sauntering down the street. He is dressed in the most approved
style of the East-end tailor, who no doubt has assured him that he is a
“reg’lar masher.” So evidently thinks the little Japanese man, as he shoots his
cuffs forward, flourishes his walking cane, and displays a set of ivory white
teeth in his guileless Celestial smile. The tout rubs his hands with a
business-like air of satisfaction as he sees the victim safely handed over to
the tender mercies of the operator within. “Safe for five bobs’ worth that
‘un,” he soliloquises, winking at no one in particular, but possibly just to
relieve his feelings by force of habit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The next
customer attracted in was an Ayah, or Hindoo nurse, a type often to be seen in
the show-case of the East-end photographer. These women find their way to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region> through
engagements as nurses to Anglo-Indian families coming home, and they work their
way back by re-engagements to families outward bound. Whenever a P.&O. boat
arrives there will probably be seen one or more of these women, whose stately
walk and Oriental attire at once attract attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8-BgtCsT1PYNGYzRufI6PM3rNnJ7InJlUw2Yg8N3XjQyQmS7ahZLAVwns9HnhddI4F4UNFwvEri9XoHUj9Dt2CXICC-Cu9Eppe18U3HZFUwStOb_G41pThlKomfZWBbx9AGrEX0fmZqS/s1600/Look+Pleasant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8-BgtCsT1PYNGYzRufI6PM3rNnJ7InJlUw2Yg8N3XjQyQmS7ahZLAVwns9HnhddI4F4UNFwvEri9XoHUj9Dt2CXICC-Cu9Eppe18U3HZFUwStOb_G41pThlKomfZWBbx9AGrEX0fmZqS/s640/Look+Pleasant.JPG" width="442" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Prominent also
among the natives who find their way up from the Docks are the Malay sailors,
in their picturesque white dresses. Sometimes the photographer secures a couple
for a photo, but as a rule they have little money. “Like all the rest o’ them
blessed haythens,” says the tout, “not a bloomin’ meg among a ‘ole baker’s
dozen of ‘em.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The faces of
such types are not, however, interesting to the East-enders. Their interest in
the window display is only heightened when familiar faces make their appearance
in the tinsel frames. There was, for instance, positive excitement in the
neighbourhood when a highly-coloured portrait of the landlord of a well-known
beershop in the same street was added to the collection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Everyone
recognised the faithfulness at once, though it was irreverently hinted that in
the colouring the exact shade of the gentleman’s nose had not been faithfully
copied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">One can imagine
the feelings of pride with which the photographer has posed his worthy
neighbour, who had arrayed himself in all the glory of his Sunday best suit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Head turned a
little this way, please! Yes – now – look at this – yes – now, look pleasant!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Everything would
have gone well at this point, but the dog, which it was intended should form an
important adjunct to the picture, and symbolically typify the sign of the house
– “The Jolly Dog” – set up a mournful howl, and made desperate efforts to et
away from the range of that uncanny instrument in front of him. However, the
photographer waited for a more favourable moment, and while the dog was
considering the force of his master’s remarks, the exposure was successfully
made. The result was regarded as quite a <i>chef
d’oeuvre</i> in the eyes of those who stopped to gaze at it as it hung in a
place of honour in the window of the little front shop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The “reg’lar”
East-enders, as distinguished from the foreign element, were, indeed, very easy
to please; but, unfortunately, they were not the mainstay of the photographers
business. He must needs look for other customers to eke out a living. And here
his difficulties began. He had to be careful not to take a low type of Jewish
features in profile, for the foreign Jew, once he has been acclimatized, does
not like to look “sheeny”; and the descendants of Ham – euphemistically classed
under the generic term of “gentlemen of colour” – were always fearful lest
their features should come out too dark. One young negro who came to be photographed
expressly stipulated that he should not be made to look black. To obviate this
difficulty, the photographer wets his customer’s face with water, so as to
present a shiny appearance to the lens of the camera, and a brighter result is
thus secured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On this
particular occasion the ingenious dodge failed, and the vain young negro loudly
denounced it as representing him a great deal blacker than he was in the flesh.
Indeed, the tears sparkled in his eyes as he protested that he was “no black
n***er.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There is a
subtle distinction, mark you, between a “n***er” and a “black n***er” in the
mind of a “coloured person,” and no greater insult can be leveled at him than
to apply the latter epithet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The tout’s
thoughts are soon distracted by the appearance of a German fraulein, evidently
of very recent arrival in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
who is admiring the photos in the window. She is arrayed in a highly-coloured
striped dress, which is not of a length that would be accepted at the West-end,
for it reaches only to the ankles, and shoes her feet encased in a clumsy pair
of boots. An abnormally large green umbrella which she carries is another
characteristic feature that seems inseparable from women of this type.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The tout has a
special method of alluring women folk within the studio. He has a piece of
mirror let into one of the tinsel frames which he carries in his hand as
specimens. He holds this up before the woman’s face, and asks her to observe
what a picture she would make. This little artifice seldom fails to attract the
women, whatever their nationality, for vanity is vanity all over the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">John Chinaman is
quite as easily satisfied, and the tout has no difficulty in drawing him
within, but the drawback to his custom is that he seldom has any money, or, if
he has any, is not inclined to part with it. It is just a “toss-up,” as the
tout says, whether he will pay, if he gets the Celestial inside, though it is
worth the risk when business is not very brisk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Here is a fine
specimen of a Celestial coming along. Western civilisation, as yet, has made no
impression on him, and he looks for all the world the Chinaman of the
willow-pattern plate in the window of the tea shop. John falls an easy prey to
the tout, who ushers him inside, and whispers to the “Guv’nor” in a mysterious aside:
“Yew du’im for nothin’, if ye can’t get him to brass up. Lots o’ Chaneymen
about to-day, an’ ‘e’ll advertise the business.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He customer is
thereupon posed with especial favour, the photographer feeling that the
reputation of the business in the Celestial mind depends on the success of this
effort. Chinese accessories are called into play; John Chinaman is seated in a
bamboo chair, against a bamboo table, supporting a flower vase which looks
suspiciously as though it had once served as a receptacle for preserved ginger.
Overhead is hung a paper lantern, and the background is turned round so that
the stretcher frame of the canvas may give the appearance of a Chinese
interior. There is no need to tell the sitter to look pleasant, for his
features at once expand into that peculiar smile which Bret Harte has described
as “child-like and bland.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The photo is
duly completed and handed over to the customer for his inspection and approval.
He manifests quite a childish delight, and is about to depart with it, when he
is reminded by word and sign that he has not paid. John very well understands
the meaning of it all, but smiles vacuously. When, however, the photographer
begins to look threatening, he whines in his best English that he has no money.
The photographer slaps him all round in the hope of hearing a jingle of
concealed coins, but to no purpose. “Another blessed specimen, gratis!” he
mutters, as he allows his unprofitable customer to depart with the photo, in
the hope that it will attract some of his fellow-countrymen to the studio. This
seems quite likely, for the Chinaman goes off in a transport of delight. He
stops now and again to survey the photo, and the appearance of it evidently
gives such satisfaction that he goes dancing off like a child to show it to his
Celestial brethren. They straightway resolve to go and have a photograph for
nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A group of
chattering Chinamen soon appear in the front of the photographer’s shop, with
the late customer in the midst explaining how the trick is done. It seems to be
finally resolved that they should go in one at a time, the others waiting
outside. One young member of the party accordingly steps forward, and the tout,
delighted to see the bait has so soon taken, never considers the possibility
that this customer likewise has no money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The same scene
is enacted as in the previous case, but when it comes to the point of paying
for the photo, and John Chinaman is found to be absolutely penniless, there is
an unrehearsed ending to the little comedy. The proprietor of the photographic
establishment seizes the Chinaman by the collar and drags him into the front
shop, where the tout, in instant comprehension of the state of affairs, takes
the offender in hand and very neatly kicks him over the doorstep, whence he falls
into the midst of his compatriots, who all take to their heels, screaming in a
high-pitched key. The tout looks at their rapidly retreating figures with a
countenance eloquently expressive of mingled sorrow and anger, vowing vengeance
on any other of “them haythen Chaynees” who might choose to try the game of
securing photos for nothing. “Ought to be all jolly well drownded in the
river,” he remarks to his colleage in-doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9U87pzYevJYLqITP-26DqoJxOv9Ri1-rbudK5WV8mweHwPg-vNg4EbO94oyQiTwEDHMXAjJKAxf6z6WIO5zAL5lxZ5W7JigmCC608NpSQFD3nWqP7zh6tnVSXbQwqAZIyKw8fEhMUkH_3/s1600/Some+Foreign+Immigrants.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9U87pzYevJYLqITP-26DqoJxOv9Ri1-rbudK5WV8mweHwPg-vNg4EbO94oyQiTwEDHMXAjJKAxf6z6WIO5zAL5lxZ5W7JigmCC608NpSQFD3nWqP7zh6tnVSXbQwqAZIyKw8fEhMUkH_3/s640/Some+Foreign+Immigrants.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Some Foreign Immigrants'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On the other
hand, the heavy-browed, gaunt-cheeked, male Teuton is not so easy to attract,
but the photographer can trust the course of things to bring him eventually to
the studio. When first imported he stares in at the window in a stolid,
indifferent manner. His face has a hungry look, and is shadowed by a heavily
slouched hat; his hair is unkempt; he wears an untidy and unclean scarf; his
boots are big and heavy, and his trousers several inches too short for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In a short time,
however, he will blossom forth into a billycock hat, with broad and curly brim
of the most approved East-end cut; patent leather boots to match, and a very
loud red tie. The hungry look has by this time given way to a sleek, well-fed
nature, and he will stroll along with a Teuton sweetheart, likewise transformed
very much from her former self. The short, gaudily striped dress has given way
to the latest “’krect thing” in East-end fashion, and the green stuff umbrella
has gone the way of the striped skirt, to be replaced by the latest novelty in
“husband beaters.” Then it is that Teutonic ‘Arry and ‘Arriet patronize the
photographer, and rejoice his heart with, perhaps, a five-shilling order.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The show-case of
the East-end photographer gives one a very fair idea of the evolution of the
foreign immigrant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The tout seemed
to know the history of every person whose photograph was displayed in the
show-case, and he was rattling it off to us at a rate which precluded any
possibility of storing it up in our memory, when a slight diversion was created
by a coster’s barrow, drawn by a smart little pony, being driven up to the
front of the photographer’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The driver was
Mr. Higgins, we learnt, and the other occupants of the barrow were Mrs. Higgins
and the infant son and heir to the Higgins’ estate, which was reputed to be
something considerable in the costermongers’ way, as was evidenced by the fact
that Mr. Higgins was enabled to keep a pony to draw his barrow. Mrs. Higgins
had determined that ‘Enery – at one year and eight months – should have his
photograph taken and afterwards be glorified in a coloured enlargement. Mr.
Higgins had assented to this being done regardless of expense. It was a weighty
responsibility for the photographer, who always considered the taking of babies
was not his strong point. But he reflected upon the increased fame which would
accrue to his business if he was successful, and he determined to do it or
perish in the attempt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3QD9a97rAJkm3E1LO9RlUEBfjm8C_6jgmnfabtkqVZaJm8H_bvvacdrS1RRYu6xJedlWbKSI0z3rmu-3UqoQ0HUTh67DQ2_gSlW4P_XQz9c8tnv14FRtJkNpRNGbefejULrR9bWyus0c/s1600/Young+Higgins.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3QD9a97rAJkm3E1LO9RlUEBfjm8C_6jgmnfabtkqVZaJm8H_bvvacdrS1RRYu6xJedlWbKSI0z3rmu-3UqoQ0HUTh67DQ2_gSlW4P_XQz9c8tnv14FRtJkNpRNGbefejULrR9bWyus0c/s640/Young+Higgins.JPG" width="518" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He made hasty
preparations by selecting the most tempting stick of toffy he could find in the
sweetstuff window, and the tout was instructed to procure from a neighbouring
toy shop a doll, a rattle, a penny trumpet, and other articles dear to the
juvenile mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The youthful
Higgins was duly placed in a chair, behind which Mrs. Higgins was ensconced
with a view to assisting the photographer by preserving a proper equilibrium in
the sitter, and also ensuring confidence in the infantile mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So far, the
child had been quietly sucking his thumb and surveying the studio with an
interested air, but no sooner was his attention directed to the photographer
than a distrustful frown settled upon his face and, and his irritation at the
photographer’s presence found expression in a yell of infantile wrath. The more
the photographer tried to conciliate by flourishing toys the more the child
yelled. The photographer danced and sung, and blew the penny trumpet, and was
about to give up in the operation in despair, when it dawned on him that he had
forgotten the toffy stick. It was produced, and had its effect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On being assured
by Mrs. Higgins, behind the chair, that the “ducksy darling would have its
toffy stick,” the youthful sitter held that prospective joy with his
tear-glistening eye, and the photographer seizing a favourable moment performed
the operation with a sigh of satisfaction. Baby Higgins had its toffy stick,
Mrs. Higgins had a pleasing photo of her infant offspring, and the photographer
proudly congratulated himself on having so successfully performed his task. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The production
of such elaborate efforts as the coloured enlargements was, however, attended
with disadvantages and disappointments at times. It was hard to give entire
satisfaction to such exacting critics in these matters as East-end folk. And there
was always the risk that the picture might be thrown upon his hands if not
liked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Taking it all
round, his time was much more profitably enjoyed out of doors on high days and
holidays, in taking sixpenny “tintypes” “while you wait!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We have seen him
on a Bank Holiday beaming with good luck. He has started out early in the
morning with the intention of proceeding to Hampstead, but instead of going
thither, he pitches his camera near the walls of the Docks, and manages to
catch a good many passers-by before they have had the opportunity of spending
their money in the pleasures of a London Bank Holiday. Here he has succeeded in
inducing ‘Arry and ‘Arriet to have their photos taken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Such is a
chapter in the life of an East-end photographer. Today he may be doing a “roaring”
business, but tomorrow he may be reduced to accepting the twopences and
threepences of children who club together and and wait upon him with a demand
that he will take “Me, an’ Mary Ann, an’ little Mickey all for thruppence.” He invariably
assents, knowing that, though there can be little profit, the photo will create
a feeling of envy in the minds of other children who will decide on having a “real
tip topper” at sixpence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZuYTN0CZQTdJ6rtJzaJldX9BZEmMb_cwx0HRZurxhxp-fhTITpe2AGrQ6F0_-nq2eVvKMZL8tpN37UzYuZPAGEab32taffwVt18U310js6eYiRAuiMbdRinp4cBG4imlU4qFKiGoJNgy/s1600/The+Docks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZuYTN0CZQTdJ6rtJzaJldX9BZEmMb_cwx0HRZurxhxp-fhTITpe2AGrQ6F0_-nq2eVvKMZL8tpN37UzYuZPAGEab32taffwVt18U310js6eYiRAuiMbdRinp4cBG4imlU4qFKiGoJNgy/s640/The+Docks.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The
stock-in-trade of an East-end photographer is not a very elaborate one. He may
pick up the whole apparatus second-hand for about £5, and the studio and
fittings are not expensive. The thin metal plates cost not more than 10s. per
gross, and the tinsel binding frames about 3s. per gross, while the chemicals
amount to an infinitesimal sum on each plate. On a good day a turnover of £2 to
£3 may be made, but there are many ups and downs, and trials of temper and
patience, to say nothing of the unhealthy nature of the business, all going to
make up many disadvantages associated with the life of an East-end
photographer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 72.0pt; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; tab-stops: list 72.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial;">-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><st1:place w:st="on"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">Strand</span></i></st1:place><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">
Magazine, 1891<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are so
many wonderful cultural references in this article that it is a mine of great
information, and the pictures are just stunning (<i>particularly Baby Higgins!</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A Teuton,
by-the-by, is a Germanic person. In this article the author is probably
referring to a German.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In these days in
which every member of the public has a powerful camera in their pocket, spare a
thought for the tout on the street in 1891 trying to drum up business to take
the type of pictures we today can take anywhere, anytime and in a matter of
seconds!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">If you enjoyed
this, you may also like these other Victorian photography-based articles (<i>click on descriptions to go to the articles</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/julia-margaret-cameron.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Julia Margaret Cameron, pioneering Victorian photographer:</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/victorian-photography-addendum.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mayhew on a Victorian photographer (similar article to the above)</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/do-hill-and-early-photography-or-guest.html">D.O Hill and the birth of photography.</a></span></div>
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The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com121tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-62140151392602262202013-04-04T23:26:00.000-07:002013-04-04T23:31:40.976-07:00“American Magazines were Supplanting Those of Native Birth. The Strand Magazine Checked That, and Established a New Record of Sales in this Country…” Or: George Newnes & The Strand Magazine:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">After the history of the
famous Punch magazine was explored in the previous post, I thought it a good
time to delve into the story of another favourite historical magazine of mine; <i>The Strand</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Without question, <i>The Strand</i> is most famous for being the
first to give page-space to Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, Arthur Conan Doyle’s
detective – and in particular ‘<i>The Hound
of the Baskervilles</i>’ – was responsible for the magazine’s highest distribution
figures, peaking at over half a million copies per month during the
serialization of the aforementioned story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Strand</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;">
was a combination of factual articles (<i>a
couple of which I have used here on this blog</i>) and fictional tales written by
many of the leading authors of the day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIaeTK9yPKe6YNgLfn-Sns3PrinT8uXy7ESYUPgPMkxZMe7wObXb_mxS4PshyphenhyphenmZ8csoYm9qyGMfMu5WOViQBBoDef0XGIIn6GOeF9C3FRmkwwwZiOIxp-lTcZb5oQZxDwH5CFQ65qZY2n/s1600/Strand+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIaeTK9yPKe6YNgLfn-Sns3PrinT8uXy7ESYUPgPMkxZMe7wObXb_mxS4PshyphenhyphenmZ8csoYm9qyGMfMu5WOViQBBoDef0XGIIn6GOeF9C3FRmkwwwZiOIxp-lTcZb5oQZxDwH5CFQ65qZY2n/s400/Strand+Cover.jpg" width="271" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">During its sixty year run
from 1890 to 1950 the magazine published stories and articles by notable
writers such as H.G. Wells, Arthur Morrison, Agatha Christie, P.G. Wodehouse,
Rudyard Kipling and Dorothy L. Sayers. Even Queen Victoria and Churchill had
pieces published within its pages. (<i>Although
the Queen Victoria piece was only a sketch she had drawn of one of her children</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Many may also recognize the
front cover of the magazine, which is a delightful sketch of The Strand in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> looking toward
Mary le Strand. The cover was designed by the artist George Charles Haite, who
has charmingly suspended the title of the magazine from the telegraph wires
which zig-zag the thoroughfare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A lesser claim to fame that
the magazine can boast is that it was the first to include within its pages
something now featured in all the daily newspapers in this country; a dedicated
puzzles page.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Early
in the twentieth century (<i>possibly around
1910</i>) under a column entitled <i>Perplexities
</i>the magazine contained conundrums and brain-teasers, including the first appearances
of cross-number puzzles (<i>think of a
cross-word but with numbers</i>) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">From 1910 until his death
from throat cancer in 1930, the author of these perplexities was the
mathematical genius Henry Dudeney. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Born in Mayfield, East
Sussex, Henry’s grandfather, John Dudeney, was a self-taught mathematician (<i>and, incidentally, was also a shepherd</i>)
and in his early years Henry looked up to his grandfather’s skills (<i>as a mathematician, not a shepherd</i>) with
much admiration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtkNtr8JyWdYgEZCUiQDtbP0RKEvPsDGjIx-jM7C4KOUGEk3xHzuh67H74JRkYhB3yQWeDfBIxqbmqbe58Ro1zEng70ynQ5KdqpxjDQeOT-73N31d_EtSDCtdpJhISeyt-Sr_iy42Dgq7/s1600/Henry+Dudeney+c1910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtkNtr8JyWdYgEZCUiQDtbP0RKEvPsDGjIx-jM7C4KOUGEk3xHzuh67H74JRkYhB3yQWeDfBIxqbmqbe58Ro1zEng70ynQ5KdqpxjDQeOT-73N31d_EtSDCtdpJhISeyt-Sr_iy42Dgq7/s200/Henry+Dudeney+c1910.jpg" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry Dudeney c.1910</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">He learned to play chess as
a boy – a hobby which he continued to enjoy throughout life – and he became
fascinated with solving problems in the game. The appeal of solving problems
led </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to an interest in numbers and mathematics. The creating of numerical puzzles soon followed.<br /><br />As an adult, Henry worked for the civil service, but created and d</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">evised puzzles in his spare time which
he would often send to magazines and newspapers. In the early 1890’s he became
a regular contributor to several publications, including The Weekly Dispatch (</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">a Sunday paper that merged with the Sunday
Express in 1961</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">) Cassell’s Magazine (</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">which
in the late 1890’s underwent a change from being Cassell’s Family Magazine to
simply Cassell’s Magazine and set itself up as a direct competitor to The
Strand, carrying the same type of content – factual articles and fictional
writing from contributing authors</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">) and later to Blighty (</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Blighty began life in 1916 as a humorous
magazine for British servicemen, but over the years slowly descended down a
seedy, smutty slope, turning into a pin-up magazine in the late 1950’s, a nudey
magazine in the 1970’s, and went the whole hog in the 1990’s when it changed
its name to Parade and its content to hardcore</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">)</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Henry died of throat cancer
in 1930 and is buried in Lewes town cemetery in <st1:place w:st="on">East
Sussex</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Strand</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;">,
which was based in offices on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Southampton
Street</st1:address></st1:street>, just off The Strand, was owned by the
publishing giant George Newnes. George was a quite remarkable man with a finger
in many pies; I always thought he’d make an excellent character in a Victorian
novel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Born in Derbyshire in the Great
Exhibition year of 1851 he was, at various points of his life, an editor,
publisher and an MP. His career began in 1867 when, as a sixteen year old he latched
onto the soon-to-dwindle consumerism boom created by the Great Exhibition and
entered the ‘fancy goods’ trade, sharing his time between Manchester and London
selling anything from china, cutlery and snuff boxes to clocks, buttons and
buckles. At this time <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>
had been economically dominant the world over, and its manufacturing industry
was seen as the world’s best, but by the 1870’s growth in the British economy
was slowing down. As other countries with more energy and material supplies
were connected to each other by the railways, demand for British goods
decreased, and growing economic powerhouses such as America and Germany were catching
up, and offering goods to the same standard as British manufacturers, and often
at a cheaper price.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4eVnhWp9y0W7oOv-doVpEtb9MonX2DmjWa-XPYo1QSQpAklxQVJVOU0T5Px6fd6b4ffvtZZKUEbn7Pcf0xfp97r-FHJ-AYzQkJ5ove2V-tb1_ACmfaRl8Ntt-YYoQTeIQpCZBWewofa2/s1600/George+Newnes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4eVnhWp9y0W7oOv-doVpEtb9MonX2DmjWa-XPYo1QSQpAklxQVJVOU0T5Px6fd6b4ffvtZZKUEbn7Pcf0xfp97r-FHJ-AYzQkJ5ove2V-tb1_ACmfaRl8Ntt-YYoQTeIQpCZBWewofa2/s320/George+Newnes.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George Newnes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">George married Priscilla
Hillyard in 1875, and decided it was time for a change of career path. He set
up a vegetarian restaurant in Manchester in order to fund a new project, and
six years later he had raised enough cash to set up his first publication; </span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Tit-Bits</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">. (or to give it its full title :</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Tit-Bits from all the interesting Books,
Periodicals, and Newspapers of the World</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">) As its long-winded name suggests,
the magazine’s content was part interesting stories from around the globe, and
part fictional stories from contributing authors.</span></div>
<br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The magazine, which in the
early days was published in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manchester</st1:place></st1:city>,
was a success, and posted weekly sales figures around the half-a-million mark. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the mid 1880’s a
competition page increased readership further, and publication of <i>Tit-Bits</i> was moved to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place>. Away from publishing, George – a
staunch Liberal – was elected Member of Parliament for <st1:place w:st="on">Eastern
Cambridgeshire</st1:place> in 1885.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">At the end of the 1880’s George
met the controversial journalist W.T Stead, with whom he would go on to
establish the current affairs magazine <i>Review
of Reviews</i> in 1890. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The magazine began
publication only a month after the idea had been discussed, and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Stead, ever one to court
controversy, wrote most of the magazine himself. He would use its pages to
write scathing attacks and sketches on celebrities, politicians and even other
publications. It was this that caused George to cut ties with the magazine and
sell his share to Stead. Following George’s departure Stead typically went for
more shocking headlines, such as ‘<i>Baby-killing
as an investment</i>’ and ‘<i>Ought Mrs.
Maybrick to be tortured to death?</i>’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was in 1891 that George’s
most famous magazine, <i>The Strand</i> was
born to great success, and in the same year his publishing business, George
Newnes Ltd, was formed, and throughout the 1890’s created further titles to add
to George’s cannon, such as the <i>Westminster
Gazette</i>, which was a highly regarded Liberal evening newspaper that began
life in 1893 (<i>George sold the Gazette in
1908 and it went on to merge with another leading Liberal newspaper, The Daily
News, in 1928</i>) In1897 the world saw the first publication of <i>Country Life </i>magazine, which is still
running today, and in 1898 the <i>World Wide
Magazine</i> was founded. This featured true-life, travel and adventure stories
from across the globe. Publication of <i>World
Wide</i> ceased in 1965. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1895 George received both
bad and good news; after ten years as MP for <st1:place w:st="on">Eastern Cambridgeshire</st1:place>
he was defeated by the Conservative candidate Harry McCalmont, but this
disappointment was tempered when he was made a Baronet, as reported here in The
London Gazette:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">Whitehall</span></i></st1:city></st1:place><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">, February
11, 1895,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">THE Queen has been pleased
to direct Letters Patent to be passed under the Great Seal of the United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, granting the dignity of a Baronet of the
said United Kingdom unto George Newnes, of Wildcroft, in the parish of Putney,
in the county of London; of Hollerday Hill, in the parish of Lynton; and
Hesketh House, in the borough of Torquay, both in the county of Devon; Esquire:
and the heirs male of his body lawfully begotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <i>The <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> Gazette, February
1895</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the late 1890’s George developed an interest in films, and particularly in how they could be utilized in the same way as newspapers and magazines to deliver news and current affairs events to the public. In 1899 he invested £2000 in the <i>British Mutoscope and Biograph Company</i> – a subsidiary of the <i>American Mutoscope and Biograph Co</i></span>.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">George was excited by – and involved in – the company’s plans to develop the existing technology of the company (<i>essentially peep-show machines</i>) into a medium for delivering news. They boldly declared that “The novelty of the illustrated newspaper has worn down a little, and what the public want just now is a mutoscopic or biographic newspaper, in which the reader may see the progress of current events.” Hmm…sounds familiar. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1900 the company put its <i>Home Mutoscope</i> to market, but it was not
a success. Later the same year George re-entered politics, becoming MP for <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Swansea</st1:place></st1:city>, and held the
seat until he retired, aged fifty-nine, in 1910. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Lynton – the Devon town in
which he lived, and of which he was baronet – and also the neighbouring town of
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynmouth</st1:place></st1:city>, benefitted
greatly from having George as a resident. He helped to redevelop the two towns,
a task which included the building of a cliff-side railway which joined them,
allowing goods and people to easily travel between the two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He also provided the town
with a town hall in 1900. This from the council’s official website:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">Lynton Town Hall was built and given to the community
by Sir George Newnes on August 15th 1900. Designed by Read & Macdonald of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> this superb Grade
II listed building is a unique mixture of manorial, Gothic and Tudor styles.<br />
Constructed of local stone and oak by a local builder, the structure retains
its unusual originality both outside and within.<br />
When it opened Newnes wished that the hall would be… “a source of
instruction and recreative pleasure, not only to the present inhabitants but to
future generations”. These sentiments have been honoured by the local
community ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></i></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggx8Y2LagAwRkl1d9i_PbRtvwHRbOnDtc6t9cR3sEvIIeUaoTIPaLiFKtA7XXDd0grOKC-DtNwE3eSAejWwn260HrlI9z1hRnKTxl3Rg4qTmkOqcaRpXA-9WPscwQ6X-ar74n1q7WuK1sh/s1600/Town+Hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggx8Y2LagAwRkl1d9i_PbRtvwHRbOnDtc6t9cR3sEvIIeUaoTIPaLiFKtA7XXDd0grOKC-DtNwE3eSAejWwn260HrlI9z1hRnKTxl3Rg4qTmkOqcaRpXA-9WPscwQ6X-ar74n1q7WuK1sh/s640/Town+Hall.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Beautiful Town Hall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></i></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The re-vamping of the towns
brought the railways to north Devon in 1898, with the opening of the Lynton and
Barnstaple railway, built, ostensibly, to take tourists to the popular two
towns from <st1:place w:st="on">Barnstaple</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Shortly after his retirement
from politics in 1910 George died at his home in Lynton having suffered from
diabetes. With his death, though, his company, George Newnes Ltd, did not
cease, but continued, and in 1963 was incorporated into IPC Media, who today
publish magazines such as <i>TV Times, NME, Cycling
Weekly, Marie Claire</i> and <i>Nuts</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As the nineteenth century
drew to a close <i>The Strand</i> celebrated
its 100<sup>th</sup> volume. To mark the occasion George put pen to paper
within its pages:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The <st1:place w:st="on">Strand</st1:place><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">April 1899: Volume 100:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A chat about its history by
George Newnes, Bart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When I was told that the
Hundredth Number of The Strand Magazine was due in April this year, I could
hardly realize its truth. How time flies! It seems only the other day that the
first number of a Magazine on the lines that I had always wanted, with an
illustration on every page, was published, and with such far-reaching results.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The <st1:place w:st="on">Strand</st1:place>
to some extent revolutionized Magazines in this country, and it is a fitting
thing that on this Birthday something should be written as to its history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This will not be done in any
boastful spirit, but with a feeling of friendship, loyalty, and affection
towards the “<i>good old <st1:place w:st="on">STRAND</st1:place></i>”
which I am sure is shared by many thousands of people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">First of all let me talk
about the name. At one time we thought of calling it “<i>The Burleigh Street Magazine,</i>” because our offices were then
situated in that thoroughfare. But that was rather long, and as we were so very
near the <st1:place w:st="on">Strand</st1:place> we thought that to call it
after the historic thoroughfare would be justifiable. But the name of a
periodical does not really matter so much as people imagine. If you can put
such material into the pages as will attract the public, they become so
accustomed to the name, that after a while it really signifies very little
whether a title be a good or bad one. But still I am very glad the Magazine was
christened THE STRAND; and now this celebrated street – perhaps the most widely
known of any in the world – is permanently associated with this pioneer
Magazine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">What has happened since
everybody knows. Most Magazines are now modeled upon the plan of The Strand. By
the way, I commenced by saying I would not be boastful, but this rather sounds
like it. Is it not, however, a fact? It is not a source of annoyance, but of
gratification to me, and those associated with me, that our model should have
been made the type of others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">At the time when The Strand
Magazine first appeared, I have no hesitation in saying that British magazines
were at a low ebb. American Magazines were coming here, and, because they were
smarter and livelier, more interesting, bright and cheerful, they were
supplanting those of native birth. The Strand Magazine checked that, and
established a new record of sales in this country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It is easy to get a good
idea in journalism, but the carrying out of it is most important. I have been
very fortunate in having as the Literary Editor Mr. Greenhough Smith, and as
the Art Editor Mr. W. H. J. Boot, and I do not want to allow this hundredth
monthly birthday to go past without acknowledging the ability, the
faithfulness, and the loyalty that they have displayed towards the Magazine. I
have had in a busy experience to deal with a great many people, and to ask a
great many for co-operation, and I have never been associated with any who gave
me less trouble and more assistance than Mr. Greenhough Smith and Mr. Boot. In
any gossip or chat about The Strand I could not omit that reference.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I also wish to say how much
we have appreciated the work done by authors and artists, of whom we have a
large circle of valued friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The providing of the world’s
thought and reading, whether it is of a light or serious type, is one of the
most important professions; and it is a source of satisfaction with regard to
The Strand that, whilst the tone has always been high, the interest has been
continually retained. Its sale in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> has also become very large.
The American Edition is specially edited for that market by Mr. James Walter
Smith. The International News Co., who are the W.H. Smith and Sons of America,
always liked The Strand, and have taken much interest in its welfare, and to
this fact it is doubtless largely due that the American success has been
achieved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The <st1:place w:st="on">Strand</st1:place>,
during all these years has maintained and continues to maintain its
position. It even did so whilst I was
myself writing some articles for it, and if a Magazine can stand a test like
that it can stand anything; and to show my confidence in its hold upon the
public, I am going to put it to the further test of writing some fiction for
it, but out of kindness to the staff and mercy to its subscribers I am putting
off the evil day for as long as possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And now, gentle reader,
forgive the egotism of these lines. I have been asked by the staff to write
something on the Hundredth Monthly Birthday, and here is this little bit of
gossip, which will conclude with a wish, that will probably be responded to by
all its subscribers, that The Strand will be at its Thousandth Monthly Birthday
as vigorous and flourishing as it is at its Hundredth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <i>George Newnes,
April 1899</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">George was proved not be as
great a prophet as he was a publisher, and <i>The
Strand</i> did not quite make a thousand editions, ending, as it did, at issue
711 in 1950.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I must confess I have never
read any of the fiction in The Strand, and, having only begun its life in 1890,
the factual articles don’t give an overview of <i>much</i> of the Victorian era, but they are invaluable snapshots of the
end of the century, and what would prove to be the end of the era in 1901.</span></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-4084111279699946342013-03-15T00:33:00.000-07:002013-03-18T07:48:37.169-07:00“A Loud, Mocking Clamour of Noise…” Punch Or: The London Charivari: A Cultural Treasure Trove:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">I have long been an admirer of the excellent satirical magazine <i>Punch</i>, and am lucky enough to own a few
Victorian editions which I regularly thumb with mirth and glee, but when it
came to writing a short history of the comical publication I found myself
stuck, at a loss, and unable to do it any real justice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">For a good year or so I’ve been jotting things down, writing post
titles and making notes on what to include in my article about <i>Punch, </i>but always with the same result –
<i>I’ll come back to it later. </i>The sheer
volume of history, writers and illustrators were so vast that I thought it best
left to a book (<i>preferably</i> <i>written by someone else</i>) until it struck
me that in my midst on Twitter I had long been following Punch (<i>under the handle @PunchCartoons</i>) and if
I asked nicely enough perhaps they would tell their story for this humble blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Luckily, Andre at Punch was only too happy to oblige, and has
provided a fantastic history of the great Punch magazine, thus fulfilling a
glaring gap in the contents of this blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Whether you’re a fan of Punch or have never heard of it, please
enjoy reading about the life of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>’s
greatest – and funniest – magazine:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Why was Punch magazine '<i>great</i>'?
Historians, politicians, writers and readers have over the many cascading
decades since it started in 1841 called it legendary, influential, iconic, an
institution. Just flicking through its pages the first thing you notice are the
bold, confident illustrations, '<i>cartoons</i>'
which brilliantly satirize the political figures of the day and national
symbols fighting it out on the world stage, by which time in the 1840s and 50s,
Britain was the most powerful nation and largest empire in history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">But it is also a joy to open a volume of Punch– a window into
another point in time- and to see how different things were (<i>fashion, political in-correctness, extreme
poverty, London Fog</i>), how some things were surprisingly the same (<i>class pretension, speech, snowball fights</i>)
and how the future was being imagined a hundred years from their own time with
inventions some of which are only just becoming a reality. The writing and
wonderful images are alive – perfect snapshots of the spirit of a <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Great Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>
long gone. And just like the Curate's Egg cartoon, if it was to begin with at
least, a serious political satirical magazine, then it certainly had many funny
social parts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">The Cartoon, a term which Punch invented as a socially barbed
critique of Parliament's exhibition of preparatory sketches for its own
artworks during a time of social poverty and injustice, were in Punch's early
years drawn by John Leech and suggested by Henry Mayhew. These talents
exemplified Punch's strengths and character: witty social commentary and
lovingly crafted illustrations within a particularly English type of humour.
Leech's <i>'social cuts</i>' were hugely
popular – spawning separately published collections from Punch – and people
would wait eagerly to see his latest work each week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">But there were many layers to Punch's success, beyond an
enthusiasm and confidence in its pages that reflected a great Age of Empire,
national identity and progress. Now in full swing, the Industrial Revolution's
consumer boom was also accompanied by one in print culture, fuelling demand not
only in china teacups, but books, newspapers and magazines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDjh9mpM7slP9z1kghnKjETnw1JV1s-Mi2q-IAZwQITrzTt2VRDsrIv8W-aDe-zB1fFXT8MJiUwoHg7fnFYC5R7FrUKZMszOzpJibY9bhAqlRA2Cm62uBWzFzbQKr2EzVBYfcyVdyGSUC/s1600/Punch+Mr.Punch.Statue.pun92.Punch.Magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDjh9mpM7slP9z1kghnKjETnw1JV1s-Mi2q-IAZwQITrzTt2VRDsrIv8W-aDe-zB1fFXT8MJiUwoHg7fnFYC5R7FrUKZMszOzpJibY9bhAqlRA2Cm62uBWzFzbQKr2EzVBYfcyVdyGSUC/s320/Punch+Mr.Punch.Statue.pun92.Punch.Magazine.jpg" width="228" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">The common practice in magazines of the time of '<i>anonymous</i>' un-credited articles gave
Punch an advantage: its brand association with the European tradition of
Punchinello, and in particular, Mr. Punch. This set it apart from the
competition and gave its articles and cartoons a greater weight, a singular
unified voice transmitted as the musings of Mr. Punch himself. Starting with Henry
Mayhew and Douglas Jerrold's radical writing, then John Tenniel's iconic
imperial cartoons and Shirley Brooks' Toryism, Punch came to be viewed as the
official point of view of the English, at home and around the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Of course Punch magazine's strength lay in its contributors,
particularly those of the well paid Punch Table editorial staff like Shirley
Brooks and even editor Mark Lemon, who wrote for other magazines on the
understanding with the owners they would supply only their best work to Punch
in exchange for a generous salary. The Punch Table itself was an exclusive
English gentleman's club where intelligent middle aged men would congregate
every Wednesday evening, tell jokes, share the week's gossip and finally, after
dinner, puff on cigars and discuss the treatment for the next issue's '</span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Cartoon</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">', often directly based on </span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">The Times</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> newspaper's leading headline.
Henry Mayhew's ideas mostly made the </span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">'Big
Cut</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">' political cartoon through his role as </span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">'Suggestive Editor</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">'; a process involving at times heated debate,
all regulated by Mark Lemon's balance and sense of gentlemanly conduct. After
Mayhew left the magazine Shirley Brooks' strength of personality and wit
dominated the table and brought a new Conservative tone to the output.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqxQ9PzE5esRPXeSXOydDAKReSuehE_UsASCuYOJR_KFh206hG2nzIemgbD2ERdXado-KQnawMheUTtRsmb3CDpzOUE4em5xTZ6Gjzix3D_ipZtS4DHeXUzRfM8AzJZcgVmRFGUBsPABi/s1600/Punch+Shirley.Brooks.ph.101.Punch.Magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqxQ9PzE5esRPXeSXOydDAKReSuehE_UsASCuYOJR_KFh206hG2nzIemgbD2ERdXado-KQnawMheUTtRsmb3CDpzOUE4em5xTZ6Gjzix3D_ipZtS4DHeXUzRfM8AzJZcgVmRFGUBsPABi/s320/Punch+Shirley.Brooks.ph.101.Punch.Magazine.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shirley Brooks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Another reason for Punch magazine's popularity was being part of a
clear shift away from the gutter press to a more respectful way of doing
things, hence achieving respectability that many rivals couldn't attain, either
through failing – several magazines failed within a few months – or by their
readership being sapped by other satirical papers during a time of mass
consumerism and demand for literature and printed material.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Serialized fiction in magazines was hugely in demand since Charles
Dickens' <i>Pickwick Papers</i> – his new
publishers since 1844, Bradbury and Evans had recently bought Punch in December
1842 from its cash strapped collaborators: journalist Henry Mayhew, engraver Ebenezer
Landells and Mark Lemon – humourist, dramatist, and pub landlord of The
Shakespeare's Head frequented by Dickens, dramatist Douglas Jerrold <i>(dubbed Little Shakespeare due to his vast
knowledge of the bard's works</i>), the Bohemian set and several literary
types. The popularity of <i>'The Snobs of
England</i>' by William Makepeace Thackeray in 1846 was one of several Punch
in-house series that were later published in book form, as was <i>'Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures</i>' by
Jerrold (<i>1846</i>) and <i>The Diary of a Nobody</i> by George and
Weedon Grossmith in 1888. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Equally important as individual talent on the magazine was the
bond of friendship at the Punch Table, reciprocated with owners Bradbury and
Evans who attended the weekly meeting. Crucially the owners supported the
editorial staff's decisions. Beyond vocal support, Bradbury and Evans had the
most efficient printing press in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region></st1:place> which enabled a transition
from individual cottage industry printing to large scale, speedy operations,
accurately incorporating text and illustration in a weekly publication. These
printer-proprietors were an important factor in the success of Punch: as well
as initially taking the plunge investing in a loss making venture and
continuing to protect it with savvy business decisions, they frequently even
lent money to editor Mark Lemon and Shirley Brooks during their personal
financial troubles, all the while supporting their editorial decisions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">One such decision which helped Punch on its way was in accepting
Thomas Hood's Song of the Shirt in December 1843 after having been turned down
by several magazines. The poem had a great impact on the Victorian middle
classes in highlighting the state of the impoverished and exemplifies, together
with such cartoons as ‘<i>Needle Money’</i>
(<i>1849</i>), ‘<i>A Court for King Cholera’</i> (<i>1852</i>)
and ‘<i>The Stable’</i> (<i>1861</i>) how Punch championed the cause of
the poor and of improvements to working conditions, sanitation, housing and
education. Punch also raised much money in appeals for charitable causes,
especially during the two World Wars – the high points of its popularity – such
as Mr. Punch's Hospital Comforts Fund, to purchase fabric for soldiers' clothes
in WW2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaERzM84IddU44Dbkbx_JO3HvnUU53Ki1WOPSqcj6q2dQg8sA16NaegYJDiAM9eApUePau_sbC-lDoi9iB9zq0-pQ567H5NgC1Jq4Ovgn7BDSrnReb3V8Ngr-lpOEhZzTjAV5ej_4qAPhB/s1600/Punch+WMTackeray.Jerrold.Cartoon.Punch.Magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaERzM84IddU44Dbkbx_JO3HvnUU53Ki1WOPSqcj6q2dQg8sA16NaegYJDiAM9eApUePau_sbC-lDoi9iB9zq0-pQ567H5NgC1Jq4Ovgn7BDSrnReb3V8Ngr-lpOEhZzTjAV5ej_4qAPhB/s320/Punch+WMTackeray.Jerrold.Cartoon.Punch.Magazine.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Thackeray Cartoon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">William Makepeace Thackeray, on the Punch editorial staff, made a
huge impression on the literary world, first with his <i>'The Snobs of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country-region></i>'
(<i>1846</i>), popularising the word '<i>snob</i>' in the English lexicon and
contributing many pieces and some cartoons. After his success with Vanity Fair
(<i>1847</i>) and Pendennis (<i>1848</i>) he became a literary heavyweight
overtaking even Douglas Jerrold. Thus his <i>'coat
of humour'</i>, Punch, had become too small a fit (<i>satirical magazines were considered a lower form of printed media</i>)
and though leaving the magazine he still continued to attend the weekly
editorial dinners. Through Thackeray's fame and association with Dickens – by
being contrasted to him, in having the same publishers, and being members of
the literary epicentre The Garrick Club – the Punch staff were in great company
and in that close-knit Victorian literary world this brought respect to the
magazine. Dickens had already been friends with Douglas Jerrold; and Mark
Lemon, John Leech, and Shirley Brooks were all close friends of Dickens from
1847 – his son Charlie Dickens married Thackeray's daughter and contributed to
Punch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">In the 1860s and 70s the great George du Maurier and Edward Linley
Sambourne came onto the staff and cemented Punch's already legendary status,
both adding to the visual recognition of the magazine: du Maurier's highly
detailed society cartoons of perfectly observed Victorian middle class
pretensions, modes and art movements and in Sambourne's cartoons of fashion,
the female form and politics in a new graphic style.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHKfsNTJoBOGDv17Kwe8DMNel5ATBF5SB0NOQykFQFcbP3emswRedWJ3ldApBiX7k2FEoSrgRGJEuwlhhicfiPVF_6n2uB2zCEy4nxJSViy3PqIlJLV_SSgIeZIvY7DOb590KO80XTCYUu/s1600/Punch+DuMaurier.BeautyMania.Cartoon.Punch.Magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHKfsNTJoBOGDv17Kwe8DMNel5ATBF5SB0NOQykFQFcbP3emswRedWJ3ldApBiX7k2FEoSrgRGJEuwlhhicfiPVF_6n2uB2zCEy4nxJSViy3PqIlJLV_SSgIeZIvY7DOb590KO80XTCYUu/s640/Punch+DuMaurier.BeautyMania.Cartoon.Punch.Magazine.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">du Maurier Cartoon on 'beautymania'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">The big four cartoonists of the Victorian era: Leech, Tenniel, du
Maurier and Sambourne were replicated in the Twentieth Century by Bernard
Partridge, Leonard Raven Hill, Leslie Illingworth and E.H. Shepard, and
supplemented by the splendid works of George Morrow, Charles Harrison, Lewis
Baumer, J.H. Dowd, Frank Reynolds, George Belcher, Pont...the list goes on –
the best standards of cartooning and illustration seen anywhere.</span><br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">From Partridge's epic World War 1 propaganda to Sherriff's film
stars, to <i>'The British Character</i>' by
Pont, the world which <i>'browsed'</i> Punch
was given a real treat every week over the course of a hundred and fifty years
to the best of British by <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s
best. Many of the writers and cartoonists gracing its pages were legends in
their own right, having acclaim and several successes outside the magazine, but
these special ingredients all came to be distilled together for each issue of
Punch. In looking at the latest news, fashions, technology, films, books and
social preoccupations, it has become a treasure trove of English culture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Without doubt it was the framework of that talent, high editorial
standards, networking and support, good fortune, balance and timing from the
outset which gave Punch its stature and ensured that it was envied, copied,
parodied, feared and respected in equal measure. Just as all the best cartoonists
wanted to have their work printed in Punch, so too all the politicians would
have discovered their political culture, history and eventual public perception
– as the young Winston Churchill did – from its pages. The politicians may have
cringed at their caricatured depictions, but they would have relished it all
the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">By being a mirror to English society, repeating and commenting on
what its writers and cartoonists saw, heard and experienced in the news and
fresh gossip at ground level, by urging social change and trumpeting its own
national cause, it became a beacon for the British Empire and stands as a
unique monument in British and world history. If, (<i>from the Punch sub-title</i>) Charivari means a loud mocking clamour of
noise, then Punch certainly made everyone sit up and notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
</div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Punch Facts <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Charles Dickens, Garibaldi and Mark Twain all dined at the Punch
Table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Crystal</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Palace</st1:placename></st1:place> was given its name
by Punch, in 1851, for the Great Exhibition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Punch was responsible for starting the Scottish stereotype of
frugality with the <i>'Bang went saxpence!!!</i>'
cartoon by Charles Keene.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYo85IEd4dlXEjEMHflYF96A1iY0MsJ2xZmEaaf8UdcImilr41cfsA-DgdWuSZp_QkmtnF5Ryv1Bfrc7eX0zU3_chzDnOUarc6gPIw40TnRayqtivBYB_C73u210qJSRj9pkFbOkknhr2/s1600/Punch+BangWentSixpence.Punch.Magazine.Cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYo85IEd4dlXEjEMHflYF96A1iY0MsJ2xZmEaaf8UdcImilr41cfsA-DgdWuSZp_QkmtnF5Ryv1Bfrc7eX0zU3_chzDnOUarc6gPIw40TnRayqtivBYB_C73u210qJSRj9pkFbOkknhr2/s640/Punch+BangWentSixpence.Punch.Magazine.Cartoon.jpg" width="516" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Charles Keene 'Bang Went Saxpence' Cartoon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Winston Churchill – In his <i>'Thoughts
and Adventures</i>' (<i>1932</i>), Churchill
dedicates a chapter to Cartoons and Cartoonists, stating that he learnt history
from the few volumes of Punch at school in the 1880s, and that they serve as <i>'food for grown-up children</i>'. He refers
to several Punch classics such as <i>Dropping
the Pilot</i> (<i>1890</i>), <i>The British Lion's Vengeance on the Bengal
Tiger</i> (<i>1857</i>) and <i>Britannia Sympathises with Columbia</i> (<i>1865</i>). Punch would later offend
Churchill in 1954 under the editorship of Malcolm Muggeridge with a cartoon by
Leslie Illingworth showing a frail Prime Minister above the caption "<i>Man goeth forth unto his work</i>".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Kaiser Wilhelm II – Punch and the Kaiser had a long relationship;
unsurprisingly Queen <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Victoria</st1:place></st1:state>'s
grandson was often offended. An avid reader of Punch he tried to understand the
English and impress them, with ever decreasing results. While banning Punch
from his palaces and his yacht for a few months, he wrote to Queen Victoria and
asked her to stop its production, unsuccessfully, after <i>The Modern Alexander's Feast</i> (<i>1892</i>)
by Tenniel to which Sambourne followed up with <i>Wilful Wilhelm</i> a few issues later, showing him in a tantrum with
broken framed Punch cartoon <i>Dropping the
Pilot</i>, a knocked over globe of the world and holding up issues of Punch in
outrage. Wilhelm would admit during WWI that Punch magazine's propaganda
cartoons were having a de-moralising effect on the German nation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Felix Mendelssohn – Punch reviewed Mendelsohhn's '<i>Antigone</i>' at <st1:place w:st="on">Covent
Garden</st1:place> in January 1845 to which he wrote to his sister: "<i>See if you cannot find Punch for Jan. 18. It
contains an account of Antigone at <st1:place w:st="on">Covent Garden</st1:place>,
with illustrations, - especially a view of the Chorus which has made me laugh
for three days.</i>"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Adolph Menzel – German artist Menzel subscribed to Punch weekly
just to see the latest Charles Keene social cartoon. <st1:city w:st="on">Keene</st1:city>
was highly revered internationally and being an admirer of Menzel is regarded
as bringing in a modern, German style of illustration to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Menzel
"<i>collected great piles of the
magazine</i>".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">HRH Prince Charles, the Duke of Edinburgh and Princess Margaret
were all invited and carved their initials on the Punch Table; Princess Anne
also wrote an article for Punch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Margaret Thatcher attended the Punch Table in 1975.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Mark Twain – When the novelist came to visit and was invited to
carve his initials onto the Punch Table he kindly refused, saying that two of
the three initials carved by William Makepeace Thackeray would suffice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
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<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">MARK TWAIN HUMOR APPROVED BY PUNCH. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">A Big Cartoon Dedicated to Him and the Staff Will Dine Him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">GUEST OF THE PILGRIMS. Notable Luncheon Given, to Which 1,000
Notable Vainly Ask to be Bidden. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Special Cablegram. Copyright, 1907, by THE NEW YORK TIMES CO.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">LONDON</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">, June 25. - Mark Twain
will go back to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>
duly certificated [<i>sic</i>] as a
humorist. Punch, which regards Americans generally as lacking in the sense of
humor, does not consider Mark Twain deficient in that respect. He is one of
their own kind. The Punch people think, and they are kittening to him with
their whole hearts. They exhibit their feeling for him in a full page cartoon
in today's issue, which is dedicated to him. Mark Twain appears seated at a
table, on which stands a big steaming punch bowl. Mr. Punch, who is placed in
the foreground, drinks to Mark Twain's health, the toast being:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">"<i>Sir, I honour myself
by drinking to your health. Long life to you and happiness and perpetual youth</i>."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Mark Twain expects to have a grand time at a dinner which The
Punch people will give to him. They asked him which he would rather do, "<i>Go to a hotel and have something decent to
eat,</i>" or dine at the famous Long Table in Punch's office. He voted
unanimously for the Long Table."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> - <i>The New York Times, June 26, 1907. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
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<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Some Notable
Contributors<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Kingsley Amis, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Joan Bakewell,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Sir John Betjamin, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Maeve Binchy, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Basil Boothroyd, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Malcolm Bradbury, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Melvyn Bragg, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Fenton Bresler, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Alan Brien, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Alan Coren, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Paul Dehn, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">E.M Delafield, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Peter Dickinson, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Margaret Drabble, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Mary Dunn, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">H.F. Ellis, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Michael Frayn, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Clement Freud, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">David Frost, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Virginia Graham, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Robert Graves, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Benny Green, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Joyce Grenfell, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Alan Hackney, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Roy Hattersley, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">A.P. Herbert, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Quintin Hogg, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Richard Hoggart, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">P.M. Hubbard, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Barry Humphreys, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Clive James, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Anthony Jay, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Ludovic Kennedy, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Eric Keown, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Miles Kington, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">E.V. Knox, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">C.S. Lewis, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">R.P. Lister, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Humphrey Lyttleton, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Joy Melville, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">A.A. Milne, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Angela Milne, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Richard Mallett,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Kingsley Martin, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Robert Morley, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Sheridan</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Morley, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Malcolm Muggeridge, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Frank Muir, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Michael Parkinson, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">J.B. Priestly, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Libby Purves, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> Reynolds, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Jonathan Sale, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Harry Seacombe, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">R.C. Scriven, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Ned Sherrin, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Muriel Spark, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">James Thurber, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Hugh Trevor-Roper, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">E.S. Turner, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Keith Waterhouse, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Hugh Weldon, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Geoffrey Willans (Molesworth), <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">P.G. Wodehouse (Our Man in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>), <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Woodrow Wyatt, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">D.B. Wyndham Lewis, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">B.A Young.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ri5osrb9NHIxGS2XyovIrubRSuYo-igViso8DaAB1o8YdCz8_sqc-wcuir8qqnlqKwOTXazxZMcIK88140bLVAydfhi4i0xLcNoPVPnjmirV9pAgTpS3zs2dtFbErEkVlN11VsnOKm-H/s1600/Punch+FCBurnand.ph.12.Punch.Magazine+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ri5osrb9NHIxGS2XyovIrubRSuYo-igViso8DaAB1o8YdCz8_sqc-wcuir8qqnlqKwOTXazxZMcIK88140bLVAydfhi4i0xLcNoPVPnjmirV9pAgTpS3zs2dtFbErEkVlN11VsnOKm-H/s200/Punch+FCBurnand.ph.12.Punch.Magazine+%25281%2529.jpg" width="139" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burnand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;">Francis Burnand</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;"> (F.C. Burnand) – Dramatist, humourist, writer of burlesques and Punch
Editor from 1880. Wrote more than 200 works outside of Punch; one of the most
prolific dramatic writers of his time. His play "<i>The Colonel</i>" was the first royal command performance attended
by Queen <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place>
in twenty years, was hugely successful and based on Punch regular cartoonist
George du Maurier's series featuring "<i>the
Colonel</i>" character. Started writing for Punch in 1863. The
Colonel-type character remained popular in Punch and could be argued as a main
influence for cartoonist David Low's Colonel Blimp in the 1930s.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Tom Taylor</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Playwright of <i>'Our American Cousin</i>' which was the
wildly successful play on both sides of the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>
from 1858 until the end of the Victorian era and was attended by President
Abraham Lincoln at his assassination in 1865. Tom Taylor later became Punch
Editor in 1874.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">A.A. Milne</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – When We Were Very
Young, first published in Punch, introduced Winnie the Pooh, or Edward Bear as
he was then known in 1924.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Eric Keown</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – His <i>'Sir Tristram Goes West</i>' first appeared
for Punch in 1932 and was made into a highly successful <st1:place w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place>
film <i>'The Ghost Goes West</i>' (<i>1936</i>) starring Robert Donat and Elsa
Lanchester.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">A.P. Herbert</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – A trained barrister,
M.P., novelist, law reformer and thoroughly clever chap who, through his
humorous <i>'Misleading Cases</i>' series in
Punch highlighted the archaic laws and judgements of English jurisprudence and
managed through a private members bill to reform divorce in his Matrimonial
Causes Act (<i>1937</i>), making it possible
to divorce for the first time without proof of adultery. His <i>'Cases'</i> were made into three BBC series
in the late 1960s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Major John McCrae</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – <i>'In Flanders Fields</i>' was first published in Punch in 1915 and
composed at the 2nd Battle of Ypres after McCrae's friend Lieutenant Alexis
Helmer was killed and McCrae, a Brigade Doctor, had to conduct the burial
service.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Patrick Barrington</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Famous around the
world for his <i>'I had a hippopotamus</i>'
as well as the <i>'Songs of a Sub-Man</i>'
poems in the 1930s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Alan Coren</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Excellent humourist
and Punch editor. Prolific contributor to Punch amongst which the <i>'Idi Amin</i>' letters in the 1970s were
hugely popular.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Miles Kington</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – A broadcaster,
journalist, humourist and jazz musician. Together with Alan Coren the mainstay
of Punch's written work from the 1960s, to the 80s and laugh-out-loud funny
such as Kington's <i>'Let's Parler Francais</i>'
series.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Arthur Reginald Buller</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – <i>'There was a young lady named Bright / Who could travel far faster than
light / She set off one day / In a relative way / And returned on the previous
night.</i>' His famous limerick first appeared in Punch in 1923.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Harold Frank Hoare</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"> – Known as "<i>Acanthus</i>"
when cartoonist for Punch, as an architect won the competition to design
the first Gatwick terminal in 1935 at the age of 25, a circular design dubbed
"<i>The Beehive</i>" which still
exists. Many of his cartoons include architectural themes such as stately homes
and new modern buildings but he was an excellent documenter of the Home Front
during WW2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">John Michael Ward Bingham, 7th Baron Clanmorris</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"> – Wrote some articles and verse for Punch in the
1930s and 40s and was a thriller writer. However, he was also employed by MI5
in the counter-intelligence section, "<i>M</i>",
and was the model for John le Carre's leading man George Smiley. Michael Jago's
new biography "<i>The Man Who Was
George Smiley - The Life of John Bingham</i>" illuminates his secret life
as spy during WW2 and the Cold War and his influence on le Carre.
Punch readers would not have known his humourous short story "<i>Telephone Conversation, 1943</i>" was
based on his actual work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Celebrity Guest writers<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dave Brubeck, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Noel Coward, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">David Dimbleby, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Graham Greene, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Sir Hugh Greene, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Edward Heath, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Julian Huxley, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Terry Jones, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Joanna Lumley, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Paul McCartney (<i>interviewed
in Nov 1966 and contributed a piece in 1973</i>), <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Yehudi Menuhin, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Spike Milligan, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Michael Palin, J<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">ohn Steinbeck, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Auberon Waugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Artists<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4txj7OnJiE0rQ5i8N3M_zYaX89Iznb_5TBTHgG92Yfkf6dHbVeiBFhJD6PbAmLfn_e6ZbTyaN2FpLbF12njmw8JsfoiacREiWCxUQ4stVKQkqTLhNBlij92C-h61QfoCXA3vB-wUAeO7/s1600/Tenniel+1889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4txj7OnJiE0rQ5i8N3M_zYaX89Iznb_5TBTHgG92Yfkf6dHbVeiBFhJD6PbAmLfn_e6ZbTyaN2FpLbF12njmw8JsfoiacREiWCxUQ4stVKQkqTLhNBlij92C-h61QfoCXA3vB-wUAeO7/s200/Tenniel+1889.JPG" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tenniel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">John Tenniel</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Illustrator of <i>'<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Alice</st1:city></st1:place>
in Wonderland'</i> and <i>'Through The
Looking Glass'</i>. Lewis Carroll specifically chose Tenniel because of his
allegorical, grown-up fantasy <i>'Big Cut'</i>
political cartoons from Punch – another layer of meaning to his readers already
familiar with Tenniel through Punch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Bernard Partidge</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – A worthy successor to
Tenniel as the chief cartoonist, the political protagonists in his Big Cuts
were theatrical send-ups brilliantly observed, but always focussed on the real
message with a bold urgency. If in Tenniel's cartoons the message could be
obscured by the fine detail, Partridge brought it to the fore with at times
startling effect, and his work is one of the best examples of British
propaganda in media.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Fougasse</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Kenneth Bird
discovered the name Fougasse while on active service in WWI <i>(a landmine</i>) and used it to
differentiate between W. Bird (<i>Jack
Butler Yeates</i>). Famous for government posters such as <i>'Careless Talk Costs Lives'</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">David Langdon</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Popular during WW2
for his public information posters <i>'Billy
Brown of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">London</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Town</st1:placetype></st1:place></i>'. Contributed to Punch for over
60 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">George Adamson</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Illustrator of Ted
Hughes' books and winner of the P.G. Wodehouse Centenary Illustration Award, he
drew hundreds of cartoons and many front covers over 50 years from 1939.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Norman Thelwell</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Many published book
collections including <i>'Angels on
Horseback</i>' and specialising in cartoons of girls on ponies and the
countryside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Trog</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> (<i>Wally Fawkes</i>) – A renowned jazz musician and collaborator with
Humphrey Lyttleton's band he drew beautifully realised, almost photorealistic
colour caricatures of celebrities and politicians as well as front covers,
which took over from the Big Cut political cartoon, in the 1970s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Rowland Emett</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Inventor of kinetic
sculptures and designer for the machines in film <i>'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang'</i>. His Punch <i>'Far Tottering</i>' railway cartoons came to life at the Festival of
Britain and at The Globe stage production <i>'Between
The Lines</i>' in 1951.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Alfred Bestall</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Creator of Rupert the
Bear and many great social cartoons in Punch. Drew the prototype for Winnie the
Pooh in Punch for A.A. Milne before he decided on E.H. Shepard's version.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Caran d'Ache</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> (<i>Emmanuel Poire</i>) – The pioneer of the first ever comic strip
cartoons which later inspired Bateman and Fougasse, he drew one or two cartoons
for Punch in the 1890s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">H.M. Bateman</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Master of the strip
cartoon that with bold and rounded line work brought his characters to life.
Brilliant series of <i>'The Man Who</i>' along
with hundreds of laugh out loud sporting and leisure cartoons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Jack <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Butler</st1:place></st1:city> Yeats</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Irish Modernist
Expressionist artist. Drew several cartoons for Punch as W. Bird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiweLrqWaYKmZx4I6beMBbCLtrACb7wSOugQy8rqnPcrML-d733nvEX6_CSRaIHOSYF5y7LP3GH_N275GfteCj7P-XitaH-czcL-GbGrD6gX3jBIRDJ-O-z1vaIb_N7YPuHkCNgPpGxhKzQ/s1600/du+Maurier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiweLrqWaYKmZx4I6beMBbCLtrACb7wSOugQy8rqnPcrML-d733nvEX6_CSRaIHOSYF5y7LP3GH_N275GfteCj7P-XitaH-czcL-GbGrD6gX3jBIRDJ-O-z1vaIb_N7YPuHkCNgPpGxhKzQ/s320/du+Maurier.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">du Maurier</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">George du Maurier</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Author of Trilby and
Punch society cartoonist par excellence. Wonderful cartoon visionary of future
inventions. Captured the absurdities of the Victorian middles classes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Linley Sambourne</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Great graphic
cartoonist influenced by photography and a pioneering street photographer, or <i>'street blogger</i>' of un-posed Edwardian
women and their fashion with the use of a special periscope. Drew the political
Big Cuts following John Tenniel's reign as Chief Cartoonist.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Leslie Illingworth</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – One of the best
cartoonists and illustrators of the 20th century, with some truly epic
backdrops for the Punch Big Cuts and savagely biting satire during WW2 and into
the 1950s. Although ultimately an editorial decision by Malcolm Muggeridge, it
was his 1954 cartoon that offended Winston Churchill, showing him at his desk
with drooping mouth and fat hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Harry Rountree</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – A fine illustrator of
children's books by Enid Blyton, and H.G. Wells. Also illustrated an edition of
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Alice</st1:city></st1:place> in
Wonderland and Aesop's Fables.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Arthur Rackham</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"> – One of the greatest fairytale illustrators of all time, his richly
detailed cartoons for Punch convey his skills brilliantly. He illustrated
editions of Aesop's Fables, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Alice</st1:city></st1:place>'s
Adventures in Wonderland, Gulliver's Travels, Peer Gynt by Ibsen, The Valkyrie
by Wagner, Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Anderson, and The Wind In The Willows
by Kenneth Grahame. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Quentin Blake</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Knighted in 2012 and
illustrator for several Roald Dahl books. Drew several excellent Punch covers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0VoHGlbL-orGgLcKL_xUR2jxQFLaEyYrinczQQAmKTAdut0zNgSEmt8bXL1mKqQn2MXx2tC0E8JkW8rjolKYT7Hg-lhjysv-B08QsTMKlHwIEbBXAVr61xv3NyM-sIXFvwn_R6mQbO0C/s1600/Quentin+Blake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0VoHGlbL-orGgLcKL_xUR2jxQFLaEyYrinczQQAmKTAdut0zNgSEmt8bXL1mKqQn2MXx2tC0E8JkW8rjolKYT7Hg-lhjysv-B08QsTMKlHwIEbBXAVr61xv3NyM-sIXFvwn_R6mQbO0C/s640/Quentin+Blake.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quentin Blake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Humphrey Lyttleton</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Renowned jazz
musician and also cartoonist for Punch.</span><br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Ralph Steadman</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Won several awards
for illustration and worked with Ted Hughes, Hunter S. Thompson and Will Self.
Produced some very interesting colour cartoons and front covers for Punch in
the 1960s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Gerald Scarfe</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Influenced by Ronald
Searle, Scarfe illustrated for Punch in the 1960s and went on to work with Pink
Floyd for their <i>'The Wall</i>' album,
film and tour as well as the <i>'Yes
Minister</i>' TV series.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCwJOSbivULKPVWcLb1gKaIA09fdacXMI3JptLi1TaPHlRrH6Hw9lBO85ykiRv3fbm0vD3GhyYd5EDf_J2wkA8zhZ_0CW_Ipzb_4pynWCMTry6csOoPPXlxGfiCKWHVCu9oGO6xoKg5RP/s1600/Ronald+Searle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCwJOSbivULKPVWcLb1gKaIA09fdacXMI3JptLi1TaPHlRrH6Hw9lBO85ykiRv3fbm0vD3GhyYd5EDf_J2wkA8zhZ_0CW_Ipzb_4pynWCMTry6csOoPPXlxGfiCKWHVCu9oGO6xoKg5RP/s320/Ronald+Searle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ronald Searle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Ronald Searle</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – Possibly the greatest
and most celebrated cartoonist of the 20th century, creator of <i>'St Trinians</i>' and collaborator with
Geoffrey Willans for the Molesworth series of books. Drew some truly
magnificent illustrations and cartoons for Punch such as the double spreads <i>'Heroes of Our Time</i>' (<i>1956-1957</i>) featuring Sir Malcolm
Sargent, Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh, Bertrand Russell, Princess Margaret
etc and the savagely funny <i>'How To Kill A
Man In Six Efforts</i>'.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
</div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Andre Francois</b> (<i>Andre Farkas</i>)
– A unique talent and a painterly cartoonist he produced some of the best
looking colour work and front covers for Punch, and designed theatre sets for
Gene Kelly and Peter Hall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Michael ffolkes</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – (<i>Brian Davis</i>). Wonderfully funny modern burlesque cartoons of naked
ladies running about and surreal situations covering art, literature, business,
leisure, the aristocracy and film reviews. A cartoon legend who contributed to
Punch for five decades, from the 1940s until his death in 1988 and whose work
is always fresh with the youthful vigour of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Mike Williams</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> – A modern master of
the cartoon with lovely line work including colour washes and off-kilter
humour. His work is among the best examples of cartooning in Punch from the
1970s and 1980s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Anne Harriet Fish</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"> - Very popular female
cartoonist from 1920s, working for Vanity Fair and Vogue magazines and
illustrating adverts. Her illustrations for the 'Eve' series of books were
turned into silent films and her drawings about the middle classes in the 1920s
are a good pre-cursor to Pont's British Character series of the 1930s. She was
not the only female artist in Punch and not the earliest: Georgina Bowers was
an excellent cartoonist from the 1860s and 1870s, and we find other great
contributors continuing into the 20th century such as Antonia Yeoman (Anton),
Sally Artz and Riana Duncan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Famous guests
interviewed in <i>'Passing Through'</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Roger Moore, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Sean Connery, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Michael Cain, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Zsa Zsa Gaboor, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Mel Brooks, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Alice Cooper, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Gore Vidal, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">George Cukor, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Shirley Maclaine, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Sidney Sheldon, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Lee Marvin, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Margot Fonteyn, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Marcel Marceau, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Henry Fonda, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Richard Harris, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Richard Chamberlain, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Ella Fitzgerald, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Charles Aznavour, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Telly Savalas, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Susannah York, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">James Mason, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Billy Wilder, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Henry Mancini, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Arthur Ashe, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dirk Bogarde, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Rod Steiger, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Victor Borge, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Michael York, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Jacqueline Bisset, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Jackie Collins, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Patricia Highsmith, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Ingrid Bergman, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">John Wayne, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Liberace, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Engelbert Humperdinck, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Roy Orbison, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Jackie Stewart, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Robert Shaw, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Tony Curtis, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Jack Lemmon, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Tony Bennett, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Otto Preminger, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Graham Sutherland, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Joe Louis, T<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">hor Heyerdahl, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Eartha Kitt, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Sir Oswald Mosley, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Gracie Fields, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Luciano Pavarotti, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Robert Graves, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Alfred Hitchcock, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Frank Zappa, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">George Best, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Bing Crosby, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">David Attenborough, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Arthur C. Clarke, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Carl Sagan, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Christiaan Barnard, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">John Mortimer, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Malcolm Muggeridge, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Frederick Forsyth, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Joseph Heller, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Norman Mailer, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">John Updike, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dave Allen, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Sophia Loren, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Andy Warhol, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Spike Milligan, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Charles Bronson, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Dustin Hoffman, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Herbert Lom, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Peter Ustinov, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Richard Branson, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Mikhail Gorbachev.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Andre Gailani,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Punch Limited<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">References<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Thanks in the main to the excellent book <i>'The Punch Brotherhood'</i> by Patrick Leary. The British Library (<i>2010</i>).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">'Thoughts and Adventures' by Winston Churchill <i>(orig. 1932; edited James W. Muller, ISI
books 2009</i>).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">'A History of Punch</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">' by R.G.G. Price.
Collins (<i>1957</i>).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Thanks to <i><a href="http://publishing.monash.edu/">http://publishing.monash.edu</a></i>
for quoting <i>'Drawing the Line - Using
Cartoons as Historical Evidence'</i> Edited by Richard Scully and Marian
Quartly (<i>2009</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Thanks also to <i><a href="http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper">http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper</a></i>
quoting <i>'Sophocles: The Plays and
Fragments</i>', with critical notes, commentary, and translation in English
prose. Part III: The Antigone. Sir Richard C. Jebb. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cambridge</st1:place></st1:city>. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cambridge</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place>
Press. 1900.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Adolph Menzel - 1815-1905: Between Romanticism and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Impressionism</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Yale</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place>
(<i>1996</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">Chris Beetles Gallery<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.twainquotes.com/">www.twainquotes.com</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12pt;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.greatwar.co.uk/">www.greatwar.co.uk</a></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;">My huge
thanks once again to Andre of Punch (<a href="http://www.punch.co.uk/">www.punch.co.uk</a>)
for the brilliant article above.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lastly,
if I may urge you all to go forth into your local antique bookshop or eBay and
seek out an old edition of Punch I know it will be worth your while! For quite
little money you can pick up a century-old piece of work full of great humour
and magnificent drawings!</span></div>
<br />The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-36531406608807427882013-01-21T23:18:00.001-08:002013-01-21T23:20:15.358-08:00"The Pages I Turned Last Year..." Or: My 2012 Reading List:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 2011 I decided to begin keeping lists of all the books I read over the last twelve months, the </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">idea
being twofold; that I could keep track of what I have read, and also for when
anyone asks me for recommendations I have them virtually at my fingertips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For anyone interested in
what I read in 2011, the list can be found within this post<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/texas-tale-of-love-and-mystery-or-book.html">Here:</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As for 2012, it was a less
than fruitful year of page-turning for me, it seems, having only managed to
finish seven whole books (<i>It can take me a while to finish a book as I don’t get
an awful lot of time to read</i>) but nevertheless, whilst the quantity falls
short, the quality certainly does not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial;">The World for a Shilling (<i>Michael Leapman)</i></span></li>
</ul>
<ul><span style="font-family: Arial;">
<li>The Dead Mans Message (<i>Florence Marryat)</i></li>
</span></ul>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">
</span>
<ul><span style="font-family: Arial;">
<li>Tom all Alones (<i>Lynn Shepherd)</i></li>
</span></ul>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">
<ul>
<li>Twice Round the Clock (<i>George Augustus Sala)</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>The Somnambulist (<i>Essie Fox)</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Three Men in a Boat (<i>Jerome K Jerome)</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>People of the Abyss (<i>Jack London)</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Devoured (<i>DE Meredith)</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Bleak House (<i>Charles Dickens)</i></li>
</ul>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I write this I am still
reading Bleak House and after an apprehensive start, enjoying it immensely. I
can recommend thoroughly all the books above, although ‘<i>The Dead Man’s Message</i>’
was a little moralistic, being a kind of ‘<i>A Christmas Caro</i>l’ meets ‘<i>The Divine
Comedy</i>’ tale about living an honest and true life, and ‘<i>Twice Round The Clock</i>’
seemed terribly long-winded to me; a little like listening to a drunk old uncle
talk about the good old days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">That
said, the former was fairly short, and the latter contained a lot of
interesting information, so I would still recommend them, albeit with the above
advice offered.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I'm more than happy to talk about and discuss any of these books, so feel free to leave comments below or chat to me on Twitter about them. You'll find me on there under the name @Amateur_Casual</span></div>
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-35924676239162238192013-01-17T23:19:00.000-08:002013-01-17T23:19:38.052-08:00"With Regard to Cyclists and the General Traffic... We Can’t go on in the Present way Much Longer." Or: George R. Sims on Cycling in London in the 1890's:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">2012 was a huge year for
cycling in Britain, and in fact, with the London cycle hire scheme now a piece of the city
furniture, cycling in the UK and the capital has never been more popular, and
bicycles never more widely used.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This popularity, however,
has thrown up a few problems. We are led to believe that since this boom in the
popularity of two-wheeled motivation that there is a so-called war being raged
between motorists and cyclists, with one camp claiming the other is a danger to
their safety and vice versa. Other arguments exist claiming that <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> is an old city of
tiny streets and alleys which are not big or wide enough to accommodate both
bicycles and vehicles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">These arguments, however,
are nothing new. In fact, they go back over a hundred years. Bicycles first
became popular in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">UK</st1:country-region></st1:place>
in the middle of the nineteenth century, but the humble bike as we know it can
trace its roots back to the Draisienne – or ‘<i>Dandyhorse</i>’ of 1818. This was a
wood and iron contraption which looked exactly like a bike, but had no pedals.
Instead the user sat on the frame and pushed along the ground with their feet
in a running or walking motion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0-T1-V6xfTaftfBcZ0bL-dQ0jwpsjlkqJLQWBqLezQ0fsVg_MX_O16W_WJSdeuxmN7l0at-vVqQPhpUgeBdGLMrPy21XHd0_p7wFK3qzfcxGLCDGhNMhX3wsP-lztXNzO6D8Id8xO20s/s1600/draisienne.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt0-T1-V6xfTaftfBcZ0bL-dQ0jwpsjlkqJLQWBqLezQ0fsVg_MX_O16W_WJSdeuxmN7l0at-vVqQPhpUgeBdGLMrPy21XHd0_p7wFK3qzfcxGLCDGhNMhX3wsP-lztXNzO6D8Id8xO20s/s320/draisienne.gif" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Draisienne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the 1840’s the world saw
the first mechanically propelled bicycle, which was supposedly invented in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region>, but
this fact is much disputed. By the 1860’s there was a bit of a cycling mania, and
indeed it was this era that saw the many forms of bicycle taking to the
streets, from velocipedes with umbrellas and writing tables attached to them,
to the familiar and typically Victorian Penny Farthing of the 1870’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">With the popularity of these
contraptions inevitably came naysayers who thought – just as people think today
– that cyclists were a nuisance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">George R. Sims, in an
interview with Cycle and Motor World magazine, gives his opinions on the
problems with cyclists and cycling, and offers some ingenious and eccentric
solutions:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"I won't keep you
long." Said the CYCLE AND MOTOR WORLD interviewer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"I wish you
would," said Mr. Sims, "at present I have to keep myself. You must be
careful as to what you make me say about cycling. I've no wish to smash up
Dunlops, and puncture the whole trade, you know."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Well, to begin with,
there's the subject of cyclists and the general traffic of the streets. Then
one is always hearing arguments on the questions of lights and -"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"You can't expect me to
know anything about that," said Mr. Sims; the liver is my speciality, you
know. With regard to cyclists and the general traffic - well, I think something
will have to happen soon. We can't go on in the present way much longer. I have
an idea that a system of little light bridges is the kind of thing we want in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>. If they were
built properly the general effect would be very pretty - something after the
style of the willow pattern plate, you know. Then, when <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> was illuminated, it would be like
fairy land, and the bridges would be of immense service, too."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOyMl1_jh3IzB-OyQkwzyTw8QVMUAV6JWf8O0iHqblkBc1rvK-waJA19xSgeKkMjjxnJ7OxnlIIwR-p0oVGSbYuXljnYB3kcMNxkBfLJ594IvouA-Hl5yE9maI0-buFBlFA6AfCJUD9Og/s1600/Sims.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOyMl1_jh3IzB-OyQkwzyTw8QVMUAV6JWf8O0iHqblkBc1rvK-waJA19xSgeKkMjjxnJ7OxnlIIwR-p0oVGSbYuXljnYB3kcMNxkBfLJ594IvouA-Hl5yE9maI0-buFBlFA6AfCJUD9Og/s400/Sims.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Sims</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Everyone knows that you prefer driving to cycling,<br />Mr. Sims; don't you find cyclists rather a nuisance on the road?"<br />"No; they're much better than they used to be, and they're improving every day. I can't say that I like to see ladies riding through the City and hanging on to the sides of 'buses when there's a block; but then, they don't hurt me because I never drive in the City if I can possibly avoid it. There is one matter at least in which I am quite at one with the cyclists, and that is the careless way in which pedestrians use the roads. I scarcely ever go for a drive without having to pull up suddenly because someone has stepped off the pavement right under my horse's nose. The people who do that sort of thing never look where they are going or whether anything is coming along the road. It's simply ghastly the way they try to get smashed up... You were asking me about lights just now. Of course, every cart ought to carry a light, though there isn't so much danger in their not doing so as there is in a cyclist going about lampless in the dark. The ordinary brewers dray, for instance, can be heard a good distance off, and if it can't be heard it can at least be smelt. Well, I suppose the average cyclist is careful to avoid running into a brewer's dray. Still, I should like to see a light on every kind of conveyance after dark. I know that cyclists find the lighting regulations an awful nuisance sometimes: lamps get jogged out - and the usual consequences happen. Well, I have a new idea for a bicycle that shall not require a lamp at all. What about luminous paint? Paint your bicycle with luminous paint, and then the darker the night the brighter the light. And look how pretty they'd all be!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then we got onto the subject of cycling and journalism. Mr. Sims has a theory that no journalist, unless he be a cycling journalist, should ever think of riding a bicycle regularly.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"The ordinary working journalist hasn't time for what is called 'healthy excercise,'" said Mr. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial;">Sims. "I should say that cycling is more suitable for a man who writes
three-volume novels, or one that turns out about two books a year and has
plenty of time on his hands. The better our health is, the less we care to work
our brains. All imagination is a disease, and it follows that the right way to
cultivate the imagination is to make one's self as ill as possible. I have done
no end of work when I have been absolutely unwell. If I took to cycling, I
should probably not want to do anything else, and my body would get so well
that my brain would suffer. I had a bicycle presented to me anonymously, but I
don't ride it about here - only when I'm away and enjoying myself."</span><br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYMRpljtqxtXl3kexDSuBjNCBjvF89KVlm_ASwyUIqEuWgYymrqqMRO5gnIR2Wvp2VbDWcIlkdoXiD4UtTY15DSud5IqQoZZVrU_AHSbYoo6BoT21CK9G4OQVhE15wkTqFW_NZVVcSaGq/s1600/Hyde+Park+Cycling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYMRpljtqxtXl3kexDSuBjNCBjvF89KVlm_ASwyUIqEuWgYymrqqMRO5gnIR2Wvp2VbDWcIlkdoXiD4UtTY15DSud5IqQoZZVrU_AHSbYoo6BoT21CK9G4OQVhE15wkTqFW_NZVVcSaGq/s400/Hyde+Park+Cycling.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cycling in Hyde Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Don't you think a ride in the morning helps to clear the brain?"
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Nothing of the sort.
If a man wants to write, the best thing he can do is to go out and eat a heavy
meal of underdone pork chops. Then, after he has smoked a clay pipe in a bad
atmosphere, he ought to be able to turn out something good. The life of a
literary man is more or less of a sacrifice. The great thing is to avoid the
last straw." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"To come back to
cycling, Mr. Sims, do you like to see dogs accompanying cyclists?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Certainly not in a
crowded thoroughfare, and not on a country road unless the dog is physically
capable of following a bicycle easily and has been trained to do so. A dog that
runs with a cycle should be taught never to get in front of it. My Dalmatians
are all trained to run behind my trap when I'm out - at least, they were before
I had to muzzle them. I can't take them out now; they only sit down in the road
and try to scratch their muzzles off. It's positively cruel to make a dog
follow a bicycle in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>.
I know that up in the circle here (in Regent's Park), where everybody learns to
ride, there is always some poor unfortunate dog who gets in the way - I hate to
see it; in fact, I can't go near the place in consequence."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And then we fell to talking
about all sorts of things, from bulldogs to "local colour," and Mr.
Sims showed me a number of curios he possesses. Just as I was leaving, I
discovered that although Mr. Sims is not a very enthusiastic cyclist, yet he
has solved the great drink question. Cyclists are always wanting to know what
is the best thing to drink. Mr. Sims can tell them, for his usual daily
allowance of liquid refreshment is one cup of tea, drunk early in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <i>The Cycle and Motor World, January 1897<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">If the Mayor of London is
reading this, perhaps the system of ‘<i>little light bridges</i>’ for cyclists is
something that could be looked at today to end these so called road wars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Perhaps not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For more on George R. Sims, see a post I wrote on him and his poem ‘In the Workhouse, Christmas Day’ a few years ago <a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2010/12/in-workhouse-christmas-day-by-george-r.html">here:</a></span> <br />
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-33190765153248686722013-01-10T22:42:00.001-08:002013-02-09T02:13:21.323-08:00“To Promote the Health and Cleanliness of the Working Classes…” Or: Victorian Public Baths and Liverpool’s “Saint of the Slums”:<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As you can well imagine, health, hygiene and cleanliness in the nineteenth century city was far below the standards we are used to today. This lack of public sanitation led to outbreaks of disease – particularly amongst the poor in their crammed slums – in Britain’s Victorian cities.<br /> <br />In an attempt to combat these conditions of squalor and filth, parishes opened public baths, which were exactly as you’d expect; buildings in poor neighbourhoods where poor people could wash themselves and their clothes. The first of these appeared in Liverpool in 1828, when the Corporation of Liverpool opened a salt-water bath at St. George’s Pier Head, but it wasn’t until the 1840’s that public baths and wash-houses really took off in earnest, with the first fresh, warm water public bath being opened on Frederick Street in Liverpool in 1842.<br />
<br />
Two years later the <i>Association for Promoting Cleanliness Among the Poor</i> was founded, and set about establishing bath and laundry houses in London. The first appeared in Glass House Yard, East Smithfield, and for the price of a penny each the poor could bathe and wash themselves. Cleanliness at home was also encouraged and to help with this the APCA handed out whitewash (<i>an extremely cheap and mildly antibacterial white paint containing lime</i>) and paintbrushes so the poor could paint the walls of their tenements, rooms or filthy garrets clean.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The East Smithfield bath proved a success, with over 85,000 people utilizing the facility in the space of a year. This triumph lead to the passing of the Public Baths and Wash Houses Act in 1846, which promised “<i>To promote the health and cleanliness of the working classes, and as a necessary consequence, improve their social condition and raise their moral tone, thereby, tendering them more accessible to and better fitted to receive religious and secular training.</i>” The act also – perhaps more importantly – gave parishes the power to raise money to provide more public wash houses, and so inevitably, following on from the success of the Smithfield bath, more quickly followed in London. <br /> <br />The first “<i>model</i>” baths opened in 1847 in Goulston Square, Whitechapel, and by 1851 seven parishes had raised enough money through ratepayers to open public baths, including St. Pancras, Marylebone and St. Martin-in-the-Fields. In 1850 the Whitechapel, St. Martin-in-the-Fields and Marylebone baths were used by a combined total of half a million people. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, public baths and whitewashing alone could not stop the spread of diseases, and it was one such outbreak that sowed the seed for the public bath and wash house movement to be born in Liverpool. An 1832 cholera epidemic in the city saw one plucky citizen rise to prominence in the war on slum diseases. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> <br />Kitty Wilkinson was born Catherine Seaward in Ireland in 1786 but at the age of nine left the emerald isle with her parents and sister and set sail for a new life in Liverpool. As they approached the city their boat capsized. Kitty and her mother made it to Liverpool, but her father and sister were swept out to sea, never to be seen again. They were alone and destitute.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At twelve she made her way to Lancashire and found work in a cotton mill as an apprentice- notoriously hard and dangerous work – before returning to her mother in Liverpool eight years later in 1806, at which time they both went into domestic service. In 1812 Kitty, then aged twenty six, married French sailor Emanuel Demontee. They had two children, but before the second was born the sea once again cruelly struck Kitty’s life; taking her husband whilst he was on duty aboard a ship and leaving her widowed and her children without a father. The incident must have brought back painful memories. Following Emanuel’s death she returned to domestic service, but this did not last long.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcA97hTOSEHfX-0iA4XctUTe2Yj8jBnJ9LYUqAMzZdTlebS_58I3oroodbeFyA9Hgt-4CFJwBbWxkF7A9lUR8pNPfVmBd78R-7W06IlmDtyS1TYoE3MBdaz2ZWrq4j4kOJFENQzzN8Yoa/s1600/Kitty+Wilkinson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcA97hTOSEHfX-0iA4XctUTe2Yj8jBnJ9LYUqAMzZdTlebS_58I3oroodbeFyA9Hgt-4CFJwBbWxkF7A9lUR8pNPfVmBd78R-7W06IlmDtyS1TYoE3MBdaz2ZWrq4j4kOJFENQzzN8Yoa/s320/Kitty+Wilkinson.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitty Wilkinson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She had acquired a mangle as a gift and soon put it to good use, setting herself up as a laundress to support her two children, as well as her mother with whom she still lived. She married again in 1823, this time to warehouse porter Tom Wilkinson (<i>from whom she takes her now familiar name</i>), and lead an otherwise uneventful life. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />For nine years at least.<br /> <br />And so the cholera epidemic struck Liverpool in 1832, and Kitty – being the only person in her neighbourhood with a boiler – quickly took matters into her own hands by inviting people from her street to use it to wash their clothes and linen. She also showed them how to use chloride of lime (<i>bleach powder</i>) to clean them. Effectively this was the first example of a public wash house, and Kitty’s actions saved who-knows-how-many lives during the outbreak.<br /> <br />After seeing the success of her wash house, and how effective her methods of combating disease had been, Kitty began to campaign for the opening of public baths in the city so the poor could continue to wash themselves. Her deeds had been noticed by Liverpool councilor and future mayor of the city, William Rathbone, who supported her initiative, which was ultimately successful, leading as it did to the aforementioned Frederick Street baths, of which Kitty was appointed superintendent.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Kitty, whose work earned her the nickname ‘<i>The Saint of the Slums</i>’ died in 1860 at the age of seventy four, and is buried in St. James Cemetery.<br /> <br />In September 2012 a statue of Kitty Wilkinson was unveiled in Liverpool’s St. George’s Hall, where the working class former cotton mill worker and domestic servant sits alongside fellow eminent Liverpudlians such as William Roscoe, Robert Peel, George Stephenson and Gladstone. Kitty’s statue is the first in the hall of a female. <br /> <br />In 1910 a memoir of Kitty’s life was published entitled ‘<i>The Life of Kitty Wilkinson, a Lancashire Heroine</i>’ written by Winifred Rathbone, and in 1927, Herbert Rathbone, the great nephew of councilor William Rathbone published ‘<i>A Memoir of Kitty Wilkinson of Liverpool, 1786-1860: with a short account of Thomas Wilkinson, her husband</i>’</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Any Kindle owners interested in knowing more about Kitty may be interested in Michael Kelly's eBook, 'The Life of Kitty Wilkinson' available on Amazon </span><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Life-Kitty-Wilkinson-ebook/dp/B008LMLNCS/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1357886000&sr=1-1" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">here</a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> at a very reasonable price.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-50076376144336198772013-01-03T22:54:00.000-08:002013-01-03T22:54:56.756-08:00“Trow at Once ran to the Canal and Jumped in to the Rescue…” Or: The Heroics of a Victorian Tram Conductor:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the 1700’s, at the height
of the industrial revolution, canals cut across the green and pleasant land of
Britain. They were to the 1760’s what railways were to the 1860’s; the veins of
commerce pumping life from city to city, keeping the heart of industry pumping.
Canals were densely packed virtually all the way from Liverpool to London via
all the big manufacturing centres such as Birmingham and Sheffield in order to transport
large materials or items in a mass and speed that was unachievable on roads at
the time, especially for large freight such as coal (<i>the price of which dropped dramatically once it could be transported in
bulk by canal, as opposed to the more costly, time consuming and inefficient
transport by road</i>) When the railways came, however, the efficacy of the
canal was trumped. Trains were much faster and could carry even more freight.
In time, transport of goods via train became cheaper, too, and use of the
canals declined. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Throughout England’s
history, 56 canals have been abandoned, either reclaimed by nature, left as
water-less ditches or filled in and urbanized. One such abandoned canal was the
Newcastle-under-Lyme canal in Staffordshire. But why have I decided to write
about a canal that was opened in 1800 and officially closed in 1935? What on
earth is Victorian about that? Well, sometimes I find it can be more fun
researching 19<sup>th</sup> century events that are a little lesser known to
the greater world. I find it can add fine detail and almost ‘humanize’ the
behemoth that is the Victorian period if a little story like this is examined
rather than a big story, such as, say, a war. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, why am I writing about a
now-disused canal in Staffordshire?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Well, in April 1894 the
canal witnessed an act of Victorian heroism that is still commemorated in the
area to this day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Newcastle-under-Lyme
canal ran alongside London Road in Hanley, Staffordshire (<i>although now there is no trace of it</i>) and this road was served by a
tram. On 13<sup>th</sup> April 1894, the conductor of the tram was twenty-two
year old local man Timothy Trow, and as his tram approached London road,
four-year-old Jane Ridgeway was playing on the towpath…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Richard H. Weir, in his
1980’s Staffordshire-themed book ‘<i>Six of
the Best: A Potteries Companion</i>’ describes the events that took place next:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">‘Imagine the scene in 1894.
In those days London Road was a cobbled highway, resounding to the screech of
steam-trams as they slowed to a halt near this spot. Between pavement and
water's edge were iron railings and a row of tall trees. As a tram drew close
at 4 o'clock, one April afternoon, its young conductor heard screams coming
from the canal. He looked up and, seeing a little girl, terrified and flailing
desperately to stay afloat, wasted no time in vaulting the railings and
plunging into the chill water to her rescue. By fate's intervention, he was
tragically seized by a violent cramp and sank like a stone to the bottom. The
child was later pulled out alive.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0S2_9A4Y8Pi8nT6RLhhp5kiOdiqOqLMiSsXTCntAGWMus_ZkWwA0_8iDppCtbm_HyxSzq4-RD8hmW2L-ynZTYqtRFD2nwNlnOngBCOwZWNv-Z3Fce8Dh6jtnNYieDssA-AAmCngqV8eh/s1600/Six+of+the+Best+Weir.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0S2_9A4Y8Pi8nT6RLhhp5kiOdiqOqLMiSsXTCntAGWMus_ZkWwA0_8iDppCtbm_HyxSzq4-RD8hmW2L-ynZTYqtRFD2nwNlnOngBCOwZWNv-Z3Fce8Dh6jtnNYieDssA-AAmCngqV8eh/s400/Six+of+the+Best+Weir.JPG" width="286" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A more detailed – if less
pleasing to the imagination – version of the incident was reported in a
midlands newspaper three days later following the coroner’s inquest:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">STOKE-ON-TRENT <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Sad Death of a Tramway
Conductor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">On Saturday Mr. J. Booth
(coroner) held an inquest on the body of Timothy Trow (22), a conductor in the
employ of the North Staffordshire Tramways Company, who met with his death
while attempting to save a child from drowning. The previous afternoon deceased
was in charge of the car working on the London Road section of the tramways.
About a Quarter past four o'clock, just as the car was about to start from the
West End terminus, attention was attracted by the sound of a splash in the
adjoining canal, and on observing that a little girl had fallen into the water,
Trow at once ran to the canal and jumped in to the rescue. He walked part of
the way across, until be was up to the waist, when he suddenly sank very much
deeper, and called out to his fellow workman, the engine driver, that he had
the cramp. He appeared to become helpless, and a Mr. Henry Lloyd, of Berresford
Street, Shelton, entered the canal to his assistance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Deceased got hold of and
struggled with to Lloyd, who was ultimately obliged to leave him to ensure his
own safety, and Lloyd, being also seized with cramp, had to he assisted on to
the towing-path. In the meantime the child had been rescued by John Forrester,
of Wellesley Street, Shelton, who also made an attempt to reach the deceased,
but without avail. Everything, in fact, was done to rescue Trow, but the
efforts proved futile, and the body of the deceased was not recovered until
about half an hour later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Coroner said that there
could be no doubt that Trow lost his life in an heroic attempt to save that of
the child, and appeared equally clear that the conduct of the other persons
present when this distressing fatality occurred was very laudable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Jury returned a verdict
of “Accidental Death.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <i>Birmingham Daily
Post, April 16<sup>th</sup> 1894</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Such was the empathy of
local people for Trow’s actions they collected money for a memorial to be
erected to remember him. The obelisk is still standing today, as can be seen
below, sitting next to where the towpath of the canal would have been until
1935.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyFqexWuKNetOdqeOk2cqGcEVkxXEC6Tt3LTqfGM0qX8G7DVTR1K2C2vwi1JQRkUtqEtxKN7LKhyphenhyphen9Mj8nW2_PBIyQ0NK8JaYVe-bK72bfAO6e6NjWe6RonvFc3IoyhVUi4-v5DO1-XqCP/s1600/London+Road+Stoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyFqexWuKNetOdqeOk2cqGcEVkxXEC6Tt3LTqfGM0qX8G7DVTR1K2C2vwi1JQRkUtqEtxKN7LKhyphenhyphen9Mj8nW2_PBIyQ0NK8JaYVe-bK72bfAO6e6NjWe6RonvFc3IoyhVUi4-v5DO1-XqCP/s320/London+Road+Stoke.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Obelisk on London Road Today</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">So there we have a tiny
piece of the nineteenth century jigsaw to add to the whole wonderful patchwork
puzzle. Old newspapers can be an excellent source to find stories such as
these, and even lesser stories, long forgotten by everyone, but which deeply affected
people at the time they happened. I know its something I keep saying, but if
you like history and enjoy researching, then I do recommend you try and get
hold of an old newspaper and scan through the pages, it’s a great way to pass
an hour or two!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-79315786759212248142012-12-31T03:05:00.000-08:002012-12-31T03:05:36.769-08:00“Go, Rest, Old Year! Thy Life is Ending…” Or: Happy New Year!<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As 2013 beckons, I have selected a New Year’s poem with which to say not only a happy New Year to all, but also a monster thank-you to everyone who has read anything I’ve written this year; I remove my bowler hat and bow in humble thanks to you all, for without readers, I would not bother to clutter the internet by writing these pages.<br /> <br />And now, selected from the Leisure Hour New Year 1877 number, an anonymous poem with which to sweep away the old year and usher in the new: </span><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Ah me! Ah me! The Year is dying;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When first he came in joyous state,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On youth and hope and strength relying,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We formed a hundred projects great, resolved and planned; but Time was flying,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And winter winds surprised us, sighing - </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Too late! Too late!"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What lofty schemes employed our leisure,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The glad New Year should these unfold;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But Spring was surely made for pleasure,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And Summer's tale was quickly told;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then Autumn filled his horned measure,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But while we revelled in his treasures</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Year grew old.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, Spring, too soon thy zenith gaining,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, Summer, of thy beauty shorn,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, Autumn, for brief season reigning,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What fruit, what harvest, have ye borne?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Year is grey, the Year is waning,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Few be the wintry hours remaining,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And we must mourn.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What, mourn when Christmas songs are sending</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Their sweetest echoes o'er the earth?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What, mourn when rich and poor attending,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So gaily wait the New Year's birth?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Aye! Then must joy and sorrow blending</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
With retrospection, still be lending</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Soft tinge to mirth.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So must we look, with gracious glances.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On deeds that rise to our distress;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So must we think of wasted chances,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For heavenly gain we did posses;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of misspent hours, of foolish fancies,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of broken vows, and small advances</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In holiness.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, it is well to pause and ponder - </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Shall every year thus lightly go?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Shall it be only ours to squander?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No, by the grace of heaven, no!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
See, the dim future stretcheth yonder,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And thither, prayerless, shall we wander?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Not so, not so.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Go, rest, Old Year! Thy life is ending;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Thy strength is gone, thy glory fled.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Go, rest! While God our way defending,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We the new path before us tread.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hark! As we listen, meekly bending,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The midnight bells proclaim, ascending.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Year is dead.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> - Leisure Hour, New Year, 1877</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Wishing everyone a prosperous, successful, and above all a happy new year!</div>
</span>The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-9970475085427237412012-12-28T02:48:00.000-08:002012-12-28T02:48:35.359-08:00”Streets of Dazzling Whiteness, Carpeted in Snow…” Or: A Post-Christmas Poem:<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope everyone enjoyed Christmas day and have had a super festive period! I return with another Christmas poem which is again a rather downbeat and melancholy affair, but nevertheless beautiful and evocative. The image painted by the writer is quite vivid here:</span><div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A Contrast</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By E.M. Maizey</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Halls of costly brightness,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Splendour, pomp, and show</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Streets of dazzling whiteness,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Carpeted in snow;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Petted lap-dogs sleeping,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Couched at beauty's feet;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Human beings weeping,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Houseless in the street.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fires brightly blazing,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Couches made to bear</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Forms of dainty moulding - </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hearts that know no care;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Roofless sheds containing</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Creatures stamped with woe -</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wearied with complaining</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dying as they go.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Happy children treading</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Carpet-covered floors;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wretched young ones shedding</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tears at workhouse doors;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Parents, some! too wealthy</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For the charge they bear;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Some! Oh, God! sustain them,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Crushed by grief and care.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> - <i>People's & Howitt's Journal, 1850</i></span> </div>
</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will be back with one final piece of Victorian poetry on New Years day, but in the meantime, enjoy the remainder of the season! </span></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-4537306851541386592012-12-20T23:47:00.000-08:002012-12-20T23:47:22.558-08:00“My Christmas Fare a Scanty Meal of Dry and Stone-Like Bread…” Or Another Victorian Christmas Poem<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">One thing that always
strikes me about Victorian Christmas poetry is the downcast and melancholy
nature of it. Perhaps it’s just the particular efforts I have in my collection,
but its quite rare that I come across happy and jolly Christmas poems, and this
is no exception. The vivid imagery, though, is absolutely wonderful, and more
than makes up for the gloomy subject. Maybe the Victorian poets liked to temper
the festivities of the season by highlighting the predicaments of the less
fortunate with their poetry? Who knows? But here is this weeks festive
tear-jerker:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
The Sempstresses Christmas Song</div>
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
By Thomas Russell</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Here's Christmas, but no holly-boughs on these lone walls are hung,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A gala time - but rind this hearth no carol rhymes are sung;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No merry greeting grateful comes to my neglected ear,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No footfall on the stair to tell of lov'd ones drawing near!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'll deck my Robin's cage to day afresh with groundsel bloom,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He'll warble his accustom'd note until the shadows loom;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The busy needle while I ply, and gather thread on thread,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My "Christmas fare" a scanty meal of dry and stone-like bread.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The golden days of infancy, when berries red and white</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
were mingled on our walls at home, I'll dream of them at night;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'll fancy that these icy limbs are frolicking again,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As then they gambolled, though I know the fancy will be vain.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The holly and the mistletoe, ah! What are they to me?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To see them waste their greenness here, a mockery would be;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Enough to know the freshness of my heart hath passed away,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It needs no forest-gathered things to tell me that today!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I've opened my casement window, that the warbling of my bird </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
May mingle with the joyous strains that in the streets are heard;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the pealing notes of countless chimes come softly stealing in,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As if to woo my darkened thoughts to gladness back again.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The laugh of merry childhood comes mingling with their strain,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Enough! I cannot hear that sound, I'll shut it out again;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It brings the tear-drop in mine eye, retards my feeble hand,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There, Robin, sing to only me thy carol soft and bland.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
- <i>People's and Howitt's Journal, 1850</i></div>
<br />This is to be my last post before Christmas day, so may I wish all readers a happy and joyous Christmas day, and here’s hoping Father Christmas brings you all that you desire! <br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_o-4X916kZ-fpWhw361bU_Ds7vMmQXh-hGb8epCdyET5x2cSfOt1o_7z41oA87SqUit5eRfGU5VfLbC8j6FDiuc713UTDLLphkMcg03PZKvi1OyxxP6gYUA3O-K7baeKmrj3hy7in2Ev/s1600/RichardRedgrave+The+Sempstress+1843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_o-4X916kZ-fpWhw361bU_Ds7vMmQXh-hGb8epCdyET5x2cSfOt1o_7z41oA87SqUit5eRfGU5VfLbC8j6FDiuc713UTDLLphkMcg03PZKvi1OyxxP6gYUA3O-K7baeKmrj3hy7in2Ev/s640/RichardRedgrave+The+Sempstress+1843.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'The Poor Sempstress' by Richard Redgrave, 1843</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-8946137584955070602012-12-13T11:31:00.000-08:002012-12-13T11:31:10.124-08:00“What Can I give Him, Poor as I am?” Or: Christina Rossetti & Our First Christmas Poem for 2012:
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Christmas is almost upon us again, and I find myself in the familiar
place of bringing you little-known Victorian Christmas poetry as has become my
custom here for the last couple of years. However, for my first Christmas poem
this year (<i>last week’s was only a poem
about winter</i>) I have decided to opt for a piece of poetry by someone
famous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">My usual source for Christmas poetry is Victorian periodicals, which
published poems by members of the public, aspiring writers and little-known
published writers alike. I must reiterate here that I am not into poetry, but I
can appreciate a simple poem, and I find something a little more sincere and
interesting about poetry written by non-famous Victorians. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That said, I have chosen to usher in the Christmas season this year with
quite a famous poem by quite a famous Victorian poet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Born in London in 1830, Christina Rossetti was, as you may have guessed,
if you don’t already know, the sister of the great pre-Raphelite artist Dante
Gabriel Rossetti, as well as of the writer and founding member of the
Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood William Michael Rossetti and author Maria Francesca
Rossetti. She was the youngest child in this great artistic family; and as well
as her talented siblings, her father was an Italian poet, and her mother,
whilst not herself of an artistic bent, was the sister of John William Polidori
– the author of one of the first English vampire stories, The Vampyre, in 1819.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Christina, growing up in a household overflowing with artistic ideas,
soon began to show promise as a poet. By the age of twelve she had written a
book of poetry, and by eighteen she had published her first two poems (<i>Death’s Chill Between</i> and <i>Heart’s Chill Between</i>) in the literary
magazine Athenaeum. Many of her early poems focused on death and loss and were
somewhat melancholy. When she was nineteen Christina began contributing poems
to the (<i>ultimately unsuccessful</i>)
Pre-Raphaelite journal The Germ, under the pseudonym Ellen Alleyn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLL0m7paTnhOOXbrdpxc6ZZxbucz8BVYEUCMPsvWhOATn8uKLzDDTHsDyhdgzl4IBSAysOJ6na8mjVCudxVr3scpMnTYBcsHVsDMh-7Y_lSS3Ldq2WlrzrlsTcg8h8Itt_AbgBkWZ6N2EZ/s1600/Christina+Rossetti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLL0m7paTnhOOXbrdpxc6ZZxbucz8BVYEUCMPsvWhOATn8uKLzDDTHsDyhdgzl4IBSAysOJ6na8mjVCudxVr3scpMnTYBcsHVsDMh-7Y_lSS3Ldq2WlrzrlsTcg8h8Itt_AbgBkWZ6N2EZ/s400/Christina+Rossetti.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Christina Rossetti by Dante Rossetti, 1866</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Goblin Market and Other
Poems</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> – by far her most famous collection – was first published in 1862, when
Christina was thirty-one. This was her first work widely available to the
public and proved to be very successful, receiving critical acclaim from, not
only the press, but eminent and popular poets of the day, including Tennyson. In
the year prior to the release of Goblin Market the great female poet Elizabeth
Barrett Browning had died in Italy, leaving her place as Britain’s premier
female poet vacant. The success of Goblin Market and Other Poems saw Christina
take on that mantle, becoming the most popular female poet in the country,
although she never quite reached the same heights of fame and popularity as
Browning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
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<span lang="EN-US">Christina sat as a model for her brother, Dante, for some of his best
known paintings, including his first oil painting <i>The Girlhood of Mary Virgin</i>, for which, at the age of eighteen, she
was the model for the Virgin Mary. This painting was was the first instance of
a piece of work bearing the initials ‘<i>PRB</i>’,
which signified the Pre Raphaelite Brotherhood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">In the paintings it is quite plain to see that she was a handsome woman;
despite this, as well as her great talent, Christina never married. She was
engaged to James Collinson, a painter and founding member of the pre Raphaelite
Brotherhood, but his converting back to Catholicism following a crisis of
conscience (<i>having reverted to
Anglicanism in order to marry Christina</i>) caused staunch Anglican Christina
to end the relationship in 1850. She also turned down the hand of Charles
Cayley – the linguist best known for his translations of the work of Dante
Alighieri – on religious grounds, and also the offer of painter and agnostic
John Brett.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEFaUYV-7p3AdyS-LV7C3jlQ5Mf23IqPXSleGaFQYudbzymE5pPTF37sdmAXSG7EunwHqJRCfOPrhDkD83FFP3ikKhrHUAwH1Q4PhoH7TeNJJnFDfv_nqV4sZATd9A4GWVcnLQuzuH358/s1600/Girlhood+of+Mary+Virgin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEFaUYV-7p3AdyS-LV7C3jlQ5Mf23IqPXSleGaFQYudbzymE5pPTF37sdmAXSG7EunwHqJRCfOPrhDkD83FFP3ikKhrHUAwH1Q4PhoH7TeNJJnFDfv_nqV4sZATd9A4GWVcnLQuzuH358/s400/Girlhood+of+Mary+Virgin.jpg" width="306" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'The Girlhood of Mary Virgin' by Dante Rossetti, 1848</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial;">
<span lang="EN-US">From 1859 until 1870 she volunteered at the St Mary Magdelene House of
Charity in Highgate, which was a refuge for former prostitutes. Her experiences
here with the fallen women lead many to believe the idea for her poem Goblin
Market – the protagonists of which are two sisters, and there being a distinct
undercurrent of sexual imagery throughout – to have been born there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial;">
<span lang="EN-US">In the early 1870’s Christina was diagnosed with Graves’ disease, a
thyroid disorder that includes insomnia, palpitations and hair and weight loss
amongst a long list of possible symptoms. By the 1880’s the bouts of the
disease had become so severe that she was made an invalid, but she continued to
write. The following decade saw further health complications when, in 1893 she
developed breast cancer. The tumour was removed, but returned in September
1894. Three months later she died in London. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<pre style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial; line-height: 12.75pt;">
</pre>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Christina is buried in the Rossetti family plot in Highgate Cemetery West.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the Bleak Midwinter by Christina Rossetti, c. 1872</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Snow on snow,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the bleak mid-winter</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Long ago.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nor earth sustain;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Heaven and earth shall flee away</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When He comes to reign:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the bleak mid-winter</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A stable-place sufficed</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Lord God Almighty,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jesus Christ.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Enough for Him, whom cherubim</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Worship night and day,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A breastful of milk</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And a mangerful of hay;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Enough for Him, whom angels</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fall down before,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The ox and ass and camel</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which adore.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Angels and archangels</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May have gathered there,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cherubim and seraphim</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thronged the air,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But only His mother</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In her maiden bliss,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Worshipped the Beloved</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With a kiss.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What can I give Him,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Poor as I am?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I were a shepherd</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I would bring a lamb,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I were a wise man</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I would do my part,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yet what I can I give Him,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Give my heart.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Christina never achieved the heady heights of success – <i>in life or after</i> – that her brother Dante did, but she did leave behind a body of work, which, unlike a lot of nineteenth century poetry, is quite accessible and enjoyable to read, particularly the fairy-tale-esque Goblin Market.<br /> <br />If you’re interested in learning more about the Pre Raphaelites, or seeing their work, the Tate is currently running an exhibition entitled ‘Pre-Raphaelites: Victorian Avant-Garde’ but hurry, the exhibition ends on 13th January! See details <a href="http://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-britain/exhibition/pre-raphaelites-victorian-avant-garde?gclid=CPrw6o3cirQCFaTMtAod4WIA8g">here:</a> </span><br />
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-12398817006647646252012-12-07T02:34:00.001-08:002012-12-07T02:34:42.129-08:00“The Touches of Winter are Round us; and Weather yet Wilder Draws Nigh…” Or: a Winter Poem:<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has become somewhat customary here to usher in Christmas
with some Victorian festive poetry, and this year will be no different. There’s
something about nineteenth century winter and Christmas-themed poems that
really evoke – to me, anyway – the spirit of past Christmasses; and by that I don’t
mean Victorian Christmas necessarily, but even festive periods as early as
twenty or thirty years ago, when, to me, Christmas seemed a little more simple
than it does now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perhaps it was just where I was living at the time, or maybe
(more likely) that I was a child, but I’m sure there were more carol singers,
snowy days and a shorter build-up to Christmas than now; but maybe I look upon
the past with rosy spectacles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today’s poem is not one about Christmas, but rather, now that
there is a chill upon the air and we’ve had a little snowfall here in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region> this
week, one about winter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you find modern-day Christmas a little bit of a blur,
then I hope you’ll enjoy the simple spirit of the poems featured here over the
next couple of weeks.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfplHl28ocr0yPKLH9_xg8MvPfoyR-knqExd0XDgVz8UDZliuY5o-P3D20sOJVwuHTrTk68BykyIXLhsf9aTr2GToav95xWPSLIlRkmr-l1dWXa-Vw3AN6Rx2SFFzvcGIWT3kyyIZCpNTu/s1600/London+Winter+Walcot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="520" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfplHl28ocr0yPKLH9_xg8MvPfoyR-knqExd0XDgVz8UDZliuY5o-P3D20sOJVwuHTrTk68BykyIXLhsf9aTr2GToav95xWPSLIlRkmr-l1dWXa-Vw3AN6Rx2SFFzvcGIWT3kyyIZCpNTu/s640/London+Winter+Walcot.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'London in Winter' by William Walcot, 1909 </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here’s this year’s first:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>An Old Body's Winter Song.</b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The touches of Winter are round us;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He is busy with wind and with rain,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The leaves are all swept from the branches,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The pools are brimful in the lane.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How sombre the noontide! how sullen</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The lowlands, where snowflakes fly fast!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How plaintive the notes of the robin!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For Winter has reached us at last.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The touches of Winter are on us;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our cheeks waning pallid and thin,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our eyes fading slowly in colour,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bespeak some sure fading within.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But if mind has grown larger and purer,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Its thoughts and its aims all more clear,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Its perceptions of truth all corrected,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We care not tho' Winter is here.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The touches of Winter are on us;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our hands are now feeble and slow,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our feet totter round the small garden -</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Are chilly beside the hearth glow.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But if in the long past behind us</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our words and our works have been great</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In number and kind, and refreshing,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We welcome our winter estate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The touches of Winter are on us;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How dull beats the heart in the breast!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The breath comes and goes in long pauses,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We are fond of our room and our rest.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But if the soul's hope has been garnered,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The will trained to strike passion dumb,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tho' bruises and blood linger on us,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We are thankful our winter has come.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The touches of Winter are round us;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And weather yet wilder draws nigh,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Stormy days with their weltering cloud rack,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Frigid nights with no star in the sky.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But if in the world beyond this world</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Springs life free from cold or decay,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, Winter, you herald His working</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Whose will is as right as His way.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- Alfred Norris, from Leisure Hour, 1877</i></div>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">More festive poetry next week, and if you’ve enjoyed this,
click on the ‘<i>poetry</i>’ label in the ‘<i>looking for something specific?</i>’ list of
words on the right more. </span></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-9876654408653068832012-11-29T23:23:00.003-08:002012-11-29T23:24:33.111-08:00“…To Rescue Ailing Little Children from “The Two Grim Nurses, Poverty and Sickness…” Or: The Birth of Great Ormond Street Hospital:<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This year Great Ormond
Street Children’s Hospital in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>
celebrated its 160<sup>th</sup> birthday. If you watched the opening ceremony
of the Olympics you may have noticed a little section devoted to it, in which
its child’s-face logo and the letters GOSH were spelled out in light, paying
tribute to this great institution that has been nursing sick children for over
a century-and-a-half.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDHOvs2NlsvdONrPR11jUdOUORW2kgjXLGscGjgFSXukzsa7H7SF1eoFT1fCAPgU9ryojXAwaTRYkdowJV7ZAT7OuRfLIzTIc9OvtUrxY0LDXdugI0QFptAcaW63-s33xpSm0LHDlsGyBC/s1600/GOSH+Olympics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDHOvs2NlsvdONrPR11jUdOUORW2kgjXLGscGjgFSXukzsa7H7SF1eoFT1fCAPgU9ryojXAwaTRYkdowJV7ZAT7OuRfLIzTIc9OvtUrxY0LDXdugI0QFptAcaW63-s33xpSm0LHDlsGyBC/s400/GOSH+Olympics.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Victorian cities were no
places for poor children. They were crowded and dirty, and poor neighbourhoods
in particular were prone to outbreaks of disease. Many families struggled to
provide their little ones with basic necessities such as proper clothing or
food, so illness amongst weakly children was rife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place> this was particularly true, as
Augustus Mayhew noted in his excellent novel ‘<i>Paved with Gold’</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“<i>The streets of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>
make, at the best, but a stony-hearted parent, the gutter forming but a
sorry cradle for foundling babes to be reared in. The “back slums” of the
metropolis are poor academies for youth, and moral philosophy is hardly to
be picked up under “dry arches” and in “padding kens.”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So under-privileged children
had a hard time of it in the Victorian city, but what could be done?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">An eventual saviour came in
the shape of London-born Charles West. Born in 1816, as a young man Charles had
studied as a physician in Germany and France between 1835 and 1837, and went on
to qualify as a Doctor of Medicines before returning to London and setting up
his own medical practice. This venture, however, was a failure. He left <st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city> for <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>
where he spent some time at <st1:placename w:st="on">Meath</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype> in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Dublin</st1:place></st1:city>,
specializing in gynecology and midwifery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSreQDTrKgfTgAgDf-JqH56QItVjRhHuVdhtQSb28sj0A3bFsJ3Y1hRIRYBjRwaLulGryL_HDGgRc7p0Dk_BtBJhsGJjeNqh9F1gYMD31PHvJb7ZEyoA5NpemMjNh8lnvWJ3qO6C0H6ie/s1600/Charles+West.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSreQDTrKgfTgAgDf-JqH56QItVjRhHuVdhtQSb28sj0A3bFsJ3Y1hRIRYBjRwaLulGryL_HDGgRc7p0Dk_BtBJhsGJjeNqh9F1gYMD31PHvJb7ZEyoA5NpemMjNh8lnvWJ3qO6C0H6ie/s400/Charles+West.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles West</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He was made a member of the
Royal College of Physicians in 1842, and so returned to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place> where he took a post as Chief
Physician at the Waterloo Road Dispensary for Sick and Indigent Children. Two
years later he began teaching midwidery at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and in
1847 started giving lectures on children’s diseases. By now Dr. West had made
up his mind to specialize in the care of children, and attempted to turn the
Waterloo Road Dispensary into a Children’s Hospital. However, all his attempts
met with no success, but he was not to be deterred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He was made a member of the
Royal College of Physicians in 1842, and so returned to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> where he took a post as Chief
Physician at the Waterloo Road Dispensary for Sick and Indigent Children. Two
years later he began teaching midwidery at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and in
1847 started giving lectures on children’s diseases. By now Dr. West had made
up his mind to specialize in the care of children, and attempted to turn the
Waterloo Road Dispensary into a Children’s Hospital. However, all his attempts
met with no success, but he was not to be deterred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This 1891 article from Strand
Magazine explains what happened next, gives as insight into the history of the
building, and takes us on a guided tour of the Hospital in the 1890’s: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">“We want to move Johnny to a place where there are
none but children; a place set up on purpose for sick children; where the good
doctors and nurses pass their lives with children, talk to none but children,
touch none but children, comfort and cure none but children.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Who does not remember that
chapter in ‘Our Mutual Friend’ in which Charles Dickens described Johnny’s
removal – with his Noah’s <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ark</st1:place></st1:state>
and his noble wooden steed – from the care of poor old Betty to that of the
Hospital for Sick Children in <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Great
Ormond Street</st1:address></st1:street>? Johnny is dead – he died after
bequeathing all his dear possessions, the Noah’s Ark, the gallant horse, and
the yellow bird, to his little sick neighbour – and his large hearted creator
is dead too; but the Hospital in Great Ormond Street still exists – in a finer
form than Dickens knew it – and still receives sick children to be comforted
and cured by its gentle nurses and good doctors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And this is how the very
first hospital for children came to be founded. Some fifty years ago, Dr,
Charles West, a physician extremely interested in children and their ailments,
was walking with a companion along <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Great
Ormond Street</st1:address></st1:street>. He stopped opposite the stately old
mansion known as No. 49, which was then “to let.” and said, “There! That is the
future Children’s Hospital. It can be had cheap, I believe, and it is in the
midst of a district teeming with poor.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The house was known to the
doctor as one with history. It had been the residence of a great and kindly man
– the famous Dr. Richard Mead, Court Physician to Queen Anne and George the
First, and it is described by a chronicler of the time as a “splendidly-fitted
mansion, with spacious gardens looking out into the fields” of St. Pancras.
Another notable tenant of the mansion was the rev. Zachary Macaulay, father of
Lord Macaulay, and a co-worker with Clarkson and Wilberforce for the abolition
of slavery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Dr. Charles West pushed his
project for turning the house into a hospital for sick children with such
effect that a Provisional Committee was formed, which held its first recorded
meeting on January 30, 1850, under the presidency of the philanthropic banker
Joseph Hoare. As a practical outcome of these and other meetings, the mansion
and grounds were bought, and the necessary alterations were made to adapt them
for their purpose. A “constitution” also was drawn up – which obtains to this
day – and in that it was set down that the object of the Hospital was
threefold:-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(1) The Medical and Surgical
treatment of poor Children;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(2) The Attainment and
Diffusion of Knowledge regarding the Diseases of Children;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(3) The Training of Nurses
for Children<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, in the February of 1852
– exactly nine-and-thirty years ago – the Hospital for Sick Children was
opened, and visitors had displayed to them the curious sight of ailing children
lying contentedly in little cots in the splendid apartments still decorated
with flowing figures and scrolls of beautiful blue on the ceiling, and bright
shepherds and shepherdesses in the panels of the walls – rooms where the beaux
and belles of Queen Anne and King George, in wigs and buckle-shoes, in frills
and furbelows, had been wont to assemble; where the kindly Dr. Mead had
learnedly discussed with his brethren, and where Zachary Macaulay had presided
at many an anti-slavery meeting. It was, indeed, a haunted house that the poor
sick children had been carried into – haunted, however, not by hideous spirits
of darkness and crime, but by gentle memories of Christian charity and
loving-kindness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For some time poor people
were shy of the new hospital. In the first month only eight cots were occupied
out of the ten provided, and only twenty-four out-patients were treated. The
treatment of these, however, soon told upon the people, and by and by more
little patients were brought to the door of the Hospital than could be
received. the place steadily grew in usefulness and popularity, so that in five
years 1,483 little people occupied its cots, and 39,300 passed through its
out-patient department. But by 1858 the hearts of the founders and managers
misgave them; for funds had fallen so low that it was feared that the doors of
the hospital must be closed. No doubt the anxious and terrible events of the
Crimean War and the Indian mutiny had done much to divert public attention from
the claims of the little folk in 49, <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Great
Ormond Street</st1:address></st1:street>, but the general tendency of even
kindly people to run after new things and then to neglect them had done more. It
was then that Charles Dickens stood the true and practical friend of the
Hospital. He was appealed to for the magic help of his pen and his voice. He
wrote about the sick children, and he spoke for them at the annual dinner of
1858 in a speech so potent to move the heart and to untie the purse-strings
that the Hospital managers smiled again; the number of cots was increased to
44, two additional physicians were appointed, and No. 48 was added to No. 49,
Great Ormond Street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">From that date the
institution prospered and grew, till, in 1869, Cromwell House, at the top of
Highgate Hill (of which more anon) was opened as a Convalescent Branch of the
Hospital, and in 1872 the first stone of the present building was laid by the
Princess of Wales, in the spacious garden of Number Forty-Nine. The funds,
however, were insufficient for the completion of the whole place, and until
1889 the Hospital stood with but one wing. Extraordinary efforts were made to
collect money, with the result that last year the new wing was begun on the
site of the two “stately mansions” which had been for years the home of the
Hospital. With all this increase, and the temptation sometimes to borrow rather
than slacken in a good work, the managers have never borrowed nor run into
debt. They have steadily believed in the excellent advice which Mr. Micawber
made a present of to his young friend Copperfield, “Annual income twenty
pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six: result, happiness. Annual
income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six: result,
misery”; and, as a consequence, they are annually dependent on the voluntary
contributions of kind-hearted people who are willing to aid them to rescue
ailing little children from “the two grim nurses, poverty and Sickness.” But,
in order to be interested in the work of the Hospital and its little charges,
there is nothing like a personal visit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">One bitterly cold afternoon
a little while before Christmas, we kept an appointment with the courteous
Secretary, and were by him led past the uniformed porter at the great door, and
up the great staircase to the little snuggery of Miss Hicks, the Lady
Superintendent. On our way we had glimpses through glass doors into clean,
bright wards, which gave a first impression at once cheerful and soothing,
heightened by contrast with the heavy black cold that oppressed all life out of
doors. By the Secretary we were transferred to the guidance of Miss Hicks, who
has done more than can here be told for the prosperity of the Hospital and the
completion of the building. She led us again downstairs, to begin our tour of
inspection at the very beginning – at the door of the out-patients department.
That is opened at half-past eight every week-day morning, and in troop crowds
of poor mothers with children of all ages up to twelve – babies in arms and
toddlekins led by the hand. They pass through a kind of turnstile and take
their seats in the order of their arrival on rows of benches in a large waiting
room, provided with a stove, a lavatory, and a drinking fountain, with an
attendant nurse and a woman to sell cheap, wholesome buns baked in the
Hospital; for they may have to wait all the morning before their turn arrives
to go in to the doctor, who sits from nine to twelve seeing and prescribing for
child after child; and, if the matter is very serious, sending the poor thing
on into the Hospital to occupy one of the cosy cots. All the morning this
stream of sad and ailing mothers and children trickles on out of the waiting
room into the presence of the keen-eyed, kindly doctor, out to the window of
the great dispensary (which stretches the whole length of the building) to take
up the medicine ordered, on past a little box on the wall which requests the
mothers to “please spare a penny,” and so out onto the street again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are two such
out-patient departments – one at either end of the great building – and there
pass through them in a year between eighteen and nineteen thousand cases, which
leave grateful casual pennies in the little wall-box to the respectable amount
of £100 a year. It does not need much arithmetic to reckon that that means no
less than 24,000 pence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Leaving that lower region
(which is, of course, deserted when we view it in the afternoon) we re-ascend
to look at the little in-patients. From the first ward we seek to enter we are
admonished by our own senses to turn back. We have barely looked in when the
faint, sweet odour of chloroform hanging in the air, the hiss of the antiseptic
spray machine, and the screens placed round a cot inform us that one of the
surgeons is conducting an operation. The ward is all hushed in silence, for the
children are quick to learn that, when the big, kind-eyed doctor is putting a
little comrade to sleep in order to do some clever thing to him to make him
well, all must be as quiet as mice. There is no more touching evidence of the
trust and faith of childhood than the readiness with which these children yield
themselves to the influence of chloroform, and surrender themselves without a
pang of fear into the careful hands of the doctor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sometimes, when an
examination or an operation is over, there is a little flash of resentment, as
in the case of the poor boy who, after having submitted patiently to having his
lungs examined, exclaimed to the doctor, “I’ll tell my mother you’ve been
a-squeezing me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We cross to the other side
and enter the ward called after Queen <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Victoria</st1:place></st1:state>.
The ward is quiet, for it is one of those set apart for medical cases. Here the
poor mites of patients are almost all lying weak and ill. On the left, not far
from the door, we come upon a pretty and piteous sight. In a cot roofed and
curtained with white, save on one side, lies a flaxen-haired girl – a mere baby
of between two and three – named “Daisy.” Her eyes are open, but she does not
move when we look at her; she only continues to cuddle to her bosom her brush
and comb, from which, the nurse tells us, she resolutely refuses to be parted.
She is ill of some kind of growths in the throat, and on the other side of her
cot stands a bronchial kettle over a spirit lamp, thrusting its long nozzle
through the white curtain of the cot to moisten and mollify the atmosphere
breathed by the little patient. While our artist prepares to make a sketch, we
note that the baby’s eyes are fixed on the vapours from the kettle, which are
curling and writing, hovering and melting over her. What does she think of
them? Do they suggest to her at all, child though she is, the dimness and
evanescence of that human life which she is thus painfully beginning? Does she
wonder what it all means – her illness, the curling vapour, and the people near
her bed? Poor Daisy! There are scores of children like her here, and tens of
thousands out of doors, who suffer thus for the sins of society and the sins of
their parents. It is possible to pity her and them without reserve, for they
have done nothing to bring these sufferings on themselves. Surely, then, their
parents and society owe it to them that all things possible should be done to
set them in the way of health.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJImGmXEyZmQ6nOx3AJf-NDGxj_7f4pcQe90sR_X1D8LHrRD4rUvzRR209EwUy_7P_Gt1QTUWNoUuYNsw8WQ8lS_RfuhHooWxnCvnOsPgpuvObPGGjkeuoB5ZT_A-f4cHWcDlSTZQiQx1x/s1600/Daisy.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJImGmXEyZmQ6nOx3AJf-NDGxj_7f4pcQe90sR_X1D8LHrRD4rUvzRR209EwUy_7P_Gt1QTUWNoUuYNsw8WQ8lS_RfuhHooWxnCvnOsPgpuvObPGGjkeuoB5ZT_A-f4cHWcDlSTZQiQx1x/s640/Daisy.bmp" width="580" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And much is certainly one in
this Hospital for Sick Children. We look round the ward – and what we say of
this ward may be understood to apply to all – and note how architectural art
and sanitary and medical skill have done their utmost to make this as perfect a
place as can be contrived for the recovery of health. The ward is large and
lofty, and contains twenty-one cots, half of which are for boys and half for
girls. The walls have been built double, with an air space in the midst, for
the sake of warming and ventilation. The inner face of the walls is made of
glazed bricks of various colours, a pleasant shade of green being the chief.
That not only has an agreeable effect, but also ensures that no infection or
taint can be retained – and, to make that surety doubly sure, the walls are
once a month washed down with disinfectants. Every ward has attached to it, but
completely outside and isolated, a small kitchen, a clothes room, a bath-room,
&c. These are against the several corners of the ward, and combine to form
the towers which run up in the front and back of the building. Every ward also
has a stove with double open fireplace, which serves, not only to warm the room
in the ordinary way, but also to burn, so to say, and carry away the vitiated
air, and, moreover, to send off warm through the iron-work surrounding it fresh
air which comes through openings in the floor from ventilating shafts
communicating with the outer atmosphere. That is what architectural and
sanitary art has done for children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And what does not medical
and nursing skill do for them? And tender human kindness, which is as
nourishing to the ailing little ones as mother’s milk? It is small reproach
against poor parents to say seldom do their children know real childish
happiness, and cleanliness, and comfort, till they are brought into one of
these wards. It is in itself an invigoration to be gently waited upon and fed
by sweet, comely young nurses, none of whom is allowed to enter fully upon
their duties till she has proved herself fond of children and deft to manage
them. And what a delight it must be to have constantly on your bed wonderful
picture-books, and on the tray that slides along the top rails of your cot the
whole animal creation trooping out of Noah’s Ark, armies of tin soldiers, and
wonderfully woolly dogs with amazing barks concealed in their bowels, or – if
you happen to be a girl – dolls, dressed and undressed, of all sorts and sizes!
And, lastly, what a contrast is all this space, and light, and pure air – which
is never hot and never cold – to the low ceilings and narrow walls, the
stuffiness, and the impurity of the poor little homes fro which the children
come. There, if they are unwell only, they cannot but toss and cry and suffer
on their bed, exasperate their hard-worked mother, and drive their home-coming
father forth to drown his sorrows in the flowing bowl: here they are wrapped
safely in a heavenly calm, ministered to by skilful, tender hands, and spoken
to by soft and kindly voices: so that they wonder, and insensibly are soothed
and cease to suffer. Until he has been in a children’s hospital, no one would
guess how thoughtful, and good-tempered, and contented a sick child can be amid
his strange surroundings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But we linger too long in
this ward. With a glance at the chubby, convalescent boy, “Martin,” asleep in
his arm-chair before the fire – whom we leave our artist companion to sketch –
we pass upstairs to another medical ward, which promises to be the liveliest of
all; for, as soon as we are ushered through the door, a cheery voice rings out
from somewhere near the stove:- <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Halloa, man! Ha, ha, ha!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> We are instantly led with a laugh to the owner of the
voice, who occupies a cot over against the fire. He is called “Freddy,” and he
is a merry little chap, with dark hair, and bright twinkling eyes – so young
and yet so active that he is tethered by the waist to one of the bars at the
head of his bed lest he should fling himself out upon the floor – so young, and
yet afflicted with so old a couple of ailments. He is being treated for
“chronic asthma and bronchitis.” He is a child of the slums; he is by nature
strong and merry, and – poor little chap! – he has been brought to this pass
merely by a cold steadily and ignorantly neglected. Let us hope that “Freddy”
will be cured, and that he will become a sturdy and useful citizen, and keep
ever bright the memory of his childish experience of hospital care and
tenderness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Next to “Freddy” is another
kind of boy altogether. He has evidently been the pet of his mother at home,
and he is the pet of the nurses here. He is sitting up in his cot, playing in a
serious, melancholy way with a set of tea-things. He is very pretty. He has
large eyes and a mass of fair curls, and he looks up in a pensive way that
makes the nurses call him “Bubbles,” after Sir John Millais’ well known
picture-poster. He has a knack of saying droll things with an unconscious
seriousness which makes them doubly amusing. He is shy, however, and it is
difficult to engage him in conversation. We try to wake his friendliness by
presenting him with a specimen of a common coin of the realm, but for some time
without effect. For several seconds he will bend his powerful mind to nothing
but the important matter of finding a receptacle for the coin that will be
safe, and that will at the same time constantly exhibit it to his delighted
eye. These conditions being at length fulfilled, he condescends to listen to
our questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Does he like being in the
Hospital?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Yes. But I’m goin’ ‘ome on Kismas Day. My mother’s
comin’ for me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> We express our pleasure at the news. He looks at us with
his large, pensive eyes, and continues in the same low, slow, pensive tone:-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Will the doctor let me? Eh? Will he let me? I’ve nearly
finished my medicine. Will I have to finish it all?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> We reluctantly utter the opinion that very likely he will
have to “finish it all” in order to get well enough to go home. And then after
another remark or two we turn away to look at other little patients; but from
afar we can see that the child is still deeply pondering the question.
Presently, we hear his slow, pensive voice call:-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “I say!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> We go to him, and he enquires: “Is Kismas in the shops?
Eh? Is there toys and fings?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> We answer that the shops are simply overflowing with
Christmas delights, and again we retire; but by and by the slow, pensive voice
again calls;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “I say!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> Again we return, and he says: “Will the doctor come to me
on Kismas morning and day ‘Cheer up, Tommy; you’re goin’ ‘ome to-day?’ Will he?
Eh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> Poor little boy! Though the nurses love him, and though
he loves his nurses, he longs for his mother, and the “Kismas” joys of home.
And though he looks so healthy, and has only turned three years, he has
insipient consumption, and his “Kismas” must be spent either here, or in the
Convalescent Home on the top of Highgate Hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It is impossible, and
needless, to go round all the little beds; it is a constant tale of children
innocently and cheerfully bearing the punishment of the neglect, the mistakes,
or the sins of their parents, or of society. Here is a mere baby suffering from
tuberculosis because it has been underfed; there, and there, and there are
children, boys and girls – girls more frequently – afflicted with cholera, or
St. Vitus’ dance, because their weak nerves have been overwrought, either with
a fright at home or in the streets, or with overwork or punishment at school;
and so on, and so on, runs the sad and weary tale. But, before we leave the
ward, let us note one bright and fanciful picture, crowning evidence of the
kindness of the nurses to the children, and even of their womanly delight in
them. Near the cheerful glow of one of the faces of the double-faced stove, in
a fairy-like bassinette – a special gift to the ward – sit “Robin” and
“Carrie,” two babies decked out as an extraordinary treat in gala array of
white frocks and ribbons. These gala dresses, it must be chronicled, are bought
by the nurses’ own money and made in the nurses’ own time for the particular
and Sunday decoration of their little charges. On the other side of the stove
sits Charlie, a pretty little fellow, on his sofa bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And so we pass on to the
surgical wards; but it is much the same tale as before. Only here the children
are on the whole older, livelier, and hungrier. We do not wish to harrow the
feelings of our readers, so we shall not take them round the cots to point out
the strange and wonderful operations the surgeons have performed. We shall but
note that the great proportion of these cases are scrofulous of some order or
other – caries, or strumous disease of the bones, or something similar; and,
finally, we shall point out that one little fellow, helpless as a dry twig, but
bold as a lion, at least if his words are to be trusted. He has caries, or
decay, of the backbone. He has been operated upon, and he is compelled to lie
flat on his back always without stirring. He could not have tackled a
black-beetle, and yet one visitors’ day the father of his neighbour having
somehow offended him he threatened to throw him “out o’ winder,” and on another
occasion he made his comrades quake by declaring he would “fetch a big gun, and
shoot every man-jack of ‘em!” But, for all his Bombastes vein, he is a patient
and stoical little chap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are here altogether
110 cases in five wards (there will be 200 cots when the new wing is finished)
and a few infectious fever and diphtheria cases in an isolated building in the
grounds; and the cases treated and nursed in the course of the year average
1,000. but the most obstinate cases, we are told, are now sent to Highgate, to
keep company with the convalescents, because of the constant urgency of
receiving new patients into <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Great
Ormond Street</st1:address></st1:street>. To the top of Highgate Hill,
therefore, to Cromwell House, we make our way the following afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <i>Strand Magazine,
1891</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Charles West retired in 1876
at the age of 60, and spent a lot of time in the warmer French climate –
especially in winter. He died in <st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city> at the
age of eighty-two whilst travelling back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It surprises me that he is
not better known and has no memorial to commemorate his contribution and
dedication to improving the health, and ultimately, the lives of children,
although there is a room at the hospital named after him, and after asking the
Great Ormond Street Hospital charity, they told me that they are “finding out
about memorials.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Perhaps the greater surprise
is that the names of Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole have lived on, with
the former being extremely well-known known and having a museum dedicated to
her (rightly so) whilst a statue of Mary Seacole is due to be erected at St
Thomas’ Hospital. West, however, not only opened Great Ormond Street, but also
wrote a book entitled ‘How to Nurse Sick Children’ in 1854; five years before
Nightingale published ‘Notes on Nursing’ suggesting that he perhaps deserves a
share of Nightingale’s parent of modern nursing tag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />To this day the hospital still relies on public donations collected through its charity in order to raise the £50million that it requires annually to care for sick children. You can read more about this, or donate <a href="http://www.gosh.org/gen/about-us/our-fundraising/">here</a> and explore more history and photographs of the hospital <a href="http://www.gosh.nhs.uk/about-us/our-history/gallery/">here.</a></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-70487829391508415902012-09-22T02:07:00.000-07:002012-09-22T02:07:18.436-07:00“A Queen of Swell Society, Fond of Fun as Fond can be…” Or: Some Music Hall Stars:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For the past month here we
have been delving into the incredible world of the Victorian music halls, and
personally I have learned a great deal. The halls provide an entirely new world
of the nineteenth century in which to peek and study, and it would be a
lifetime’s work to unlock all the secrets and understand everything about this
most jovial-seeming world of laughter and costume.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My guest bloggers have
lifted the lid a little on that world, and what we have discovered consequently
has changed my perspective on the Victorian halls. The following articles on
various stars of the halls, which are my contribution to this month of music
hall related articles, have confirmed that change in perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Whilst reading the articles
that have appeared here over the past four weeks I have noticed a tinge of
sadness running through them like a silent undercurrent. Amongst the make-up
and the gas lights the more I read about the music halls the stronger this
sense becomes, but it was not crystallized until I completed writing about the
four music hall stars who are the focus of this article.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">All four of them enjoyed
great success in various forms on the stage, be it singing, acting, or dancing,
but their stories leave a melancholy echo in the ear. Whether this is true, I leave
for other readers to form an opinion. Perhaps the sadness is on my part, and
stems from the fact that these institutions are no longer there; and that on
every site which used to house a music hall is now only faded echoes of
laughter and applause. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Sylvia Grey: (1866 – 1958)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Like most nineteenth century
stage stars, London-born Sylvia Grey began her career at an early age,
appearing as a ten year old in Shakespeare plays at Sadler’s Wells. She
continued acting on stage until the age of twelve, when she enrolled in <st1:placename w:st="on">Trinity</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">College</st1:placetype>,
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>. The
performing arts school was established in 1877, and so Sylvia would have been
among the first attendees of the new establishment. Sylvia graduated with a
degree in music, and used this to become a professional singer with a choir.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Whilst with the choir Sylvia
continued to study music and singing, and took several small roles on stage,
first at the Vaudeville Theatre, and then at the Gaiety. The Gaiety had opened
in 1868 as a Music Hall and Burlesque house, replacing the Strand Musick Hall.
At the Gaiety, Sylvia learned to dance with the burlesque performers under the
tutelage of famous dancer, actor and choreographer John D’Auban. D’Auban had
also been a child star before becoming ballet master at the Theatre Royal, <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Drury Lane</st1:address></st1:street>, and
after that, had taken up the post of dance master at the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alhambra</st1:place></st1:city>, before moving to the Gaiety. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Sylvia made her stage debut
as a dancer in 1884 at the age of nineteen, and the following year appeared in
‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">The Vicar of Wide-Awake-Field</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">’ for
which she was paid the princely sum of £6 a week. Her performances lead to her
being promoted to principal dancer at the Gaiety. In 1887 she was given her
first speaking part in the play ‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Miss
Esmerelda</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">’. Her lines were:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Customer: “</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">How much are your hyacinths?</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sylvia: “<i>Two Shillings a bunch, sir</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Customer: “<i>Why, yesterday they were a shilling</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sylvia: “<i>Yes, but they’re higher since</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvCxWVpHn-XKoaSRiSr4IwiQWR3DYMhg_W9WEuIi9O2VlObPoLpF6vMDB6cIvCvZAowCjVZkDcfzw9I-BtPd6BRQ9Axd5pFvkTLTTWymzVb3E2zVxupOFNYP7n7mZPjMvhcqVl8KyXtVB/s1600/Ruy+Blas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvCxWVpHn-XKoaSRiSr4IwiQWR3DYMhg_W9WEuIi9O2VlObPoLpF6vMDB6cIvCvZAowCjVZkDcfzw9I-BtPd6BRQ9Axd5pFvkTLTTWymzVb3E2zVxupOFNYP7n7mZPjMvhcqVl8KyXtVB/s400/Ruy+Blas.jpg" width="252" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">Following her success, she
went on to play in many of the Gaiety’s burlesques, and between 1885 and 1889
in ‘<i>Little Jack Sheppard</i>’ (playing
Polly Stanmore) and ‘<i>Ruy Blas and the Blasé
Roue</i>’, (playing Donna Christina) she even embarked on an eighteen month
world tour. But despite her success with the Gaiety, Sylvia actually made more
money giving private dance lessons to anyone interested who could pay. Her
clients ranged from actors to aristocracy, and counted the great Ellen Terry as
one of her students.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sylvia married in 1893, and made
her final <st1:place w:st="on">West End</st1:place> performance two years later
in 1895 playing Countess Acacia in ‘<i>Baron
Golosh</i>’. She was twenty-nine when she retired from the stage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">During the First World War
she ran an Australian officers club in Piccadilly, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, and went on to appear in a few French
motion pictures in the early 1920’s <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sylvia Grey died on 6<sup>th</sup>
May 1958 at the grand age of ninety-two, and in a lovely obituary in The Times,
it was told how:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“…In spite of her great age
she resolutely refused to grow old and to the end she retained a wide circle of
friends who delighted in her anecdotes of the halcyon days of Gaiety burlesque.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> -<i>The Times, May 7<sup>th</sup>
1958</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vesta <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place>: (1873 – 1951)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: center;">Despite being born in Leeds,
Vesta </span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial; text-align: center;" w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: center;">
(</span><i style="font-family: Arial; text-align: center;">born Victoria Lawrence</i><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: center;">) went on to
become a great ‘cockney’ character in the music halls. Again, she started her
career young, performing on stage with her Music Hall manager father as a
child. She continued playing minor roles on stage until her career took off in
1892 thanks to a hit song.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">‘<i>Daddy Wouldn’t Buy me a Bow Wow’</i> was performed by Vesta for the
first time at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">London</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>
– a music hall in Lambeth, whilst holding a kitten. The song was the most
successful in the sixty-year songwriting career of James Tabrar, and it made
Vesta a star. It was also released on phonograph in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">America</st1:country></st1:place> to much success in the same
year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Two years after the
performance that gave her her big break, Vesta gave an interview to the Daily
Mail:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">"VESTA <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">VICTORIA</st1:state></st1:place>"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">ON AND OFF THE STAGE.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Special Interview<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It is not often (writes a
representative of the MaiI) that one has the opportunity of having a talk with
“Vesta <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place>,”
or, to give her her baptismal name, Victoria Lawrence. As I neared Mrs
Matcham’s house — with whom Miss Lawrence and her mother are staying — l felt a
pang of remorse; for I knew that Miss Vesta had had a trying time of it at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Alhambra</st1:city></st1:place> the night
previous; she gave no less than seven songs. Still, interviewing hardens one's
heart and steels one's nerves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was early in the day. I
was comfortably seated in a luxurious chair, when in walked Miss Lawrence. She
was tastefully dressed in a morning gown of red trimmed with lace. “Now, Miss
Vesta, I have been sent to gain some information about yourself. It is sure to
be interesting reading for people, because you know they regard you almost as
one of themselves.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I am afraid I have not very
much to tell you. My life off the stage has been most uneventful. However, I
will do my best.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“We might as well begin as
the beginning,” I said. “Tell me when first you took to the stage?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Oh," with a roguish
smile, “that is so long ago, you know, that I can scarcely remember. Let me
see. I should not be quite five years old when I was first before the
footlights. It was at my father's Hall at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Gloucester</st1:city></st1:place>.
I used to go on the boards every Friday night to get accustomed the audience.
Soon after that I got my first real engagement at <st1:city w:st="on">Dublin</st1:city>
at Dan Lowry's <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Star</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Music Hall</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Ever since I
have been very successful and never once looked back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Are you fond of the
profession?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Ah; I knew would ask me
that question; all interviewers do. Yes, I am; but you know I was disappointed the
first night of my present appearance in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Hull</st1:city></st1:place>.
I had three new songs, and the audience did not catch the choruses. You know we
sing a lot better if the choruses ‘go.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I did not venture to smile
for fear of the “wrath to come,” so on the other hand I sympathised, and agreed
that the audience was dull one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Have you had any strange
experiences?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjLaj5VDWJPdtpx3EXzZ7wYz5I_Jie1WUs1UYD2K7doF29hgtgdxe8vPcto_n_qi0vEnO_Xo1TVLJB-yIIMiIdU7J01w5h6MSksgMDa6xuXoXFIGuXxUhStwcOhJ_ZKyQmIKWdq384gB2/s1600/Bow+Wow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjLaj5VDWJPdtpx3EXzZ7wYz5I_Jie1WUs1UYD2K7doF29hgtgdxe8vPcto_n_qi0vEnO_Xo1TVLJB-yIIMiIdU7J01w5h6MSksgMDa6xuXoXFIGuXxUhStwcOhJ_ZKyQmIKWdq384gB2/s320/Bow+Wow.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poster for 'Bow Bow'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Yes, I remember one at <st1:place w:st="on">Middlesbrough</st1:place> particularly well. For some time I was
billed as ‘Baby Victoria,' but I soon threw the infantile name away, and
blossomed into full ‘Miss <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place>.’
Under that name I was engaged at <st1:place w:st="on">Middlesbrough</st1:place>.
My father — Mr Joe Lawrence — was with me, and when the manager saw my father
he asked where ‘Miss <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place>'
was. When he found out that I was 'Miss <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place>’
he refused to allow me to perform, I was such a little dot. He said, ‘that
little kid is too young to do anything!' My father asked him if he expected an
old woman with wrinkles. Oh; we had an awful time! My father and the Manager
were about two hours arguing, and at last it was decided that I should do my
turn, and if not satisfactory would receive no money. When I heard that, I made
up my mind to do the thing properly, and was very determined about it. Well, I
went on and was a wonderful success. After my turn the manager came and took me
up in his arms and wanted to kiss me, but father interfered and would not let
him. He was awfully nice then, and apologised for his bad behaviour. That sort
thing — not the kissing, but the misunderstanding — happened at three other halls,
where I had been engaged as Miss <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place>.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“What a brute the fellow
must have been. But have you had any local experiences worth recording?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“No, nothing particular,
except once, when I was at Beverley with Alice Featherstone —one of the Verne
sisters, and sister to Mrs Matcham. It was about eight years ago. I would be 12
or 13. We had been to a concert, and we missed the last train back to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Hull</st1:city></st1:place>. We were in a dreadful
way, and didn't know what to do. I remember was awfully tired and frightened,
but we managed to obtain a trap. I don't think I should have been frightened if
I had my ' bow-ow-ow' with me,” said Miss Lawrence, with a merry laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Ah, that reminds me. Do you
mind telling me something about that famous song?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Oh, I had almost forgotten
to mention it to you, and it has an interesting history. I was doing turns at
the Pavilion, <st1:place w:st="on">South London</st1:place>, and the Standard;
and one Friday night Mr Joseph Tabrar mentioned that had an idea for a song,
and he wrote it for me. From the outset it went ‘like all that,’ and on the
first night a sister artiste — Miss Alice Conway — handed me a bouquet, in the
middle of which I found a little black kitten. That was just before I went to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">America</st1:country></st1:place>,
and I decided to take Pussy with me. As you know, I always sang the song after
that with the cat in my arms.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I murmured “happy kitten,”
and then asked if “the trip across the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>
was enjoyed?” “I enjoyed myself at the far end. I had a lovely time. The
Americans are so nice; but still I like the English quite, or nearly, as well.
In <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place>
'Bow-wow' took a great hold, and in less than two months more than 5,000 copies
were sold. I received all sorts of presents. See, this marquise ring I had
given me; and, wait a minute, I will show you some others.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Vesta <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state></st1:place> returned with armful of boxes. One
contained a handsome large gold medal, the gift Mr Paster; a pendant watch,
encrusted with diamonds; a fine diamond bracelet, and other “costly trifles,”
all of which had been presented her by American friends. There was also a neat
workbox given by the chorus at the <st1:placename w:st="on">Alexandra</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Theatre</st1:placename>, <st1:place w:st="on">Sheffield</st1:place>,
where Miss Lawrence was a great success in the character of the Princess in “Alladdin.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Now, just another question,
Miss Vesta. Are you pestered with love letters and that sort of thing?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Oh, yes. I have had a very
fair share. There is one I have upstairs. It is great fun. It is from the son
of a proprietor of a London Hall. The poor boy is about sixteen and when he
heard that inaccurate report about my being engaged he wrote me a loving letter
and told me that ‘he envied my old man.’ I have had lots of others asking for
appointments and that sort of thing, but they write in vain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <i>Daily Mail, 1<sup>st</sup>
March 1894</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the same year she gave
the above interview, Vesta married music hall manager Frederick Wallace McAvoy.
They had a daughter together, but McAvoy was a cruel, abusive and adulterous
husband, and so they divorced after a ten year marriage in May 1904. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Following her divorce she
began seeing William Edward Herbert Terry, and whilst in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place> in 1912 they announced that they
were married. A year later they had a daughter named Iris Lavender Terry, but
their 1912 marriage seems to have been made up, as English records show that
Vesta and William were married in Wandsworth in 1920. (<i>The ‘lie’ about their being married in America was possibly because
they knew she was pregnant and wanted to avoid the ignominy of a child out of
wedlock, or maybe so that they would be allowed on the boat back to England -
in 1913 another Music Hall star, Marie Lloyd was refused entry from England
into America on the grounds of ‘Moral Turpitude’ for having undertaken the
journey there with a man to whom she said she was married, but under
questioning from American authorities, admitted she was not.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The marriage to William
ended in 1926, Vesta having filed for divorce on the grounds of “<i>Ill-usage and association with other women</i>”
So far, so unlucky in love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Vesta proved a comedy hit
not only in the <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">UK</st1:country>, but also
in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">America</st1:country>, where she embarked
on a lucrative tour of <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">USA</st1:place></st1:country>
vaudeville theatres in 1907. She retired from the stage just after the First
World War, but during the 1930’s appeared in a few films and at a couple of
Royal Variety Shows. Vesta, who, judging by the interview she gave to the Mail,
owned many expensive gifts, was twice the victim of robbery; the first instance
being in 1926. She had made a return to the stage in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bristol</st1:place></st1:city>, and whilst she was away her fifty
six year old housekeeper Florence Smith stole 181 uncut diamonds worth £174.
Smith tried to sell the diamonds to a pawnbroker on the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Edgware Road</st1:address></st1:street> for £60. This raised the
suspicions of the pawn shop owner who called for the Police. Smith, giving a
false name, insisted that Vesta had asked her to pawn the objects. Vesta was
telephoned by the police, who confirmed that this was not the case, and the
housekeeper was arrested.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The second theft occurred in
1934 when thieves broke into her home in Roydon, Essex, and stole jewellery
that had previously belonged to the Russian Royal Family worth between £5,000
and £10,000. Vesta had worn the jewels whilst performing at a charity concert
in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place>, and
whilst the majority had been returned to a safety deposit box, she had taken
two of the pieces home, and they were promptly stolen during the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Vesta <st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state>
died on April 7<sup>th</sup> 1951 in Hampstead, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, aged 78. At Golders Green Crematorium
a lilac tree was planted in her memory, but this is no longer there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Letty Lind: (1861 – 1923)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Letty Lind (<i>Born Letitia Rudge in Birmingham</i>) first
appeared on stage at the tender age of five when she secured the role of Eva in
a stage adaptation of ‘<i>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</i>.’
Her mother was an actress who worked on stage in the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Birmingham</st1:place></st1:city> area during a very short acting
career, but Letty and her siblings would go onto far greater success.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Letty, along with her
siblings Sarah, (<i>stage name Millie Hylton</i>)
Elizabeth, (<i>Adelaide Astor</i>) Fanny (<i>Fanny Dango</i>) and Lydia (<i>Lydia Flopp</i>) all had some kind of career
on the stage, first as dancers, then as singers and performers in pantomime and
comedy and previously mentioned theatres the Gaiety and Daly’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">At the age of ten, Letty
went on tour with American writer Howard Paul and his wife. She enjoyed a
successful time on stage, but in private this was not to be an enjoyable period.
Howard Paul had an affair with her which resulted in Letty becoming pregnant in
1878. Howard was forty-eight and Letty only seventeen. For this to happen once
was perhaps careless to put it mildly, but in 1880 Letty again fell pregnant by
Howard; both babies died in infancy. Between the two pregnancies Letty made her
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> stage
debut at the Princess’s Theatre in Howard’s farce ‘<i>Locked Out’</i> in 1879. Other than being the first time she performed
in London, this occasion was notable for being the first time she used the name
of ‘Letty Lind’ (<i>Howard had always billed
her as ‘La Petite Letitia</i>). This review from the same year suggests that
her abilities in singing and dancing were already starting to please crowds:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Not little of the success of
the entertainment is due to the efforts of Miss Letty Lind, piquante little vocalist,
who was encored after she sang…her execution of the rope dance calling forth
hearty applause<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 57.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 57.0pt; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">–<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: Arial;">Western Daily Press, January 1879<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1881 she left Paul
Howard’s company, which comes as little surprise, and spent most of the 1880’s
performing in various London theatres, including The Gaiety, (<i>in ‘The Nine Days’ Queen’</i>) The Olympic,
(<i>in ‘Exiles of Erin’</i>) and The
Criterion, (<i>in ‘Little Miss Muffet’</i>)
as well as going on a UK tour with several shows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">She returned to The Gaiety
to perform burlesque in 1887, and it was at this time that her fame began to rise.
She starred in ‘<i>Monte Cristo, Junior</i>’
in which she replaced the hugely popular, but America-bound Lottie Collins (<i>she who made the song ‘Ta ra-ra Boom de-ay’
a huge hit, and about whom we will learn more later</i>) by now Letty’s star
was well-and-truly on the rise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RuQtY80_8hnEoaRUrhS9SLWBVgi2WlzHgdnSyWc-Q0DWAEq9y8aCWlomlcTBoVgI7ecoxaZYY6CAG8K_8Y7dFJP4Cj6gAaq3xJWCznSVhJDikRSoO9n_wXnNiPrxke0JtKGHrq0AJosU/s1600/Letty+Lind+Skirt+Dance+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RuQtY80_8hnEoaRUrhS9SLWBVgi2WlzHgdnSyWc-Q0DWAEq9y8aCWlomlcTBoVgI7ecoxaZYY6CAG8K_8Y7dFJP4Cj6gAaq3xJWCznSVhJDikRSoO9n_wXnNiPrxke0JtKGHrq0AJosU/s640/Letty+Lind+Skirt+Dance+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Letty Lind's famous 'Skirt Dancing'</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">After performing in a few
more shows at The Gaiety Letty was ‘<i>loaned</i>’
to The Theatre Royal on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Drury Lane</st1:address></st1:street>
for the 1887 Christmas pantomime ‘<i>Puss in
Boots</i>’ in which she played the princess. The next eighteen months were
spent touring <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Australia</st1:country> and <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">America</st1:country>, before returning to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place> in 1889 to star in ‘<i>Ruy Blas and the Blasé Roue</i>’ (<i>alongside Sylvia Grey, whom we met earlier</i>).
By this time, Letty’s dancing, and her ‘skirt dancing’ in particular (<i>a type of dancing involving the flinging
about of your skirts, made popular by the likes of Kate Vaughn and the
aforementioned Lottie Collins</i>) had made her extremely popular. By the mid
1890’s, </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">however, burlesque had begun to lose its popularity, and so Letty turned her hand to musical comedies which focused more on singing than dancing. <br /><br />Before she could get to grips with her new direction on stage, Letty gave birth to a baby boy. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial;">The
father of the child was the third Earl of Durham (John George Lambton.) Lambton
had been married to his wife, Ethel, since 1882, however illness had confined
her to an asylum for most of that time, and Lambton – understandably lonely – had
started seeing Letty. The Earl wished to divorce his wife so that he could
marry his sweetheart, but his wife’s condition prevented this from being
possible as divorce law forbade the legal separation of a married couple in
which one partner was ill. As a result, baby John Rudge was born out of wedlock
in 1892. The Earl stayed with Letty until her death.</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-family: Arial;">Career-wise, she secured her
first role in a musical comedy in 1893, playing Maude Sportington in ‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Morocco Bound</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">’ at the Shaftesbury
Theatre. The Show was a huge success and ran for more than three hundred
performances. Away from the stage, in their Christmas Number ‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">The Pelican’</i><span style="font-family: Arial;"> (</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">a periodical</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">) published short stories written by people connected
to the theatre, to which Letty contributed. Other big-names who wrote stories
were Albert Chevalier, Sylvia Grey, Augustus Harris and Lilly Langtry. Letty’s
story concerned a dancer who had to deal with the nightmare of a petticoat
string breaking during a performance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial;">She also tried her hand at
writing a song when, in 1894 she penned ‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Dorothy
Flop</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">’ for the show ‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial;">The Lady Slavey’</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">.
Letty’s sister, Adelaide Astor, performed in the production.</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-family: Arial;">For the rest of the 1890’s
Letty stared at Daly’s Theatre in a string of successful </span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">West
End</st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> productions for which she won much praise and many fans,
particularly for her graceful dancing. In The summer of 1899 she returned to
the world of Music Hall for the first time in seven years when she appeared at
the </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alhambra</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial;">:</span><br /></div>
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">MISS LETTY LIND GOES TO THE “HALLS”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Miss Letty Lind is the latest
recruit to the variety halls, and has this week made her first appearance at
the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alhambra</st1:place></st1:city>, singing
“Di Di” from “Go Bang,” the “Gay Tom Tit” from the “Artists Model,” and similar
things. The lady has entered into an elaborate explanation why she has accepted
Mr. Slater's offer to appear at a music hall. The apology is, of course, wholly
superfluous. Very small, indeed, nowadays is the dividing line between the
music halls and the after-dinner theatres, and if Miss Letty Lind chooses to
accept ten pounds or so a night for singing at the Alhambra the self-same songs
as those she is accustomed to sing over the way at Daly's, nobody would be
prepared to deny that she is a woman of sense, particularly as just now the
theatres in the hot weather are to a certain extent under a cloud. In the autumn,
when Mr. Edwardes produces his new Japanese musical play, Miss Letty Lind will
be seen singing and dancing again at Daly's.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <i>Evening
Telegraph, June 1899</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgon8jFlmgzM6Ta7HykGgJ8X_JfzmLPaDZDZzot6I0Zlj7SthZ6p5rsY2dOfzfW7t9-hW08thlOgG6LOOoGIgBlXm1BgeA5e41EHgTGQJWHHpaENGCdCOrCyAAOHYCrSKZNgWwiUm0KOpDN/s1600/Last+night+at+the+Gaety,+1903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgon8jFlmgzM6Ta7HykGgJ8X_JfzmLPaDZDZzot6I0Zlj7SthZ6p5rsY2dOfzfW7t9-hW08thlOgG6LOOoGIgBlXm1BgeA5e41EHgTGQJWHHpaENGCdCOrCyAAOHYCrSKZNgWwiUm0KOpDN/s640/Last+night+at+the+Gaety,+1903.jpg" width="473" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill for the Last Night at the Gaiety</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This would not be the last
time in her career that Letty returned to the halls. In 1903 the Gaiety theatre
was to be demolished, and put on a final night performance which was made up of
many of their current and former stars singing their best loved songs. Letty,
then aged forty-one, sang <i>‘Listen to my
Tale of Woe’</i> from ‘<i>Ruy Blas and the
Blasé Roue</i>’. After this performance she retired from the stage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">After retiring from the
stage she lived a quiet life at her home in <st1:place w:st="on">Slough</st1:place>.
Her house, Brookside, had been built for her in 1897 on the site of an old inn,
and she had lived there ever since, in the peace and quiet away from smoky <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>. In 1923, at the
age of sixty-one, Letty became suddenly ill, and never recovered. After a
funeral in St Mary’s church in Slough, she was buried in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Windsor</st1:place></st1:city> cemetery. Her partner, and father to
her son, John George Lambton died in 1928.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Lottie Collins: (1865 – 1910)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaL8O7RuT7GvzjJuPu3REFCNi0L970eY7WRytVufSKFwwHo9ytbigmXEPplhxoihCCh5I7j8m3LYTDPzgErNGrgnaSNw2MDtRlTUIuIf9hnTqOw7XVE6rwRV0_Qf7FcnY_2WH7-cADRlna/s1600/Lottie+Collins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaL8O7RuT7GvzjJuPu3REFCNi0L970eY7WRytVufSKFwwHo9ytbigmXEPplhxoihCCh5I7j8m3LYTDPzgErNGrgnaSNw2MDtRlTUIuIf9hnTqOw7XVE6rwRV0_Qf7FcnY_2WH7-cADRlna/s400/Lottie+Collins.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">An <st1:place w:st="on">East
End</st1:place> girl, Lottie Collins certainly does not buck the trend for
music hall performers starting their careers early; she began her career at the
age of ten as part of a skipping rope act with her two sisters Lizzie and
Marie. They imaginatively called themselves ‘<i>The Three Sisters Collins.</i>’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">By 1886 Lottie had become a
solo music hall act, making her debut in the burlesque ‘<i>Monte Cristo Jr</i>.’ at the Gaiety Theatre – the theatre’s influence on
the music hall scene has by now become apparent – but it was whilst touring the
vaudevilles in America in 1889 that Lottie’s life was to change forever; Not
only did she marry her American beau Stephen Cooney whilst in St. Louis, but it
was in the USA that she first heard the song ‘<i>Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay’</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The song was part of a revue
(<i>an entertainment show containing many
different types of acts from music and dance to sketches satirizing popular
culture</i>) called <i>Tuxedo</i>, staged in
<st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country>
in 1891. Her husband, Stephen, first heard the song, and immediately set about
securing the rights to play it in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place></st1:country>. Once this was achieved,
Lottie developed a suitably ‘<i>burlesque</i>’
(and also exhausting) dance to accompany it, comprising of energetic Can-Can
style leg-kicks that titillated audiences by exposing stockings, sparkling
suspenders and bare thighs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The 1938 book, ‘<i>Ring up the Curtain</i>’ gives a brief description
of how the performance went:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Lottie began with
diffidence, her trembling voice being emphasized by nervous little gestures
with her handkerchief. Then she put her hands on her hips, below the waspish
waist of the period, and went crazy, along with an intoxicated orchestra, the
music mingling, as it were, with the swirl of maddened petticoats and the nip
of that scarlet-clad limb. The furore which “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay” created
depended upon the conjunction of song and singer. Either was of small value
apart; together they were irresistible.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">If you close your eyes and
imagine hard enough you can almost see her on the stage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It is worth pointing out
here that the song was not a big hit until Lottie sang it, such was the vigour
with which she attacked it; and as the last sentence of the extract above
alludes; the song was worth little without her; and she little without the
song. After she performed it at the Tivoli Theatre on the <st1:place w:st="on">Strand</st1:place>,
it exploded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">One Edwardian newspaper
looked back on the song and commented on its popularity:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“…It was an epidemic, and
its secret and cause was Miss Lottie Collins, the lady who ‘kicked’ the song
and herself into worldwide fame…In London, babies lisped it, school children
sang it, tottering old men and staid old ladies hummed it, and street boys
whistled and shrieked it. Costers, of both sexes, and it each other’s hats,
stamped, kicked and yelled it until they were hoarse and feeble from sheer
exhaustion. Street organs and German bands played nothing else, it was taken up
and echoed from town to village, and the cry throughout the land from cockcrow
till midnight was “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">As with any craze – or mania
as the Victorians would have called it – the song, and Lottie, were in high
demand. She performed it at theatres and music halls right across </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial;"> throughout 1891
and 1892, and at the song’s zenith, it is believed she was performing it five
times a night at various venues. Given the exuberance and energy required in
the dance routine, I imagine this was excruciatingly tiring.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In late 1892 she returned to
<st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">America</st1:country> to perform the song
in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>,
but received rather waspish reviews. One critic described her as a ‘<i>mature woman</i>’ – she was twenty-seven. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Throughout the 1890’s she
continued to perform at variety shows and music halls around Britain, and she
even had a hit with Vesta Victoria’s signature song ‘<i>Daddy Wouldn’t Buy me a Bow-Wow</i>’ less than half a decade after
Vesta’s version catapulted her to fame and fortune. ‘<i>Bow-wow</i>’ seems an interesting choice of song for Lottie to cover;
given that her rise to superstardom was thanks to a super-hit song of her own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1897 – <i>Diamond Jubilee year</i> – the newspaper <i>Society</i> published an article which made
accusations of indecency at her, and claimed that the songs she sang were
vulgar. Lottie took legal action and won £25 in damages, though the episode
probably did her image a deal of good, and helped her to become one of the
icons of the so called ‘<i>Naughty Nineties</i>’.
Its true, her routines were ‘saucy’ in their time, but that is what the music
halls were all about. <i>Risqué</i> was
their business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In November of Jubilee year
Lottie returned to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>
and sang three new songs, (it seems theatre performers did not rest!) ‘<i>The Little Widow</i>’ ‘<i>The Girl on the Ran Dan</i>’ and ‘<i>A
Leader of Society</i>’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">By the end of the century
her nine-year marriage to Stephen Cooney appeared to be becoming an unhappy
one. In 1898 Lottie tried to commit suicide by cutting her wrists and neck with
a penknife, though she was discharged from hospital on the same day she was
admitted (<i>no counseling back then!)</i>
so the injuries could not have been too severe – the physical ones, at least.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">SUPPOSED
ATTEMPTED SUICIDE BY MISS LOTTIE COLLINS.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">THE EXPONENT
OF “TA-RA-RA BOOM-DE-AY.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Miss
Lottie Collins, known in private life as Mrs. Coonev, and to the public for
many years past as the I exponent of “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” and a very popular
form of skirt dancing, was yesterday morning admitted to the Great Northern
Hospital suffering from wounds in her throat and wrist, said to have been self
inflicted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
facts are stated to be that the lady in question, who occupies rooms at 16,
Highbury crescent, close to the Highbury Station of the North London Railway,
went to her bathroom yesterday morning in order to take her usual bath. Shortly
after she had entered that apartment piercing screams were heard, and on the
servant entering the room to ascertain the cause she found her mistress lying
on the floor, covered with blood, which was flowing from her neck and throat. A
small penknife was also seen close at hand. The servant at once sent for
assistance, and a doctor and the police soon arrived. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Miss
Collins was at once taken into her bedroom and laid upon her bed, where her
wounds were temporarily attended to. A conveyance was soon afterwards procured,
and in it the patient, who appeared in a somewhat dazed condition, was driven
to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Great</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Northern</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Central</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>, where she was
examined and her injuries dressed by the house surgeon. The latter gentleman
later informed a representative of the Press that the wounds, which were not
serious, had been made with a penknife and were apparently self inflicted.
There were two or three cuts on the neck and one on the left wrist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Later,
Mrs. Cooney, having recovered somewhat, was allowed to leave the hospital and
go home. As might be expected under the circumstances, the police and hospital
authorities are very reticent as to any knowledge they may possess of the
matter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;"> - <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> Daily News, 10<sup>th</sup>
November, 1898<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Cooney died in 1901 in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Saratoga</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state></st1:place>.
I have read reports that he and Lottie had three children together, but the
only information I can find for any of them is for their most famous offspring,
the musical star Jose Collins, who, despite Lottie’s wish that she learn
French, how to play the piano and all the requirements of a life of
domesticity, defied her mother and became the famous stage actress that she
did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1902 Lottie married for a
second time when she wed producer and composer James W Tate, who was ten years
her junior. The marriage was not to last long, as Lottie died on 1<sup>st</sup>
May 1910 of heart disease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I’ve seen a lot of reports
claiming that she suffered with a weak heart all her life, leading to many
various opinions that her untimely death at the age of just forty-five, was
brought on by her many years of robust and vigorous dancing the exhausting
dance that accompanied her hit song. In a poetic way, many opinions say that
the song that made her, also killed her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: left;"> </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
sweet tuxedo girl you see<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
queen of swell society<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fond
of fun as fond can be<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
it's on the strict Q.T.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm
not too young, I'm not too old<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Not
too timid, not too bold<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just
the kind you'd like to hold<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just
the kind for sport I'm told<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chorus:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ta-ra-ra
Boom-de-re! (sung eight times)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm
a blushing bud of innocence<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Papa
says at big expense<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Old maids say
I have no sense<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Boys
declare, I'm just immense<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before
my song I do conclude<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
want it strictly understood<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Though
fond of fun, I'm never rude<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Though
not too bad I'm not too good<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chorus<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
sweet tuxedo girl you see<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
queen of swell society<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fond
of fun as fond can be<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
it's on the strict Q.T.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm
not too young, I'm not too old<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Not
too timid, not too bold<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just
the kind you'd like to hold<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just
the kind for sport I'm told<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chorus.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Having written about these
women, common threads seem to run through all their stories, connecting them. Most
of them found their way into the world of entertainment at a very young age,
often through one or both parents and many of them also experienced unhappiness
or lack of luck in love, or being ill-used by men in general. I’ve written
about actresses before, and the life of Ellen Terry – perhaps the nineteenth
century’s greatest actress – also followed this same path. Marie Lloyd, that
most effervescent music hall star was certainly not blessed with a smooth and
uneventful love life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">One wonders if a lifetime on
the stage singing, dancing and acting makes it impossible to do anything <i>other</i> than pretend, and that although
the photographs, interviews and performances show happy people, was the actor
masking the person beneath the character? Had life allowed art to imitate it so
much that it became the very thing it was mimicking? Who knows, but many child
stars of the twentieth century followed similar paths in their personal lives,
with celebrated young actors, actresses and musicians going on to become
involved in drugs, bankruptcy and suicide. This seems to suggest that a balance
of the fact and fiction is difficult when the line has been blurred for your
whole life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My thanks are most humbly extended for the final time to Nancy Bruseker, Fern Riddell and Peter Stubley for the fantastic work they have put into their guest posts over the last month, in which I have learned so much about a world I was not particularly <i>au fait </i>with.</span></div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
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The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-67208731961871557492012-09-14T02:47:00.003-07:002012-09-14T02:47:58.900-07:00“When Vesta Tilley is on the Bill You Had Best Book far in Advance…” Or: The Incredible Vesta Tilley: A Guest Post By Nancy Bruseker:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are some names which
reappear, time and again, in discussions of British music hall. One of those names is Vesta Tilley. She
topped the bill in the biggest and best music halls for decades, and her final
tour before retirement culminated in the presentation of three volumes of
signatures from fans from around the world.
She played in cities and towns around the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">UK</st1:country></st1:place>, and also took her act overseas,
where she was equally feted for her performances. <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>And
yet, why she was so popular and successful in her time is little considered. Thus,
herewith an introductory reappraisal of her life and work, and what her fans
had to say about this extraordinary performer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Vesta Tilley was one of the
best known of the British ‘Golden Age’ music hall stars. She was born
Matilda Powles in 1863 in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Worcester</st1:place></st1:city>,
and started perform on stage at the age of 3, as her father, Harry, was the
chairman (the master of ceremonies, say) of the local music hall. By day,
he was a ceramics painter, because even then, the local entertainment scene
didn’t necessarily put food on the table. The Powles family - or Ball, as they
sometimes called themselves - were working class in their circumstances.
When Matilda - or Tilley - was born, they were living in cramped
inadequate housing, moving around the country as the family grew. 'The Great
Little Tilley' was an immediate success, and by the age of ten, she was serving
as the main breadwinner for her family. It meant being on tour with her
father for months at a time: no time for formal schooling! On tour together,
Harry served as her manager, as well as performing on the same bill as her with
Fatso, the family dog, who could apparently do tricks. Later, several of Vesta’s siblings would join
her on stage, always billed as 'Vesta Tilley's sister/brother'. She was,
throughout her career, the star of the show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Vesta’s act - or turn, in the
parlance of the time - was that of a male impersonator. That is, she
dressed up in men’s clothes, and then sang songs which were from the man’s
point of view while doing some limited choreographed movement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36mbw-0BsDGWMf5_I7SFPNOQH11Ety-52vrjAawJALATOgJpaQVjmEyCIpCfxOItVlaSff48822Oc5BMsGdY2AK6vUCqVBRi-iNGJtQ3OlQHLzNTY_Yc4DbbpOIGzRD_q_Qdm8R30R9od/s1600/Tilley+Civvy+Attire+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36mbw-0BsDGWMf5_I7SFPNOQH11Ety-52vrjAawJALATOgJpaQVjmEyCIpCfxOItVlaSff48822Oc5BMsGdY2AK6vUCqVBRi-iNGJtQ3OlQHLzNTY_Yc4DbbpOIGzRD_q_Qdm8R30R9od/s320/Tilley+Civvy+Attire+1.jpg" width="186" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMykuRJ6MEkGq1VKOSbIQOYx8acDOilxTe-IhlGI0Oc1xUDy7LqTu5HZ7S9Ph0QQnYX8QeCgkAgfYaOAAqyPRMJb3-D-t8l9kJbrumxjCb6qRR5BoWMGYd32eNkfOELjfJBYkhL4AYmFR0/s1600/Tilley+civvy+Attire+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMykuRJ6MEkGq1VKOSbIQOYx8acDOilxTe-IhlGI0Oc1xUDy7LqTu5HZ7S9Ph0QQnYX8QeCgkAgfYaOAAqyPRMJb3-D-t8l9kJbrumxjCb6qRR5BoWMGYd32eNkfOELjfJBYkhL4AYmFR0/s320/Tilley+civvy+Attire+3.jpg" width="201" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigzBKkAtPmn0RHzDfteHcYw0FlUFAvNzvY7CBMApzGVlodyjn7KNdz2VRaM2CX_EOayBOdEMKANfgrpjODf_3MEylORfkPT009SY2MKXnTNbB-u61Rg50PNB-Wzm6n69nVUcEoZaAtPHEM/s1600/Tilley+Civvie+Attire+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigzBKkAtPmn0RHzDfteHcYw0FlUFAvNzvY7CBMApzGVlodyjn7KNdz2VRaM2CX_EOayBOdEMKANfgrpjODf_3MEylORfkPT009SY2MKXnTNbB-u61Rg50PNB-Wzm6n69nVUcEoZaAtPHEM/s320/Tilley+Civvie+Attire+2.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This choreographed movement
was very carefully studied; for example, when she decided to take on a
soldier's persona, she spent hours in train stations, watching them move, in
order to accurately mimic them on stage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pyUxGozuVrsCIOU7q6iqQ5Zq90OkBk3feFkjd3g1rzCmBCmOtDJsto1R4HCM8aTF5HuFCpqB6_WQ3O4T2xImjsUr6bDp3xI-9T2bBf72Jan0No06I9WInZgRovJs2F1_aBIQqUoYaQfw/s1600/Tilley+Army+Uniform.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pyUxGozuVrsCIOU7q6iqQ5Zq90OkBk3feFkjd3g1rzCmBCmOtDJsto1R4HCM8aTF5HuFCpqB6_WQ3O4T2xImjsUr6bDp3xI-9T2bBf72Jan0No06I9WInZgRovJs2F1_aBIQqUoYaQfw/s320/Tilley+Army+Uniform.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">While she was extremely
particular about every aspect of her mannerisms and her costume, down to the
cufflinks, her hair was always covered by a wig, she made no effort to alter
her voice. The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">California Santa Barbara Library</st1:placename></st1:place>
has made some wax cylinder recordings available, so if you'd like to hear
her, <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><a href="http://cylinders.library.ucsb.edu/search.php?query=vesta+tilley&queryType=%40attr+1%3D1" style="font-size: 12pt;">you can do so by clicking here:</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Unfortunately, because her
act was an audio<i>visual</i> experience,
listening to the recordings is an incomplete encounter. Further, while she appeared in a film
tailored very much to her act, no known copies of this film - <i>The Girl Who Loves a Soldier</i> - survive. Instead, we have to rely on contemporary
descriptions of her performance, such as that offered by W.R. Titterton.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Vesta Tilley is on the bill you had best book far in
advance, or you may tip-toe disconsolately at the back of the ‘standing room’, and catch but a stray
glimpse of the goddess through the bobbing leafage of ladies’ hats. Say you have been wise and have got a seat in
row D of the stalls, where you will not lose the slightest of her gestures. You
have dozed through clown and conjuror and operatic antique. … And now…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost before you have looked at your programme the
electric-lit numbers that flank the footlights have twitched and changed, and
the band is playing a merry dancing chorus you know. A ripple of applause grows to thunder and
dies away in the gallery. … And the orchestra plays the chorus through again,
for Vesta Tilley, artful fellow! loves to keep us waiting and expectant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is the low buzz of a bell, the conductor bends to his
orchestra, the chorus starts again, and a dapper young man in an exquisite
purple holiday costume strolls from the wings leaning on his bending cane. He comes to the centre of the footlights, and
poses with crossed legs and staring monocle, the features deliciously quizzical
and inane. It is a perfect picture -
perfect in colour and composition, the quintessence of seaside dandyism; but
for a subtle hint of womanly waist and curving hip you might fancy it indeed a
round-faced boy. Even so, you are doubtful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the picture speaks, and the illusion is piquantly
broken - or, rather, the optical illusion continues, only there is another
person present - the woman artist who unfolds the tale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In deliberate confidential recitative she tells us of
Bertie, the thirty-bob clerk, who sweats in a London office for fifty-one weeks
of the year, and for this one blessed week is lording it on the Brighton
promenade as the mashaw (and she shoots her cuffs) -er - Claude de Vere. Exquisite caricature! Every gesture is right; every tone is right -
striking the delicate chord between irony and burlesque; and there is no weak
exuberance, everything is done with a fine virile restraint. These are not quite the gestures a dandy
clerk would make; they are better than that - they explain him, laugh at him,
justify him. They have all the deep
truth of uncynical humour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the gestures move to rhythm- the strut, the cocking of
the hat, the dusting of the clothes and boots with the purple handkerchief, the
throwing of stones into water from the pier-pier-pier, all the ironic melody
controls. Is it a dainty, flitting
butterfly you are looking at or an affected fop? Perhaps, seen from this proper distance, they
are the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How sure the singer is! How despotically she rules over her
audience - dallies with the rhythm, draws it out, pauses in mid-gesture, the
hand in the air, the monocle nearing the eye - pauses perilously long, you get
uneasy, the bicycle goes so slow you are afraid it will topple - it almost
does, but in good time the chorus comes to its conclusion with a ‘My word!’ and
one dainty feminine hand slaps the other, and the body wriggles into itself
with a foot up. ‘My word! he-is-a
naugh-ty boy!’ O Tilley! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Titterton’s description,
with the slippage of pronouns and gender identifiers, marks an important aspect
of her performance. While Vesta’s drag
act of the turn of the last century did not mean anything like what a drag act
would mean now, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t ‘queer’ in the old-fashioned sense
of being a bit odd. While British society perfectly accepted cross
dressing as part of entertainment - some have even said that it seems to be a
peculiarly British obsession - there is nonetheless something odd that happens
with Vesta in particular, and impersonation acts in general.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In Vesta’s case, one of the
odd things is just how her fans react. For reasons that have not yet been fully
explained, Vesta’s fan base was notably dominated by working class women, a
fact which Vesta prided on sharing in interviews in newspapers, and reflects
her collection of fan mail, which is heavily weighted towards that group. We get a view in, thanks to the fantastic
collection of scrapbooks she made and kept throughout her career, into which she
pasted newspaper articles, photographs, and the letters she got from
innumerable fans. Arguably, Vesta’s
historically working class roots made her connect more with those fans, and
those fans in turn, connect with her. But there’s something about how Vesta
takes on the roles of these men - clerks trying to be a Big Noise while on
holiday, messenger boys, rich dandies, soldiers, sailors - on stage, where she
parodies their mannerisms and pokes (gentle) fun at them as a group - which can
be read as quite empowering for the women in the audience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Just to be clear - Vesta
Tilley was very very very good at what she did, and in her time, Madonna levels
of famous. In the 1890s, she was the highest paid woman in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Britain</st1:country> and she toured the <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country> six times
(ODNB). While there is very obviously a transgressive element to her
performance, she stayed on the right side of the line in terms of comedy, and
causing offence. In part, this was helped by her very strict view as to
innuendo - comparing her material to her peers (such as Marie Lloyd) her songs
had none </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">- and her equally strict adherence to feminine
attire off stage. She made it nearly impossible for anyone to criticize
her choices - in comportment, in performance, in choice of career. Though
she never had children, she comes quite close to ‘having it all’, as we modern
women are meant to do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Returning to her fans, then…
it’s quite clear that they were inspired by her career and life. Her
autobiography notes that many of them named their daughters after her, and the
correspondence supports this. Others talk at length about how they - her
female fans - made sure that their daughters knew about Vesta Tilley.
Many more still talk about going to see her perform with a group of other
women, coworkers in a number of cases, no doubt friends in many others. These letters are a series of blog posts in
their own right!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For now, it must be
understood that here was a woman - who no one doubted was a woman, who everyone
understood as feminine - who simultaneously set her own agenda and was
emphatically the primary agent in her own life. That she did this by
(literally) taking on masculine roles - and then making fun of them - even
today sounds incredibly daring and subversive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the end, Vesta had more
than fifty years on the stage, retiring in 1920 at the age of 56. By this
time, she was Lady de Frece, courtesy of a knighthood for her husband’s war
work during the First World War.</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial;">She
lived another 32 years, half the year in </span><st1:country -region="-region" style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Monaco</st1:country><span style="font-family: Arial;">,
half the year in </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial;">,
relaxing and compiling the scrapbooks which now form the basis for my research
into her fans. She’s buried next to her husband in </span><st1:placename style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Putney</st1:placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">
</span><st1:placename style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Vale</st1:placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><st1:placetype style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">,
</span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Wimbledon. </st1:place></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Nancy Bruseker is a PhD student at the University of Liverpool passionate about audience research, history, and just about any kind of music. Find her on Twitter @acanancy and browse the history of musical entertainment on her blog, <a href="http://theauralwoman.blogspot.co.uk/">theauralwoman.blogspot.co.uk</a></i></span> <br />
<br />
<br />
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-6768290447741207182012-09-06T23:11:00.001-07:002012-09-06T23:11:42.604-07:00A Brief History of the Music Halls, Or: Why Do The Middle Classes Have to Ruin Everything? A Guest Post by Fern Riddell:<span style="font-family: Arial;">The British Music Halls
occupied a special place in the history of mass entertainment. They influenced
generations of comedians, give birth to the genius of Charlie Chaplin and Stan
Laurel, and the singing stars of Vesta Tilley and Gracie Fields. Born out of
the pub song and supper rooms of the 1830s, the music halls were officially
recognised by the 1843 Theatres Act, setting them aside from the ‘theatre
proper’, ballet, and opera. This meant they could be licensed, controlled and
regulated by the government. But in the
early days the music halls were not really seen as a controversial space, they
were primarily a male dominated space, holding ‘harmonious gatherings’ in
places such as </span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Evans Music</i><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial;">and Supper Rooms</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">, </span><i style="font-family: Arial;">The Coal Hole</i><span style="font-family: Arial;"> and the </span><i style="font-family: Arial;">Cyder
Cellars</i><span style="font-family: Arial;">. They were pretty much exactly as stated – a hall for music,
attached to a pub. Public houses were everywhere, they occupied the poor, why
not allow them to have a hall alongside?</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But by 1852 they had evolved
into something quite different, something special, something <i>unexpected.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The halls of the 1850s were
a new breed. Led by the self-styled ‘Father of the Halls’, Charles Morton, - a
title also claimed by the 1844 manager of Evans, Paddy Green - the new music
halls were purpose built buildings, seating between 700-1,500 people each
night. The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Canterbury</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Music Hall</st1:placetype></st1:place> was the first
of these, opening in 1852, and then again in 1856, after a significant rebuild
to increase seating capacity. Morton built this hall at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">143 Westminster Bridge Road</st1:address></st1:street>, and it
signalled the new style of entertainment, specifically for the working classes,
in the heart of the city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>.
It was a marvel to behold: opulent ceilings, chandeliers and a carpet that had
reportedly cost 1000 guineas. The middle classes were shocked, why was Morton
going to such expense just to provide entertainment to the masses? Elegant
designs and exteriors belonged to those who could afford to have them at home,
not just to be visited for pleasure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But this is where the very
core of the entire music hall industry ideal exists. It was a world of fantasy;
it attempted to create perfection and sold it to the people who would never
have enough money to obtain it. It was the modern day celebrity gossip magazine
and reality TV star world rolled into one, and appearing twice nightly just
down your road. Historians have argued that the music halls were the first
commercial mass entertainment to appear in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country>, they appealed to everyone.
In a world that was solely orientated along class and gender lines, the music
halls were a place that drew in men and women, old and young, from all walks of
life. Until the 1880s they were a primarily working class space, with audiences
made up of tradesmen, clerks and the occasional ‘toff ‘or ‘swell’ looking to
rough it amongst the common people. Through topical songs they kept their
audience informed of parliamentary bills, changes in the geographical landscape
of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>,
political intrigues, as well as domestic relationships and trials. The songs
were witty, clever, and occasionally stolen from the poetry of the greats like
Byron or Keats. Above all, they educated their audience about their rights and
situation. And this was viewed as highly dangerous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">By the later half of the
nineteenth century, there were over 300 music halls licensed in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> alone. Syndicated
groups began to appear, opening music halls in towns and resorts across the
country, and later the world. Their influence over the tastes and ideas of
their audience was unlike anything that had ever been seen before. National
stars were created, Marie Lloyd, Mark Sheridan and Little Tich all represented
the ‘true working class’ and packed houses to the roof night after night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/g_rsbFfpBLk" width="420"></iframe>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Marie Lloyd Singing 'A Coster Girl in Paris'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This combination of mass
congregation and the popular masses was too much of a threat to the
intellectual elites, who watched in horror as, across the water, the European
working classes began to replace and rebel against their former masters. Keen
to stop any social unrest from occurring in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Britain</st1:place></st1:country>, the elites and middle
classes managed to take hold of the one weapon that could have radicalised and
revolutionised the British working class – the music halls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Through a steady process of
regulation, and subversive tactics of a slow alteration to song topics –
goodbye political information, hello ‘Ere, ‘e’s got an awful big carrot in ‘is
barraaa’ *wink* *nudge nudge* - the music halls altered from an expression of
the working classes, to a middle class stereotype of working class character.
This happened slowly over a period of about twenty years, from the 1870s to the
1890s. Previous historians often lay the blame on a capitalist-driven
social-climbing management, who bowed to the new measures – less alcohol, no
prostitutes, no innuendo - to insure a higher paying audience. The halls
themselves altered, getting rid of their promenades – even though this resulted
in vandalism by the patrons, including a young Winston Churchill – and seating
5000 people in grand buildings more like cathedrals than the simple churches of
entertainment from the 1850s. Electricity came in to replace the dangerous gas
lighting and the ‘Palaces of Variety’ were born. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/gkbE4URVcKY" width="420"></iframe>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Harry Champion Singing 'I'm Henry the Eighth I Am'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But while this social
manipulation took hold, there was one area of the music halls that saw little
alteration, and that was in its performers. They came from the true working
class: singers, contortionists, illusionists, acrobats, comic duos, dancers,
animal tamers, trick cyclists, and ballet girls. The music hall bills were a
combination and mutation of every form of entertainment you could think of. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">John Davidson’s 1891 poem,
In a Music Hall, gives some idea of the audience’s attraction to the halls:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">“I did as my desk fellows did;<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">With a pipe and a tankard of beer,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">In a music hall, rancid and hot, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">I lost my soul night after night.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">It is better to lose one’s soul,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">Than to never stake it at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the early days, a bill
would consist of 9-10 acts, of differing appeals with a Chairman, who sat on
stage, sometimes in almost a grand throne, and acted as general overseer and
organiser of the night’s entertainment. Mid-way through the changes, and
certainly by the late 1880s, the role and office of Chairman had almost totally
died out, the tables that had filled the auditorium had been removed, and a pit
for the musicians had been created, but the bills remained the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And so did the pay and
situation between artists, agents and mangers. By 1907, it was the artists who
were really suffering. The long hours, contracts that would ban you from
working within a ten-mile radius of any hall for six months after an
appearance, and little pay had taken their toll. The acts went on strike. The
‘Music Hall War’ affected performers across the industry, from the highest paid
stars to those scraping a living. The formation of unions such as the <i>Variety Artists Federation</i> (which went
on to become <i>Equity</i>) show that the
industry had begun to regulate itself, inside as well as for outside
appearances. The success of the campaign was another demonstration of how far
the music halls had come from their working class origins. And this was no more
apparent than at the first Royal Variety Show (yeah, it’s from the music
halls!) in 1912, then called the Royal Command Performance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I recently watched a BBC
documentary with Julian Fellows proclaiming that the attendance of Royalty at
the show signified just how close to the people the King and Queen had become,
how much they felt a kinship with their subjects and how greatly they enjoyed
it when Vesta Tilley appeared on the stage. They didn’t. It may have been a
good piece of public relations, but when Vesta Tilly appeared on stage, in her
male attire and began to sing, Queen Alexandria was so shocked that she turned
her face away and ordered the entire court to do the same. If anything, this
single moment signifies just how great the social divide still was between the
monarchy and the attitudes and beliefs of the common people. But here they all
were, brought together under the banner of the music halls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So what happened to the
music halls? Where did this brilliantly inclusive and entertaining for of
theatre seem to die out? Traditionalist historians say it was with the advent
of the First World War, and the combined threat of cinema and radio. Revision
historians disagree, the halls evolved to incorporate both these new forms of media,
creating ‘cine-variety shows’ and live performances on the BBC. Throughout the
1920s and 1930s new music halls were still being built and acts achieving
international success. It is clear though, that the one threat it could not
survive was television. Even ‘<i>Saturday
Night At The London Palladium</i>’ became the last vestige of a dying art form.
One of the most poignant films to capture this sense of loss was by one of the
most famous stars of the music halls. Charlie Chaplin’s <i>Limelight</i>, (1952), has an overwhelming ache for times gone by, and
performances past.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/nnGFfl9IkyY" width="420"></iframe>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Charlie Chaplin's 1952 film 'Limelight'</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So there you are, a brief
history of the music halls. And this is just the short version; I haven’t
talked about the prostitutes, the serial killers, the spies, the alcohol or any
of the other equally fascinating and exciting parts of its history. There isn’t
enough time to cover everything. But the next time you hear a stand up
comedian, or watch a new avant-garde comic duo, remember that without the music
halls, they would never have existed. The legacy of the halls echoes through
time, and deserves far more attention than we currently seem to give.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fern Riddell
is a PhD Student exploring Religion, Sexuality and Crime in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>'s Music Halls from 1850 - 1939. Follow
her on Twitter @FernRiddell and for more on the curiosities of Victorian
entertainment get yourself over to her blog at </span><a href="http://viceandvirtue.posterous.com/">viceandvirtue.posterous.com</a></i><i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> (some content may not be suitable for those of a
stereotypical ‘Victorian’ constitution!)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-57482683748893848172012-08-31T02:44:00.002-07:002012-08-31T02:44:54.139-07:00“Impulsive, Headstrong, Passionate, She Would do the Most Reckless Things. But no one Could Resist Sarah…” Or: The Incredible Sarah Brown: A Guest Post by Peter Stubley:<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">This story begins with a photograph. And what a
photograph it is:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZCYk6hhdLuk6OiMWsx153pG3MX8wM2XYrWVDGGp7oxCxnRNlI-bEio05burigQFHn-mo2JZttRN5Z1ZelCZFbYG0riMeq6gAcsZtLZodkTPWQklaYaOwVtYLLaeumB7TYnGHyBHZR9FC/s1600/Sarah+Brown+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZCYk6hhdLuk6OiMWsx153pG3MX8wM2XYrWVDGGp7oxCxnRNlI-bEio05burigQFHn-mo2JZttRN5Z1ZelCZFbYG0riMeq6gAcsZtLZodkTPWQklaYaOwVtYLLaeumB7TYnGHyBHZR9FC/s400/Sarah+Brown+1.JPG" width="305" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The caption claims it is
'Sarah Brown, a popular music hall dancer’ who was jailed for three months for
indecency just for wearing this costume.</span><br />
<div class="NoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So
who was Sarah Brown? Hardly anybody knows her name today. I assumed she was a
forgotten figure who scraped a living in the seedy backwaters of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place>’s theatre land.
But, after an hour of eye-wearying Googling, it emerged that the real Sarah
Brown was probably THE most famous model of her day (the early 1890s). And she
was French.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Marie
Royer (if that really was her name) is thought to have adopted her stage name
as a tribute to the actress Sarah Bernhardt. Her fans, mostly students and
artists living in the Latin quarter of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city>,
called her Sarah Larousse – ‘the redhead’. ‘Sarah was fair, and her figure,
small bosomed, had the creamy unity of a Titian’, wrote the English painter
William Rothenstein. The author W.C. Morrow was also in raptures: ‘She was the
mistress of one great painter after another, and she lived and reigned like a
queen. Impulsive, headstrong, passionate, she would do the most reckless
things. But no one could resist Sarah.’ And the American artist Robert Henri
called her ‘one of the most notorious women in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city></st1:place>.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her
exploits were legendary: she asked for an audience with the poet Paul Verlaine
only to faint in shock at the sight of his ‘terrifying’ face; she fell in love
with a black model called Bamboulo, who claimed he could eat a whole rabbit
alive, fur, bones and all; she liked to flounce out of the studio before the
artist had finished his masterpiece; she changed her costumes at will and
deliberately knocked down the painters’ easels for kicks; she was the model for
Jules Joseph Lefebvre’s Lady Godiva and Clemence Isaure, and Georges
Rochegrosse’s Les derniers jours de Babylone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvA1DkysHjSgFl_g76SsNgVOd1clbzm2apfuJPYUf27KhZoyNo_cqQxxRpiXz8qtJ8_8nlfSqRNuDuxgSA2GT95uGJba2vt7ODXz5OHqI-sCLFGXfwQTO3MVaWSPUDJzJcrO0iAyJObVpR/s1600/Lady+Godiva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvA1DkysHjSgFl_g76SsNgVOd1clbzm2apfuJPYUf27KhZoyNo_cqQxxRpiXz8qtJ8_8nlfSqRNuDuxgSA2GT95uGJba2vt7ODXz5OHqI-sCLFGXfwQTO3MVaWSPUDJzJcrO0iAyJObVpR/s400/Lady+Godiva.jpg" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lady Godiva</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
Sarah Brown was most famous for appearing ‘nude’ at the Moulin Rouge for the
‘Bal des Quat’z-Arts’ in February 1893. It has been called ‘the world’s first
striptease.’ Descriptions of her costume vary – either she was completely
naked, reclining upon a shield carried by men clad only in white loincloths, or
she was wearing a black velour g-string, stockings and a black shirt. Or
perhaps she was dressed only in ‘a few rows of pearls and gold nets’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Word
soon reached the local moral guardian, Senator Rene Berenger, who insisted on
prosecuting Sarah Brown, as well as three other models, for outraging public
decency. They told the court that they saw no difference between their
performance and posing for artists in their studios. Sarah Brown claimed she
was wearing the same Cleopatra costume she wore for Rochegrosse a few years
earlier. The verdict was predictable: guilty. She was fined 100 Francs or six
months in prison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
few hours later her student fans marched through <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city></st1:place> in protest – as many as 2,000 of them
all wearing a symbolic fig leaf on their hats. The demonstration began
peacefully but ended with street battles with the police and four days of
riots. In some ways it was a mini-revolution against the bourgeois culture
which preferred its women to stay at home, fully clothed, nursing children and
keeping house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sarah
Brown was only 24 years old, but this would be the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">high point</st1:city></st1:place> of her career. She is said to have
lost her looks and her lovers as her wild life took its toll. Three years later
on 12 February 1896 the Daily News in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place>
reported her death from consumption (tuberculosis): <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Sarah
Brown was once before the courts and everybody wondered at the reputation she
won in the studios for in a bonnet and ladylike clothing she looked commonplace
and indeed vulgar. Models generally are well-behaved girls and many live like
anchorites for fear of spoiling their plastic beauty and losing the power to
exact high fees. But Sarah Brown, who was a red haired Jewess, lived the life
of a bacchante.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
New York Times’ tribute - ‘The Sad Career of Sarah Brown’ - claimed she was
‘one of the scarce artist’s models who may pose for the head as well as for the
body.’ Sarah was ‘not extremely beautiful, but she knew how to seem to be
thus.’ The paper also related a story of how Sarah’s career as a model
deteriorated after she was stabbed in the breast by an English Countess vying for
the affections of the artist Rochegrosse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Attempting
to unravel her true story would take a whole book (and she certainly deserves
one), but the question remains: does that photograph show the real Sarah Brown?
Comparing it with the paintings and another photograph suggests it might be an
imposter, someone attempting to recreate a famous image.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRR8-4eoAHZuAzj_orpkU1ME4d2L_rQauYjN2pDVx52hCmwXpm19b4jYlHnKFs2cxq9pnxGNvYVcvzICwjo64Z2nzQC1s68Nt8kfQhrcjbILoJJD8iDEZlfLawywoIaq98bmHgIE1lf_4B/s1600/Sarah+Brown+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="401" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRR8-4eoAHZuAzj_orpkU1ME4d2L_rQauYjN2pDVx52hCmwXpm19b4jYlHnKFs2cxq9pnxGNvYVcvzICwjo64Z2nzQC1s68Nt8kfQhrcjbILoJJD8iDEZlfLawywoIaq98bmHgIE1lf_4B/s640/Sarah+Brown+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Although they appear almost
identical at first glance, the first woman seems a little too ordinary to be
‘the most famous model in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city></st1:place>’.
Her costume looks a little cheap, her face bears a bit too much of a
resemblance to Oscar Wilde and her pose seems slightly too awkward and heavy.
Looking closely, what appears to be naked flesh actually looks more like some
kind of long john. By contrast the second woman has the aloof, regal air of
someone who knows what they are doing. There is even the hint of an exposed
left nipple.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But whatever the truth,
don’t let that spoil your enjoyment of the real Sarah Brown – the flame-haired
woman who helped drag the stuffy, old 19th century kicking and screaming into
the modern era.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Peter
Stubley is part journalist and part author. He can be followed on Twitter @historyhack
and you can read his brilliantly researched blog which covers all manner of historical eras at </span><a href="http://historyhackblog.wordpress.com/">http://historyhackblog.wordpress.com/</a></i>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-5823684600856110072012-08-23T23:14:00.002-07:002012-08-23T23:14:33.805-07:00“…What you Shall Have, is a Happy Blending of the Theatre and the Opera House and the Highly Respectable Tavern-Parlour, a Place the Atmosphere of Which Shall be so Strictly Moral that the Finest-Bred Lady in the Land may Breathe it Without Danger…” Or: Victorian Music Hall Morality:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">For a very long time I’ve
wanted to write about the Victorian Music Halls. I’ve had the odd stab, writing
about Music Hall stars and actors, </span><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/funniest-man-on-earth.html">Dan Leno</a><span style="font-family: Arial;">, </span><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2011/06/looking-at-her-you-seemed-to-snatch.html">Ada Rehan</a> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and </span><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2011/01/little-of-what-you-fancy-or-exploring.html">Marie Lloyd and Ellen Terry.</a><span style="font-family: Arial;"> But that’s
about as far as I got.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have a basic grasp of
music halls and what they were, and when they were at their peak, but not in
nearly enough detail for a blog post.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The reason for this, I
think, is that the story of the music halls is rather vast, and for someone
such as myself, who has very little knowledge on the subject, it would take a
great deal of time to construct something worthy of your time. It is for this
same reason that there is nothing on this blog about any Victorian wars; I’d
love to write something about the Crimea, but would have to go away and improve
my very basic knowledge on the subject before I even started, but Victorian
wars are not something I’ve had much interest in, and I don’t really believe in
forcing information into my head, but rather absorbing it like osmosis. I’ve
always been interested in the culture of the music hall, though, but have just
never known where to start or what to write about; there’s so many aspects to
them – they were an ever changing landscape, and, like war, really the kind of
thing you need to specialize in to write something worth reading.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, like Oliver Twist, I got
out my bowl and turned to the experts on Twitter for advice, and I’m very glad
I did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Thanks to their fantastic
contributions and knowledge the history, culture, people and importance of the
Music Halls can be properly explored and committed to this blog over the coming
weeks, thus adding an important missing piece of my jigsaw.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For the next month we shall
be learning about the roots, the artists, the importance, the songs, the
decline and ultimate legacy of the music halls, and be richer for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">To start with, the man I so
frequently turn to for an eloquent social commentary of the times; my favourite
Victorian writer James Greenwood, and an article on Music Hall morality from
the late 1860’s, in which he charts the birth of the halls, and explains why he
believes they were a bad influence on the working classes, and makes his
opinion of thee halls quite known:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Music Hall
Morality:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
Twenty years ago amusement for the people was at a low watermark. Railways were
less numerous and extensive, and railway directors had not yet thought of
working the profitable field suggested by the little word '<i>excursion</i>.' '<i>Eight
hours by the seaside</i>,' to be compassed comfortably within a holiday of a single
summer's day was a miracle scarcely even dreamt of by the most sanguine
progressionist. Thousands and tens of thousands of London-born men and women
lived and laboured through a long lifetime, and never saw the sea at all.
Sheerness, twenty years ago, was the working man's seaside; and his knowledge
of sea sand was confined to as much of it as was unpleasantly discovered
lurking within the shells of the plate of winkles served up at his shilling tea
at Gravesend. Even the green country '<i>far removed from noise and smoke</i>,' was,
if not a sealed book to him, at least a volume placed on so high a shelf that,
after some experience, he was driven to the conclusion that the pains and
penalties attending a climb for it were scarcely compensated by success and
temporary possession of the prize. The only conveyance at his service - and
that only on recognised holiday occasions - was the greengrocer's van, newly
painted and decorated for the event, and in which a mixed company of the sexes
crowded, and were dragged along the hot and dusty road at the rate of five
miles an hour, towards Hampton Court or Epping Forest, there to huddle on the
grass, and partake of a collation that, but for its four hours' grilling on the
van roof under a blazing sun, would have been cold, with flask-liquor or
luke-warm beer out of a stone jar as liquid accompaniments.<br />
Twenty years ago a <st1:placename w:st="on">Crystal</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Palace</st1:placename> had existence nowhere but within the cover of
that book of wonders, the '<i>Arabian Nights' Entertainments</i>,' and the soil out of
which the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">museum</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">South Kensington</st1:placename></st1:place> has
sprung was devoted to the growth of cabbages.<br />
<br />
In that dark age, however, it is questionable if the inconveniences enumerated
were regarded as such. The people knew no better. The Jack of the past
generation was a Jack-of-all-work, according to the strictest interpretation of
that term. So seldom did he indulge in a holiday that he went at it as a
teetotaller broke loose goes at hard drinking, and it unsettled him for a week
afterwards. His play-time imposed on him more real hard labour than his
accustomed jog-trot work time, and he was an unhappy, despondent man until his
excited nerves grew calm, and the tingling of his blood subsided. Such were the
alarming effects on him that it seemed a happy dispensation that Whitsun and
Easter came each but once a year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All,
then, that was left to him was the tavern parlour '<i>sing-song</i>,' or
free-and-easy, usually celebrated on Mondays and Saturdays, these being the
times when he was most likely to have a shilling in his pocket. But what amount
of satisfaction was to be got out of it? Excepting for the inordinate quantity
of malt or spirituous liquors the working man felt bound to imbibe for the good
of the house, the '<i>free-and-easy</i>' was as tame as tame could be. The same
individual - the landlord - occupied the chair invariably; the same men sang the
same songs (<i>it would have been regarded as a most unwarrantable liberty if
Jones had attempted to render a ditty known as Wilkins's</i>); the same jokes were
exchanged; the same toasts and sentiments found utterance. It was not enjoyment
at all that occupied the company, but a good natured spirit of forbearance and
toleration.<br />
Scarcely a man in the room came to hear singing, but to be heard singing. This
was the weakness that drew the members of the '<i>free-and-easy</i>' together, and
every man, out of tender consideration for his own affliction, was disposed to
treat an exhibition of the prevalent malady on the part of a neighbour with
kindly sympathy. But the morning's reflection ensuing on such an evening's
amusement never failed to disclose the dismal fact that there was '<i>nothing in
it</i>' - nothing, that is, but headache and remorse for money wasted.<br />
<br />
Of late years, however, the state of the British handicraftsman has undergone
an extraordinary change. He is not the same fellow he used to be. He has cast
aside the ancient mantle of unquestioning drudgery that so long hung about his
drooping shoulders. He has straightened his neck to look about him, a process
which has elevated his view of matters generally at least three inches (<i>and
that is is a good deal in the case of a man whose nose from boyhood has been
kept at the grindstone, and whose vision has always been at a bare level with
the top of that useful machine</i>).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was no more than natural that '<i>work</i>' being the theme that had so long occupied
his attention, he should, having satisfactorily settled that matter, turn to
its direct antithesis, '<i>play</i>,' and make a few inquiries as to what amendment
were possible in that direction. It became evident to him that this portion of
the social machine, no less than the other, was out of order. It appeared all
right from a superficial view; but when you came closely to examine it there
were loose screws in every direction, and many of the main wheels were so
clogged with objectionable matter, that no decent man could safely approach it.
This was serious. The reformed handicraftsman had leisure now, and considerably
more money than in the old time. Offer him a fair evening's amusement, and he
would pay his shilling for it cheerfully but, mind you, it must be fit and
proper amusement, and such as chimed harmoniously with his newly-developed
convictions of his respectability and intellectual importance. But, looking to
the right and to the left of him, he failed to discover what he sought; and
probably he would to this very day have been vainly inquiring which way he
should turn, had it not been for certain enterprising and philanthropic
persons, who, ascertaining his need, generously undertook the task of providing
for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XkBS_iCIX-sHqPPeLabht0PxHdV0pKk9UWWVyLpNe2tgoPQbpKcq-aAXQAs03u2j5KfjSPclFqLyQG-f2-JZIT0Am3KTZFxaAwrmQ1W7K0Xjws48_Lj1j7MV3gWECD-TpwAz6jICPCgj/s1600/Dore+music+hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XkBS_iCIX-sHqPPeLabht0PxHdV0pKk9UWWVyLpNe2tgoPQbpKcq-aAXQAs03u2j5KfjSPclFqLyQG-f2-JZIT0Am3KTZFxaAwrmQ1W7K0Xjws48_Lj1j7MV3gWECD-TpwAz6jICPCgj/s400/Dore+music+hall.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In a Music Hall by Gustave Dore</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The
arguments used by the disinterested gentlemen in question showed beyond doubt
that they thoroughly understood the matter. '<i>What you want</i>,' said they to the
working man, 'is something very different from that which now exists. You like
good music, you have an affectionate regard for the drama; but if at the present
time you would taste of one or the other you are compelled to do so under
restrictions that are irksome. The theatre is open to you, but you cannot do as
you like in a theatre. You must conform to certain rules and regulations, and,
in a manner of speaking, are made to "toe the mark." If you want a
glass of beer - and what is more natural than that you should? - you can't get
it. What you can get for your sixpence is half a pint and a gill of flat or
sour stuff in a black bottle, and to obtain even this luxury you must creep
noiselessly to the shabby little refreshment-room and drink it there and creep
back again to your seat in the pit as though you had been guilty of something
you should be ashamed of. You would like a pipe or a cigar; you are used to smoking
of evenings, and depravation from the harmless indulgence disagrees with you.
No matter; you must not smoke within the walls of a theatre; if you attempted
it the constable would seize you and never loose his hold on your collar till
he had landed you on the outer pavement.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Now what you require, and what you shall have, is a happy blending of the
theatre and the opera house and the highly respectable tavern-parlour, a place
the atmosphere of which shall be so strictly moral that the finest-bred lady in
the land may breathe it without danger, and at the same time a place where a
gentleman accompanying a lady may take his sober and soothing glass of grog or
tankard of ale and smoke his cigar as innocently and peacefully as though he
sat by his own fireside at home. We will have music both vocal and
instrumental, the grand singing of the great Italian masters, ballad-singing,
touching and pathetic, and funny singing that shall promote harmless mirth
while it not in the least offends the most prudish ear. We will have operas; we
will have ballets. Should the public voice sanction it occasionally we will
have chaste acrobatic performances and feats of tumbling and jugglery; but in
this last-mentioned matter we are quite in the hands of our patrons. Enjoyment
pure and simple is our motto, and by it we will stand or fall.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
This, in substance, was the prospectus of the first music hall established in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, and the public
expressed its approval. How the fair promises of the original promoters of the
scheme were redeemed we will not discuss. Undertakings of such magnitude are
sure to work uneasily at the first. It will be fairer to regard the tree
of twenty years' growth with its twenty noble branches flourishing in full
foliage and melodious with the songs of the many songsters that harbour there.
We cannot listen to them all at once, however sweet though the music be. Let us
devote an hour to one of the said branches. Which one does not in the least
matter, since no one set of songsters are confined to a branch. They fly about
from one to another, and may sometimes be heard - especially the funny ones -
on as many as four different boughs in the course of a single evening. Simply
because it is the nearest let us take the Oxbridge, one of the most famous music
halls in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>,
and nightly crowded.<br />
<br />
Either we are in luck or else the talent attached to the Oxbridge is something
prodigious. Almost every vocal celebrity whose name has blazoned on the
advertising hoardings during the season is here tonight - the <i>Immense Vamp</i>, the
<i>Prodigious Podgers</i>, the <i>Stupendous Smuttyman</i>, the <i>Tremendous Titmouse</i>, together
with <i>'Funny' Freddys</i>, and '<i>Jolly' Joeys</i>, and '<i>Side-splitting' Sammys</i> by the
half dozen. Some of the leviathans of song were authors of what they sang, as,
for instance, the Prodigious Podgers, who had recently made such a great
sensation with his '<i>Lively Cats-meat Man</i>.' As I entered the splendid portals of
the Oxbridge the natty '<i>turn-out</i>' of Podgers, consisting of three piebald
ponies in silver harness and a phaeton that must have cost a hundred and fifty
guineas at least, was there in waiting, ready to whirl the popular Podgers to
the Axminster as soon as the Oxbridge could possibly spare him.<br />
<br />
The Oxbridge, as usual, was crowded, the body of the hall, the sixpenny part,
by working men and their wives, with a sprinkling of '<i>jolly dogs</i>' and budding
beardless puppies of the same breed, whose pride and delight it is to emulate
their elders. As regards the audience this is the worst that may be said of the
body of the hall. It was plain at a glance to perceive that the bulk of the
people there were mostly people not accustomed to music halls, and only induced
to pay them a visit on account of the highly-respectable character the music
halls are in the habit of giving themselves in their placards and in the
newspapers. In the stalls and the more expensive parts of the house, and
before the extensive drinking bar, matters were very different. Here were
congregated selections from almost every species of vice, both male and female,
rampant in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>.
Here was the Brummagem '<i>swell</i>' with his Houndsditch jewellery and his
Whitechapel gentility, and the well-dressed blackguard with a pound to spend,
and the poor, weak-minded wretch of the '<i>Champagne Charlie</i>' school, and the professional
prowler hovering about him with with the full intent of plucking him if he has
the chance I am loth to say as much in the face of the Popular Podgers and the
immense Vamp, but I should be vastly surprised if the only element of
respectability frequenting the Oxbridge was not only disappointed but shocked
and disgusted, and that very often. I cannot explain why, after being shocked,
they should make a second attempt, except that they are lured to '<i>try again</i>,'
and that folks of not over sensitive mind grow used to shocks.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1ePtwwEmRAdCOkK2u8wdhRPhdIwFMkhhMMIxpJLmhTNgOy-6t0y3KRBpSXn3iSyVlb9iL8XPy8exFpzNv56HWFE8h2D7oF1SGdR80rNom0oG8BdAbS3PHMw4n4qZ8P7NgGTYjhMGA0I1/s1600/Music+Hall+Stalls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1ePtwwEmRAdCOkK2u8wdhRPhdIwFMkhhMMIxpJLmhTNgOy-6t0y3KRBpSXn3iSyVlb9iL8XPy8exFpzNv56HWFE8h2D7oF1SGdR80rNom0oG8BdAbS3PHMw4n4qZ8P7NgGTYjhMGA0I1/s640/Music+Hall+Stalls.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Well-Dressed Blackguards" Enjoy the Entertainment on Offer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">If
these music hall songs were really written for the respectable portion of the
auditory there would not be the least occasion why they should be composed
almost entirely of indecency and drivel; but the fact is these are the persons
whose tastes are not at all studied in preparing the evening bill of fare. The
individuals the song-writer writes up to and the singer sings up to are the
heedless, the abandoned, and disreputable ones who have money to squander. The
proprietor knows his customers. Where would be the use of setting before a
tipsy '<i>swell</i>' (<i>unless indeed he had arrived at the maudlin, in which condition
he is profitable to no one</i>) a wholesome, simple ballad? He would howl it down
before the first verse was accomplished. He must have something to chime with
the idiotic tone of his mind, no matter how low, how vulgar, or how defiant of
propriety, and he can obtain it at the music hall. The <i>Immense Vamp</i> is his
obedient servant, as is the <i>Prodigious Podgers</i> and the <i>Tremendous Titmouse</i> -
even the 'P---- of W----'s Own Comique.' Any one would think, and not
unreasonably, when he sees year in and year out flaming announcements of the
engagements here and there of these gentry, that there must be something in
them; that, however peculiar their talent, it is such as recommends itself to
something more than the passing admiration of those who witness it; but it is
nothing of the kind. Take any half-dozen of the most popular of our '<i>comic
singers</i>' and set them singing four of their most favourite songs each, and I
will warrant that twenty out of the full number will consist of the utterest
trash it is possible to conceive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
It would not so much matter if the trade were harmless - not infrequently it is
most pernicious. Take a batch of these precious productions, and you will find
the one theme constantly harped on: it is all about a '<i>young chap</i>' and a '<i>young
gal,</i>' or an '<i>old chap</i>' and an '<i>old gal</i>,' and their exploits, more or less
indecent. A prolific subject with these '<i>great</i>' artists is the spooney
courtship of a young man who is induced to accompany the object of his
affection to her abode, and when there gets robbed and ill-used.<br />
As the Immense Vamp sings – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /><i>
'I was going to go when in come a feller<br />
And he smashed my hat with his umbrella<br />
And blacked my eye, and didn't I bellow.'</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
But this peculiar line Vamp makes his own, and it is not to be wondered at that
he shines therein before all others. Popular Podgers has a vein of his own, and
how profitable the working of it is let the piebald ponies and the
silver-mounted phaeton attest. He goes in for vocal exemplifications of low
life - the lowest of all. His rendering of a Whitechapel ruffian, half
costermonger half thief, filled the Oxbridge nightly for more than a month.<br />
You may see Podgers arrayed in the ruffian's rags portrayed on a music-sheet in
the windows of the music-shops, and underneath is inscribed the chorus of this
wonderful song:-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /><i>
'I'm a Chickerleary Bloke with my one, two, three,<br />
Whitechapel is the village I was born in,<br />
To ketch me on the hop, or on my tibby drop,<br />
You must get up very early in the morning.' </i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
inasmuch as the effusions of Podgers are as a rule unintelligible except to the
possessors of a slang dictionary, he is less obnoxious than others of his brethren.
What these productions are need be no more than hinted to ears polite. The
mischief is that the ten thousand ears unpolite are opened for the reception of
the poison night after night in twenty music halls in and about <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, and no one says
nay.<br />
<br />
The male singer of the music hall, however, whether he takes the shape of the
impudent clown who pretends to comicality, or of the spoony sentimentalist who
tenderly gushes forth such modern enchanting melodies as '<i>Maggie May</i>' or <i>'Meet
me in the Lane</i>,' is not the most pernicious ingredient that composes in its
entirety the music hall hero. Time was, when with a liberal steeping of Vamps,
and Podgers, and Smuttymans, the decoction proved strong enough, but, like
indulgence in other poisons, what is a sufficient dose this year is useless as
water next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was found necessary to strengthen the mixture - to make it hotter of that kind
of spice most grateful to the palate of the vulgar snob with a pound to spend.
To effect this, there was nothing for it but to introduce the comic female
element, or, as she more modestly styles herself, the '<i>serio-comic</i>.' The
'<i>serio</i>,' however, is not obtrusive. You seek for it in vain in the brazen
pretty face, in the dress that is exactly as much too high as it is too low, in
the singer's gestures, looks, and bold advances. Decent men who, misled by
placards and newspaper advertisements, take their wives and daughters to the
Oxbridge or the Axminster, may, as they listen, tingle in shame at the blunder
they have committed; but the dashing, piquant, saucy delineator of '<i>What Jolly
Gals are we</i>' has the ears and the yelling admiration of the brainless snobs and
puppies before alluded to, and the mad noises they make, demanding a repetition
of the detestable ditty, quite drown the feeble hisses of remonstrance the
decent portion of the auditory may venture to utter.<br />
<br />
Some time since, during the theatre and music hall controversy, a worthy London
magistrate announced from his judicial bench that on the evening previous he
has visited one of the most popular of the halls, and found everything
creditable, and discreet, and decorous: a pretty penny it must afterwards have
cost somebody for champagne, to pacify the patron snobs and puppies for
depriving them of their evening's amusement.<br />
<br />
But - and it is alarming to remark it - even the indecent, impudent
'<i>serio-comic</i>' female, who, going the full length of the tether allowed her,
might have been supposed equal to all demands, is palling on the palate of the
Oxbridge habitué. He must have something even more exhilarating; and, ever ready
to oblige, the music hall proprietor rigs up a trapeze, and bribes some brazen,
shameless woman to attire in man's clothes, and go through the ordinary
performances of a male acrobat. Rivalling the new idea, a South London music
hall proprietor is advertising the '<i>Sensational Can-can, exactly as in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place></st1:country></i>.'<br />
<br />
What is the next novelty in preparation?<br />
- <i>James Greenwood, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>
Society Magazine, 1868</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I think it is fair to say
that <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Greenwood</st1:place></st1:city>
was not a fan of the entertainment on offer in the music halls…</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Personally I think he's got this one wrong (sorry James!) and will stick up for the working class man and woman who worked hard all week and wanted to let off a little steam at a music hall at the weekend! As for the female comic "<i>going the full length of the tether allowed her</i>" - we shall read more of these women as the month passes, and can make our own judgement on whether she was good or bad for the progression of entertainment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For
more of James Greenwood’s work (<i>He isn't usually this acerbic!</i>) or information about him, </span><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Greenwood">here</a>
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">is a
list of posts on this blog to which he has either attributed, or is the subject
of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Music Hall theme continues next week with; “Impulsive, Headstrong, Passionate,
She Would do the Most Reckless Things. But no one Could Resist Sarah…” Or:</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> The Incredible Sarah Brown</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-37076836958128011812012-07-26T23:22:00.003-07:002012-07-26T23:22:54.689-07:00"And Finally..." Or: The Joy of Old Newspapers:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">One of my hobbies – much to
the chagrin of Miss Amateur Casual – is collecting Victorian newspapers. Don’t
get me wrong, I’m not a crazed hoarder; I don’t have piles and piles of mouldy
old papers lying around, I have twenty or thirty Victorian papers (and I <i>do</i> keep them filed in nice folders!) and
enjoy taking them out every so often to thumb through the pages and see what
was happening in the news at the time of publication.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This, I find, is an
excellent way of picking up the minutiae of an era. Little stories that faded
away with the passing of not-very-much time at all can sometimes say more about
the feelings of an age than the big events that still echo down through history
today; and even if they don’t – it can still be very interesting to read
stories and snippets that have been long forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">(Incidentally, there is an
excellent – but I fear now derelict – blog that scoured old newspapers for just
these types of story, ‘An Extraordinary Incident’ found </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://extraordinaryincident.wordpress.com/">here</a> is well-worth thirty minutes of anybody’s internet browsing time.)</span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But clearly I have mentioned
my interest in such things out-loud, as it was detected by Thomas Walker over
at the excelent <a href="http://www.historic-newspapers.co.uk/">historic-newspapers.co.uk</a>
who furnished me with three wonderfully presented copies of Victorian
newspapers from which I have gleaned the following stories. The first concerns
an Elephant. (<i>Not for the first time in these parts; this post from almost two
years ago about a runaway elephant in 1860’s <st1:place w:st="on">Swindon</st1:place>
was, I recall, quite popular when I originally published it, and is exactly the
kind of wonderful story that I was talking about in my opening paragraphs. You
can read it </i>here: </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2010/11/runaway-elephant-in-swindon-in-1861.html">here</a> )</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And now onto our second
elephant story:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Jumbo and his Friends</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br />
The large male African elephant at the zoological society's Gardens in Regent's
Park has gained weekly and daily in popularity, since his refusal to go to the
docks and embark for America, in accordance with the bargain for his sale to
Mr. P. T Barnum and others at New York. Never were such crowds of visitors to
the Gardens at this early period of the season, all thronging to the elephant
house, or watching the huge animal in his customary promenade, in another part
of the grounds, and offering him an unusual quantity and variety of eatables,
while the eagerness of children and young girls to ride on his back is beyond
all precedent. The number of people at the Gardens last Monday was twenty-four
thousand; on Saturday, nearly seven thousand. There were 43,653 admissions last
week</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvy5HQJs_LbkzfUeRQ8VrosohAhdSXBoKdALcm6hh5lyj-7Fdg9lemvyPUOpFDB5-SjnFWnzT-HMHo1g7YF6Z4ShXj9hNWAkSJAxFPuLtEia-s0sFS-sHrGcRbUybiVpc-B9GXBZr2SYFp/s1600/Jumbo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvy5HQJs_LbkzfUeRQ8VrosohAhdSXBoKdALcm6hh5lyj-7Fdg9lemvyPUOpFDB5-SjnFWnzT-HMHo1g7YF6Z4ShXj9hNWAkSJAxFPuLtEia-s0sFS-sHrGcRbUybiVpc-B9GXBZr2SYFp/s400/Jumbo.JPG" width="365" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Engraving from the ILN taken from a photo by messrs. Briggs and son.</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The newly constructed box, or van, in which it is hoped Jumbo will soon be removed to the docks at Millwall, if he can once be confined in it, is a massive vehicle, of the dimensions necessary for an elephant that stands eleven feet high, and that weighs between five and six tons. The frame of the van is composed of solid balks, morticed, bolted, and over all heavily clamped with iron. The flooring is of three-inch planks, and the sides and roof are lined with inch-and-a-half deal. The van is of such strength as is calculated to resist twice or thrice the force that even this powerful brute could possibly bring to bear against it. Important changes have been made in its formation, and still more in the trolley upon which it is fixed; so that, instead of being four feet above the ground, the floor of the van will only be raised about eight inches. It is, for the present, sunk to the level of the ground, which has been dug out for the purpose, and the floor covered with gravel. Axles of enormous strength have been fitted with special boxes and wheels, the width of the lower structure being governed by that of the gateway through which the van is to leave the Gardens. In the mean time, it is arranged as a kind of trap, with both ends left open, and being placed opposite the door of Jumbo's house, on the way to his exercise-ground and bathing-pool, he is becoming accustomed to walk through it, which he did for the first time on Saturday. The doors of the van will be suddenly closed upon him, at some convenient opportunity, when he is in chains, and the chains will be attached to the strong rings fixed inside the van, after which, it is thought, he cannot make any further resistance. The weight of elephant and van together will be about ten tons, which must be drawn by horses six miles through the streets from Camden Town to Millwall. Having reached the docks, a steam-crane will be employed to hoist up Jumbo in his box, and to put him into the ship which is to carry him to New York. <br /><br />In the Chancery Division of the High Court of Justice last week Mr. Justice Chitty refused to grant an injunction restraining the Council of the Zoological Society from selling this elephant and Mr. Barnum's agent from removing him to America. The injunction was applied for by Mr. Berkeley Hill, one of the Fellows of the society, whose counsel argued that it was not legally in the power of the Council so to dispose of animals valuable for the study of natural history. Dr. P.L Sclater, the secretary of the Gardens, and Mr. A.B Bartlett, superintendent of the Gardens, were called as witnesses to state that it would be inconvenient, and perhaps dangerous, to keep Jumbo there till the age when he would become liable to certain fits of rage. The application was, therefore, dismissed by the court. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> - <i>Illustrated
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> News</i>
March 18 1882</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The story of Jumbo was very
popular with the press and the public. The elephant had resided at London Zoo
for seventeen years, until, in 1882, an offer wad received for him from the
American circus, Barnum’s. The press was awash with stories of the cruelty of
the zoo, who were tearing Jumbo away from his home and lifelong mate for the
sake of money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The truth of the matter was
that Jumbo, in his old age, had become quite temperamental, and was prone to
fits of violence. The zoo was faced with two choices; sell him, or put him
down. Eventually he was sold to Barnum’s, and saw out his days in the circus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">From a light-hearted story
to one that is anything but; I have had this article written for a couple of
months now, but haven’t got around to posting it, and so I thought I would use
it now as an example of an event or piece of news from the Victorian era that
some people may not have heard of, and could have easily been forgotten. For a
number of reasons this event was significant, not least for the tragedy of it,
but also for the advances in the fields of forensic science and health and
safety that came out of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the last few months, to coincide with the Diamond Jubilee I’ve written a lot of posts about various aspects of the first ever Diamond Jubilee – that of Queen Victoria in 1897. This article, however, concerns another event that occurred in the Diamond Jubilee year, but one that could not be further from the celebrations seen on the shores of Great Britain. <br /><br />This event took place, not in England, but France, specifically Paris, and was a disaster that evoked sympathy from all over the globe.</span> <br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> The <i>Bazar de la Charite </i>was a fundraising event held annually at various locations from 1885. The event was organized by the aristocracy, and was attended by the upper classes of France. The 1897 event was held within a stones-throw of the <i>Champs Elysees</i> and<i> Le Grand Palais</i> at <i>Rue Jean Goujon </i>in Paris. The venue was a large shed made of wood – extremely large, at over eighty metres long and thirteen wide – within which was a faux medieval street as part of the entertainment. A piece of more modern entertainment was situated close by; in a room was a Lumiere Brothers’ <i>cinematograph</i>.</span> <br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />The cinematograph had been invented in the early 1890’s, and the inventor is unclear. The device was developed and improved throughout the decade until finally the Lumiere brothers, Auguste and louis patented it. They made their first film, Sortie de L’usine Lumiere de Lyon (<i>Workers Leaving the Lumiere factory in Lyon</i>) in 1894, and this was played to the French public at L’Eden Cinema. The following year, in 1895, the brothers organized the first public screenings of cinematograph films in Paris, and two years later their films were the star attraction at the <i>Bazar de la Charite</i>.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />On the 4th of May – the second day of the Bazar – the equipment used by the projectionist of these films caught fire (<i>rather than electricity, it had been powered by oxygen and ether</i>) and, with the scenery being made from materials such as cloth, papier mache and wood, it did not take long for the fire to spread. 126 mostly upper class or aristocratic people died in the blaze, and around two hundred more were injured. In the following days, newspapers began to report the grim outcome, detailing how the disaster affected not only the lives of the dead and injured, but also the lives of local people and those connected with the charitable event:</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTiaB51jYGqpdtlQG1RsyRcTSz30CiFW8GfB0neRw8tciEY1ir1z6Jrsl08hGBX1N90vVG3J2qthFVJ0_9YwMdW49m2o-R56DOBxyyfwvhdsj3G2V_aLoqwQjb27a-vJNS8oe_l6n0iNR/s1600/Le+Petit+Journal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTiaB51jYGqpdtlQG1RsyRcTSz30CiFW8GfB0neRw8tciEY1ir1z6Jrsl08hGBX1N90vVG3J2qthFVJ0_9YwMdW49m2o-R56DOBxyyfwvhdsj3G2V_aLoqwQjb27a-vJNS8oe_l6n0iNR/s400/Le+Petit+Journal.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Le Petit Journal</i> depicts the fire</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>THE PARIS DISASTER. FROM OUR CORRESPONDENT. <br />PARIS, May 7. </b><br />The all-absorbing topic here is the catastrophe at the Bazar de la Charite. Many funerals took place today, and nearly all the remainder will take place tomorrow, most of the victims being interred in the country. Tomorrow's ceremony at the Cathedral of Notre Dame will be most imposing. Cardinal Richard, Archbishop of Paris, will preside, and the church will be decorated in the same way as it was for the obsequies of the late President Carnot. President Faure, attended by his military household, will be present, as well as several members of the Cabinet and the Diplomatic Corps. The soli will be sung by MM. Dilmas and Alvarez, of the Opera.</span>
<br /><br /> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The consequences of the disaster to the poor are far-reaching, as many charities depended absolutely on the Bazaar for existence. The Gaulois suggests a national lottery as the best means of raising funds for the institutions in question; while the <i>Figaro</i>, at the suggestion of Princesse de Wagram, has already opened a public subscription. <br /><br /> The charitable institutions are not the only losers. The Paris season is practically over. Dinner parties and so forth are being cancelled and marriages postponed, and many people will shortly leave for the country, the exodus probably commencing in about a fortnight. The great millinery and dress-making establishments are preparing to dismiss workpeople. A leading dressmaker told me that at least 2,000 families must be in mourning, and that since the catastrophe business has come to a standstill in the middle of the season. Over 100 orders for new dresses had been cancelled. <br /><br />The impression is the same throughout the Rue de la Paix. Apart from the people who will be thrown out of work and the charitable institutions, there are many other sufferers. Thus, for instance, Madame Hoskier, the wife of the banker, and her daughter, Madame Roland Gosselin, each supported 15 poor families, paying their rents and educating their children. Since the fire there has been a perfect procession of poor to 18, Avenue Friedland, to inquire if their benefactresses were really dead, and there has been but one cry, "<i>What a misfortune; We are lost.</i>" I related at the time that the Duchesse d'Uzes had saved the life of one of the female attendants by dragging her along in her flight. The woman did not know who the Duchesse was until she read the incident in the papers, when she called yesterday to thank her rescuer.<br /><br />In spite of all efforts it has been impossible to discover any traces of the body of the Comte de Luppe, whose husband's despair is painful to see. For two days the Comte de Luppe has scarcely left the Palais de l'lndustrie, where he kept bending over the bodies one after another, only to rise again and say in despairing tones, "<i>No, no, it is not her</i>." Some 24 persons who were supposed to have gone to the Bazaar are missing, and it is considered probable that the bodies of these persons have been completely consumed. An arresting scene took place yesterday on the ground where the Bazaar stood. A closed carriage driven by a coachman with crape-bound hat stopped at the line of policemen who are still keeping back the crowd. The police were ordering the driver to go back, but one of the doors of the carriage opened and a white-haired lady in deep mourning stepped out and approached the officer on duty. "Sir, I have a request to make to you," she said. “<i>My daughter died in this charnel-house. Allow me to enter and pray only for an instant.</i>" The officer bowed and ordered the municipal guardsmen to let her pass. When the lady reached the centre of the space she knelt down, the soldiers instinctively presenting arms until she rose a few moments later. After making the sign of the Cross, the bereaved mother then returned to her carriage, the spectators respectfully removing their hats and making way for her.</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />It appears now to be thoroughly recognised that M. Lupine, the Prefect of Police, had no right to interfere in the affairs of the Bazar de la Charite, but there is a feeling that it is time the police had power to see to the protection of public safety in such cases. A judicial inquiry has been begun, but up to the present, beyond establishing the fact that the fire was caused by the cinematograph, the Magistrate in charge of it has only collected a list of the names of the organisers of the various stalls, and of the persons involved to come to the Bazaar.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> Next week he will take the evidence of persons who were in the building when the fire broke out. <br /><br /> <b>PARIS, May 7, Later.</b> All those persons whose disappearance was reported to the police have now been found except six, and as there only remain six unidentified bodies, it is believed they are those of the missing persons. Their names are Countess de Luppe, Mesdames Filon, Jauffred, and Bouvier, and Mesdlles. Chabod and Moret. <br />- <i>Morning Post - Saturday 08 May 1897</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />One of the victims of the terrible tragedy was Sophie Charlotte of Bavaria. Also known as the Duchess of Alcenon, she was the sister of Empress Elisabeth, or Sisi as she was affectionately known (<i>Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary from 1854 – 1898</i>) Sophie Charlotte and her husband, Prince Ferdinand Phillipe, actually lived in Teddington, London for a while in the late 1860’s, and had their first child together there, Louise d’Orleans, who was born at Bushy House.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiNYi2-MbdMtyIibjyo_HuBU2kr2FVtqAEf9QMZM5iNxoOI20552UPP2_0MEf5FtAewWpOOw2O0wKcVjeyDArBzQkSNCsM1o0Ks2BaUCTubL2P0N90EFRCWMNkY5NktOXjt3FiuJUU7cGh/s1600/Duchess+of+Alencon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiNYi2-MbdMtyIibjyo_HuBU2kr2FVtqAEf9QMZM5iNxoOI20552UPP2_0MEf5FtAewWpOOw2O0wKcVjeyDArBzQkSNCsM1o0Ks2BaUCTubL2P0N90EFRCWMNkY5NktOXjt3FiuJUU7cGh/s1600/Duchess+of+Alencon.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie Charlotte</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sophie Charlotte was fifty years of age in 1897, and during the fire at Bazar de la Charite, had repeatedly refused any attempt to rescue her, insisting that the workers all be saved first. By the time it was her turn to be pulled from the inferno she was dead. <br /><br /> One notable outcome for good from the fire was the advance of forensic science. With so many bodies being badly burned and unidentifiable, this was believed to be the first time that dental records were used to identify victims. <br /><br />Whilst this event is not widely known of, fifteen years previously in Nice, France, a terrible fire broke out in a theatre. The Municipal Theatre had already had a long history of entertainment prior to the disaster, and had been a location for theatrical entertainment since 1776. The story that caught my attention was in one of my old newspapers:</span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;">Burning of a theatre at Nice.</span></b><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial;"><br />
A terrible disaster, which has caused the loss of nearly a hundred lives, took
place at Nice on the Wednesday night of last week. The Municipal Theatre, at
the opera representation of "<i>Lucia
di Lammermoor,"</i> by a special company of performers from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Italy</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
with Signora Bianca Donadio for "<i>prima
donna</i>," was occupied by a large audience. It was the first day of the
regatta at Nice, which had brought a great many visitors to the town.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>- Illustrated London News, April 1881</i></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Had it not
been for thumbing through my old papers, this is an event I would, in all
likeliness, never have known about. The fire was caused by a gas explosion (<i>in those days theatre’s would have been lit
by gas. Actress Ellen terry mentions in her memoirs that when theatre’s changed
from gas lighting to electric the light was not very flattering, and she much
preferred the soft and dramatic glow of gas.</i>) After the theatre burned
down, it was decided that a replacement should be built. The man charged with
this task was Francois Aune, who had studied under Gustave Eiffel.<span style="color: #2a2a2a;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlMKxm3aK1EZ-slFj6ZV50HBCjj6z4wscsftq6lR3PWBzbFTeUrnikR_V9LJJ3p6xhAr99h9ZayMycd8zAAazI4xxsVmVU7DWF2D_7Sr1RBtFhHOC-EjevHmcO41jZLDWg2_VoeguuNDj/s1600/Nice+Theatre+Fire.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlMKxm3aK1EZ-slFj6ZV50HBCjj6z4wscsftq6lR3PWBzbFTeUrnikR_V9LJJ3p6xhAr99h9ZayMycd8zAAazI4xxsVmVU7DWF2D_7Sr1RBtFhHOC-EjevHmcO41jZLDWg2_VoeguuNDj/s400/Nice+Theatre+Fire.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fire at The Municipal Theatre in Nice</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The new
theatre – which incidentally is still standing today – opened in 1885 with a
performance of Verdi’s <i>Aida</i>, which
seems to be a popular choice of first show for theatre’s reopening after fires;
The Royal Opera house in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Malta</st1:place></st1:country-region>
reopened in 1877 with a performance of Aida after burning down in 1873.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And finally…<span style="color: #2a2a2a;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The above stories
are, whilst not being of common knowledge, fairly medium-to-large-scale events.
But the real joy of reading old newspapers comes from tiny stories, which have
become buried like fossils by the weight of time and which, when revealed, tell
little stories which would have affected people’s lives when they occurred.<span style="color: #2a2a2a;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">FATAL TERMINATION TO A BOXING MATCH. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">An inquiry was held at <st1:place w:st="on">Sheffield</st1:place> to-day relative to the death of Michael Moran,
aged twenty-seven, a retired champion boxer. While taking part in a
boxing-match last week with a man named Maurier he slipped, and his opponent
falling upon him caused internal injuries which rendered an operation
necessary. Peritonitis, however, supervened, and death ensued. Before his death
Moran said that no one was to blame, and a verdict of "accidental
death" was returned. A sequel to the international football contest
between <st1:country-region w:st="on">England</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Scotland</st1:country-region> was enacted in the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Glasgow</st1:place></st1:city> police-courts yesterday. Of those who
sung "<i>Scots wha hae,"</i> and
who cheered the "<i>conquering heroes</i>"
on Saturday, no fewer than 252 appeared before the magistrates in the rather
undignified role of "drunks."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Some things never change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />If you have an interest in history then I really can recommend getting hold of a newspaper from the past (<i>preferably an original</i>) Even if you’re not interested in the stories, the adverts and correspondence can be fascinating. They can also make wonderful birthday gifts, if you can </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">manage to find a newspaper that was published on the day of the person's birth. <br /><br />If that is an idea that interests you, I can recommend the work of <a href="http://www.historic-newspapers.co.uk/">historic-newspapers.co.uk</a> very highly, having sampled some of their super work myself!</span><br />
<br />The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-57079214247751168742012-07-13T03:51:00.000-07:002012-07-13T03:52:07.661-07:00“I Go out Into the Fog and Enter an Incredible Underworld. The Fog has Turned London Into a Place of Ghosts…” Or: Appreciating H.V Morton:<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">This year will be one of the biggest in recent memory for London, and if
you follow me on Twitter or Tumblr you may know that I have another passion
aside from Victorianism – and that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>
London. Whilst the nineteenth century is, of course, my favourite time period
for the city, I will consume information and literature from any era of London
history. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Some great authors of London work that are amongst my favourite are
Peter Ackroyd, Iain Sinclair, Michael Moorcock, Roy Porter and, possibly (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In my opinion</i>) the best – H.V Morton.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">H.V Morton (like another excellent London writer who I can’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quite</i> call Victorian – Virginia Woolf) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> born in the nineteenth century, in
1892, but wrote his vast amount of travel articles, books and newspaper columns
between 1925 and his death in 1979. London featured heavily in his early work, and
I think what attracted me to the writing of Morton is the fact that the period
in which he wrote about London – the 20s to the 40’s – is a particularly
favourite period of mine for the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Throughout this period London went through many and vast changes, with,
of course, the onset of World War II leading to many of them, but also the
increase in motorized traffic, the first ever Commonwealth Games (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Then called the British Empire Games</i>)
the battle of Cable Street, the 1948 Olympics, great smogs (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">as we shall see below</i>), the Festival of
Britain, post-war regeneration, immigration and the resulting racism, the
wedding of our present Queen to Prince Phillip, not to mention four different
monarchs – including the first voluntary surrender of the English crown in the
country’s history, when Edward VIII abdicated in order to be with Wallis
Simpson, and throughout this period, Morton wrote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsvXO9UJ0cU8szUadtcOOVvA25GNoFAdF7-swsiKV0BD3eXxzO-3YR1_oVikqeGGaA20QpjXVRSd3FKCix1rX1vPvFTN57WFnTFD3HaG_M_DpmxNyMimRLtCHu6ukrKnNcbcukVhTDHR-/s1600/hv-morton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsvXO9UJ0cU8szUadtcOOVvA25GNoFAdF7-swsiKV0BD3eXxzO-3YR1_oVikqeGGaA20QpjXVRSd3FKCix1rX1vPvFTN57WFnTFD3HaG_M_DpmxNyMimRLtCHu6ukrKnNcbcukVhTDHR-/s320/hv-morton.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">H.V Morton</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">But once I started reading Morton’s work, the attraction went deeper.
The beauty of his writing is that virtually none of the above events are
mentioned, and instead he wrote exclusively about the city itself. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The only event above that I know of Morton
mentioning is the War.</i>) And so, Morton’s writing is a kind of poetic time
capsule of what London was like during these years; not necessarily society,
but the actual landscape of the metropolis. He scrutinized the changes that had
occurred, harked back to the way things used to be, commented on the present
life of London and also looked to its future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">But as I read more and more Morton, I realized exactly what it was that
I liked about his pieces on London the most, and that is that as a person with
a passion for London, H.V Morton writes about London in a way that I wish that
I could, but I have neither the verbal dexterity nor the affable charm to be
able to do so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">His passion for the city
is summed up with this quote </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">From Morton's introduction to
the 1925 publication of his first book The
Heart of London:</span></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">"… when I ask myself why I love London I realise I
appreciate that which is London - a thing very like family tradition for which
we in our turn are responsible to posterity - and I realise that I am every day
of my life thrilled, puzzled, charmed and amused by that flood tide of common
humanity flowing through London as it has surged through every great city in
the history of civillisation. Here is every human emotion. Here in this
splendid theatre the comedy and the tragedy of the human heart are acted day
and night."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, who was H.V Morton? <br /><br /> Niall Taylor, of the H.V Morton society, is a man far better equipped than me to explain, and has written this wonderful introduction to H.V Morton:</span><br />
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<b style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Henry
Vollam (HV) Morton </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">was a best selling journalist and author who was born in 1892 in Ashton under Lyne, Lancashire. He was gifted with the craft and discipline of the professional journalist by his journalist father, Joseph and a deep and abiding love of history and story telling by his Scots mother, Marguerite. Morton's love of literature was further enhanced by an early interest in the theatre, particularly in the works of Shakespeare which he performed in an amateur capacity while his love of his native land was taking root in the country lanes of Warwickshire and Staffordshire as he spent many happy hours cycling the length and breadth of his local countryside as a youth. <br /><br />Morton spent his childhood near Birmingham and, in 1910, while his father was editor in chief of a Birmingham newspaper group 'Harry', as he was known to his family, began his own literary career, first as a junior reporter at the Birmingham Gazette, later working at the paper where his father presided. <br /><br />A decline in family fortunes proved a blessing in disguise as Morton moved to London in 1913 to pursue his career, working for a variety of publications including the Empire Magazine and the Daily Mail. After serving as a Cavalry officer in the Warwickshire Yeomanry during the First World War, Morton returned to journalism, this time under Lord Beaverbrook who proved a great influence over the young reporter. During this period Morton was rapidly becoming a household name with his regular columns in the Daily Express but he got his first real 'break' on the international stage in 1923 when he covered the opening of the tomb of Tutankhamen for his paper, successfully breaking the cosy monopoly between the authorities and The Times newspaper, eventually managing to steal </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the scoop from under them! Bouyed by the success of this journalistic coup Morton began writing a column which would shape his career for the rest of his life. Since before the great war Morton had developed a great love of London and he now turned his hand to a series of essays about his beloved city which were published in the Express. His eye for detail, the personal touch and his love and understanding of 'place' made his works unique and very quickly his readers took him to their hearts. He describes himself at the time as an </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"acquisitive young reporter... allowed to wander at will into the highways and byways" who never failed to find subjects to write about. This deceptively simple approach to writing served HV Morton well for the next forty six years and his career went from strength to strength. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Morton however wasn't quite so naive as he might have endeavoured to appear in his writings and his eye was always firmly on the future. The unprecedented popularity of his contributions to the Express may go some way to explain how this shrewd young reporter was able to secure full copyrights to all his articles as he went on to publish them in book form with Methuen, and in 1925 his first book, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The Heart of London</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> was published. It was quickly followed by two additional volumes compiled from the same column over the next </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">eighteen months.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The success of his 'London' columns soon developed into a similar series of popular Daily Express articles, this time exploring the country at large, taking his newly acquired Bullnose Morris car, which was to become his trademark, along the rapidly developing road network of initially England then later Scotland, Ireland and Wales. These works too were ultimately published in book form, beginning with <b>In Search of England</b> in 1927. His popularity increased with every publication until he became the best selling travel writer of the period; <b>In Search of England</b> is still in print to this day.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Morton continued to publish in the decades that followed and his later works included travelogues of Spain, Italy, South Africa and the Holy Land, all the while maintaining his familiar style of light hearted inquiry and cunning observation, always with an eye for what we would call today the "human angle". Not for Morton a dry account of heroic architecture or local history, he was typically more concerned with the little old lady at the back of the crowd and he would go out of his way to talk to such people, elevating their stories to poetic heights. Morton did indeed describe heroic architecture - he had a particular love of ecclesiastical buildings, and he also had a great interest in local history but he would always deal with such things in his own special way, bringing the subject alive with his simple, descriptions and touching words. He was, on the whole, happy to leave political and social commentary to contemporaries such as Priestly and Orwell but when, on occasions he turned his hand to publications with a message he did so extremely well, speaking out against social injustice and later helping the war effort with publications such as <b>What I Saw in the Slums, I, James Blunt </b>(his only work of fiction) and <b>Atlantic Meeting.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />In the years following the close of the Second World War, during which he had served in the Home Guard, Morton became increasingly disillusioned with the country of his birth, which he percieved as being more and more at odds with the one he believed he had known and loved and written about. Finally, in 1948 he emigrated with his family to South Africa where he lived until his death in 1979 at the age of 86. Morton loved South Africa and was happy there, occasionally regretful and not without the odd bout of homesickness but his prolific output of books and articles continued, including another volume on London, <b>In Search of London</b>. He continued his international travels too while researching for new books and made frequent visits to Britain to cover events such as the death of King George and the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth for a variety of publications and journals. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His personal life wasn't always straightforward - "HV" Morton, whimsical narrator of his travelogues and "Harry" Morton, husband, father and career author were certainly not one in the same person to those that knew this deeply private man. His character has its contradictions, his life was complicated at times and he certainly lived it to the full according to his extensive diaries and notes which have been incorporated into two biographies. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Morton was however the master of his chosen craft and, some would say, still unrivalled as a travel writer. He is a unique link with the past, born in the Victorian age, growing up in Edwardian high society and forging a career in the modern age; all the time recording what he saw around him from the smallest detail to grandest events unfolding on the international stage. His writing is vivid, always readable and sympathetic to the subject at hand. His popular works are simple in style as he effortlessly brings history to life and takes a willing reader along with him on his journeys uncluttered with any hidden agenda other than to achieve "<i>an understanding love for the villages and country towns of England". </i><br /><br />For further information on HV Morton and the society set up in 2003 to encourage an interest in his works as well as provide a means for the exchange of views on his life and works, please visit the website at</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.hvmorton.co.uk/">hvmorton.co.uk</a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">.</span></span></div>
- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Niall Taylor (webmaster for the HV Morton society) <br /><br />Sources and further reading:</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>H.V. Morton: The life of an enchanted traveller</b>, by Kenneth Fields (Self-published; November 2003, revised April 2009) [available from www.hvmorton.co.uk] <br /><br />‘<b>In Search of H.V. Morton</b>’, by Michael Bartholomew (Methuen, London, 2004. 248 pages with illustrations, notes and index. Also now available in paperback. From major booksellers and on-line through Amazon UK, etc.) <br /><br /> Before proceeding I’d like to thank Niall for the wonderful article above, and urge you to visit his website to learn more about H.V Morton. <br /><br /> Now, onto two of my favourite articles from Morton’s vast cannon of work:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">The Dead City, from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Nights of London</i>, 1926:</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Two o’clock in the morning at the Bank….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Arc lights burn over empty streets. It is so cold, so quiet. The Lord
Mayor of London asleep behind the Corinthian columns of his dark, island house;
the lieutenant in charge of the Bank Guard (soothed by traditional port) asleep
opposite behind the eyeles frontage of Soane’s stone money-box; the constables
of the Royal Exchange asleep in the suburbs, their cocked hats on the
bed-posts, their silver, Elizabethan bears above white sheets…dreaming of
Gloriana, perhaps, who made them, or of scrubby little office boys who live on
apples and leave the cores to plague their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">This is the Bank; the busiest scene by day in London; by night the most
desolate, most forlorn! A forest has at night a hidden life; even the Sahara
and the Libyan desert seem to pulse with a queer vitality under the stars, but
the City of London, made by man and deserted by its creator, dies each night.
Dead as Timgad, it seems; as uncanny as its shuttered trance as some lost city
of old times discovered standing in silence under an indifferent moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">I stand by the Duke of Wellington, gripped by the silence of this so
recently crowded stage, feeling in some small way the horror of being the last
man on earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">A black tom-cat of great girth and dignity comes down from Cheapside
into Poultry with an air which suggests that he is the managing director of
London Limited. He alone treads roads which a few hours since would have meant
annihilation; leisurely he comes, as if savouring the solitude, as if purring
in the silence. He stands a moment lost in thought, and then slowly crosses the
road – Cheapside to his tail, the Royal Exchange to his whiskers, the Bank to
his left, the Mansion House to his right – the only living thing in the core of
London’s sleeping heart!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">In the desolation of the Bank at two a.m he is an event.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">‘Puss-puss,’ I whisper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">He considers me and rejects me in the manner of cats. What right have I
to be messing about in the coverts scaring the quarry? He walks to the Royal
Exchange, and is lost round a corner. I wonder whether he will hunt the rat
over those stones from Turkey on which London found her fortune.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">A taxicab spins across from Queen Victoria Street; one of those curious
unbalanced motor-sweepers releases its brushes and hums beside the kerb in
Poultry, going slowly into lamplit solitude like an ugly garbage beetle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">I meet a policeman in Cornhill; another one in Gracechurch Street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">London must have felt like this during the great plague; these silent
locked buildings and these dead avenues! A square mile of solitude where once
was such throbbing life, where London behind her wall lived and slept, married,
died, and was buried. There can be no such things as ghosts, or the empty City
of London would be full of thin, mist-like clouds every night, clouds with
faces in them, peering, wondering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Who could resist going on past the Monument to London Bridge?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">London Bridge deserted, twin rows of lamps over the dark river, and –
such a heart-catching beauty of London lost in a faint night mist, picked out
with pin stars of light, the Thames in movement round the jutting piers, barred
with gold fish scales of lamplight, and, to the right, a great splendour of
grey spires, and dark stones…London asleep! No sound but that of a stray,
petulant siren downstream; no movement in all London but an approaching red tug
light on the Thames, the rush of lit water and a sudden puff of steam from the
Canon Street railway bridge; a white cloud lit with red flame for an instant
and then lost…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">This is the time to see London, to love London, to make promises to
London, to pray to London, to plead with London; for London now, grotesquely,
seems all yours in loneliness, for once in the twenty-four hours harmless,
unable to hurt or bless…lost in a dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">I go down Lower Thames Street, where the cats are all in love, sitting
crouched low, face to face, whirring inside with savage sonnets, advancing,
retreating, eye to eye. I come to the Tower of London, which lifts grey walls
and bastions in the night. One small window only is lit; a tiny square of gold
high up in a turret. The mind fastens to it. I think of a knight hurriedly
arming in the stone room and his horse ready below…I think of a yeoman warder
with neuralgia! Such a speculative little window in a London night!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">I creep to the wicket gate and peer in at the sleeping Tower of London.
A shadow at the gate moves. I see the light run on steel;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">‘Who goes there?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">The Tower is awake; that is the discovery of a City night! The Tower is
as it always was; a fortress locked with a password, locked by the King’s keys,
slipping back into medievalism every night prompt at ten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">‘Who goes there?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">in the voice of the sentry at the wicket gate is the Voice of our London
coming down, with a slight touch of indignation, over eight hundred splendid
years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Ghosts of the Fog, from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Heart of London</i>, 1925:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Fog in London. Men are like flat figures cut in black paper. All things
become two-dimensional. Carts, motor-cars, omnibuses are shadows that nose
their way painfully like blind beasts. The fog has a flavour. Many flavours. At
Marble Arch I meet a delicate after-taste like melon; at Ludgate Hill I taste
coke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Everywhere the fog grips the throat and sets the eyes watering. It puts
out clammy fingers that touch the ears and give the hands a ghostly grip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Children alone love it. They press their small faces to window-panes and
watch the lights like little unripe oranges going by in the murk. A taxicab
becomes something ogreish; a steam-lorry is a dragon spitting flame and
grunting on its evil way. Men who sell things in the streets become more than
ever deliciously horrible and blood-curdling; they never arrive normally; they
loom; they appear, delightfully freezing the blood, howling their wares like
the lonely wolf in the picture book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">I go out into the fog and enter an incredible underworld. The fog has
turned London into a place of ghosts. At one moment a man with a red nose and a
moustache like a small scrubbing-brush appears with the startling suddenness of
an apparition. There must be millions of such men with exactly similar
moustaches, but this one is segregated from the herd. He seems unique in his
isolation. I am quite prepared to believe he is the only one of that type in
the world. I want to examine him as a learned man examines an insect on a pin. He
seems a rare and interesting specimen. I want to cry “Stop! Let me appreciate
you!” But no; in a flash he goes, fades – disappears!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">There comes a girl, pale and beautiful – much more beautiful than she
would be on a fine day, because the eyes are focused on her alone! She has the
allurement of a dream, or a girl in a poem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">What is this in Oxford Street? Two motor-cars locked together. Fifty
grim, muffled ghosts stand round watching and blowing their noses. On any day
but a foggy day it would be a mere nothing: an excuse for a policeman to lick
his pencil and write in a book. Today it is a struggle of prehistoric monsters
in a death-grip. So must two clumsy, effete beats of the Ice Age have fought
locked in each other’s scaly arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">“Hi, there, put a bit of beef behind it….Come on, mate – heave!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Deep, angry voices come from the grey nothingness. A girl ghost says:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">“Oh, isn’t it awful? My eyes smart like anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Two big yellow eyes bear down on the scene. Men ghosts jump about in the
road. They shout, they wave a red light, the monster with the two blazing eyes
swerves, there is a vision of a red-faced man in a peaked cap and his gloved
hands on a steering wheel:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">“Keep your rear lights on, can’t you! You ought to be in the
cemetery…that’s where you ought to be and that’s where you’ll blinkin’ well
end!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">He passes on with his message.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">In Finsbury Square a crowd of ghosts watch ten devils. Men are putting
down asphalt. Today they are not men: they are fiends pushing flaming cauldrons
about. The roadway is a mass of tiny, licking, orange-coloured flames. The
devils take long rakes, and the little flames leap and jump and fall over and
between the prongs of the rakes like fluid. Red-hot wheeled trolleys, with a
blasting flame, beneath them are dragged backwards and forwards over the
roadway, heating it, licking at it, and roaring like furnaces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">The wind blows the flames this way and that way, lighting up the faces
of the men, glittering on their belt buckles and making their bare arms fire
colour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">The ghosts stand with white faces watching. More ghosts come. One little
ghost has a peaked cap and an urgent message in a patent leather pouch. He
stays a long time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Near the bank I come face to face with the greatest optimist of this or
any other age. Here is a man entirely obscured by fog standing on the kerb
making a tin monkey run up and down a piece of twine. Think of it! If you are
sad or broke or things are going wrong, think of this man selling tin monkeys
in a thick fog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">“How many have you sold?” I ask him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">“Fower,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Four tin monkeys sold in a thick fog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">Marvellous! Incredible!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">I hope that H.V Morton’s work will one day become as popular as it
deserves to be, and that, if prior to reading this post you had never heard of
him, you will feel inspired to find some of his work! I know there is an
appetite for his work out there, as one of the most popular posts I’ve ever
written on this blog involved a Morton article about Victorian Lamplighters,
which you can read </span><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/victorian-lamplighter.html">here.</a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial;">My thanks again go to Niall Taylor for his work on this article.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</span></div>The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651641356618861735.post-8038463848247518552012-06-15T02:58:00.000-07:002012-06-15T02:58:25.256-07:00“She Seemed to Realize…the Intense Loneliness of her Lot; and, When I Put My Arm Round Her She Clung to Me With Such Sobs That I Could Hardly Help Crying Too. “ Or: More Working Children of the 19th Century:<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By far the most popular post I have ever written on this blog is <a href="http://thevictorianist.blogspot.co.uk/2010/11/working-children-of-19th-century.html">this</a> article, entitled ‘Working Children of the 19th Century’ from November 2010. It has been looked at well over a thousand times more than its closest rival, and so, I thought perhaps I would re-visit the subject of Victorian working children whilst I was reading an article about them in an old magazine.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Strand Magazine, from which I have taken the article, was a fairly late-comer to the world of Victorian publication, with its first issue being printed in January 1891. As a bit of a collector of Victorian papers and magazines, I must admit that <i>The Strand</i> is an excellent little eye on the world of the late Victorian period, as it combines fiction with factual articles. Many publications from the period can be, I find, a little difficult to read if they are purely news-based. Interesting, of course, but if you don’t have a full grasp on a story, it can be a little dull reading a small portion of it, so, in many ways, since <i>The Strand</i> contains whole articles on various social aspects of the Victorian period, it gives a far broader view on the topics it covers – if not quite as detailed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcV1Xy7KPnkwLqa-Q5tzOjX7pixEPBcmVcmq9AcZokjq7pH2-T1Gf1F7NuI1E7H3OrKZcVoWWFOkuDn2nXoVe3WCGHigNuIRn-30t7ovRUoV4y_rcdzDwviToftIH_2SDa_mT5rYwb-3G/s1600/The+Strand+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcV1Xy7KPnkwLqa-Q5tzOjX7pixEPBcmVcmq9AcZokjq7pH2-T1Gf1F7NuI1E7H3OrKZcVoWWFOkuDn2nXoVe3WCGHigNuIRn-30t7ovRUoV4y_rcdzDwviToftIH_2SDa_mT5rYwb-3G/s400/The+Strand+Cover.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The magazine’s biggest claim to fame is that it was the home of the Sherlock Holmes serializations, but it can boast many other famous contributors, such as Agatha Christie, Arthur Morrison, Rudyard Kipling, H.G Wells, and also a lady we have seen a lot of recently on this particular blog; Queen Victoria, who had a sketch published in the magazine.<br /> <br />Before I move onto the article, I’d like to say how much I like the front cover of The Strand, which is a lovely sketch of – predictably – The Strand, in London, looking toward Mary Le Strand. This was designed by the artist George Charles Haitè. The title of the magazine is suspended from telegraph wires, zig-zagging above the thoroughfare.<br /> <br />Enough of the publication, and onto the article:<br /><br /><u>
Child Workers in London</u></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial;">This article does not
profess to be an exhaustive account of all the employments in which </span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> children are
engaged. The limits of a magazine article do not allow of a full and detailed
account of this very comprehensive subject. No individual or body of
individuals has any precise information about the hundreds of children engaged
as ballet dancers, acrobats, models, and street vendors, to give only a few names
in the vast army of child workers.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Nothing can be harder and
drearier than the lot of little servants, employed in many cases in
lodging-houses. They are on their feet all day long, at everyone’s beck and
call, and never expected to be tired or sit down properly for a meal; the food
is of the poorest quality; they have heavy weights to drag up and down stairs
in the shape of coal-scuttles, and the inevitable strapping baby; their
sleeping apartment is as often as not a disgraceful hole, and such requisites
to health as are generally considered necessary in the shape of exercise, fresh
air, and baths are unknown quantities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There is a strong prejudice
against the “factory girl” in many quarters, and “service” is indiscriminately
extolled as far more suitable for a respectable girl of the lower classes. It
would be, if there were any chance of the docker’s child or the coster’s child
obtaining a decent situation; but, as a matter of fact, the life of the
much-pitied match-worker is infinitely easier than that of these little
drudges. At eight o’clock the factory girl is at any rate free to get out into
the open air for a couple of hours, or to sit down and rest. The little
“general” is never free. One child told me – she was the daughter of a docker
who was the happy owner of eleven children, and was herself an under-fed,
anaemic-looking creature – that she got up at six every morning to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“make the gen’l’m’s
breakfast – it was a lodging house; after that there’s the steps, ‘ouse work,
peeling potatoes, and sich like, till dinner. I never sits down till we ‘ave a
cup o’ tea after the lodgers ‘ave ‘ad their suppers. But the missis – oh, she
is a nice, kind laidy, and she works with me, she do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I suppose,” I said “you are
able to get out on Sunday’s?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Once a month I goes ‘ome,
but I nusses the baby on Sunday, as we ain’t so busy. ‘E’s such a beauty; I’ll
ask missis if I can bring ‘im down; ‘e can’t walk by ‘isself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uD8GWOMCZKIqSU1On1UwZX3yHme1eYMHeQ3DNYsKltStMf-PIKc62D-61AJdlBbOnWeQdZI241EpfD8Z6evKKMNVICnksM9uRd_ye8xhDF4_We5iSsVvzY_ILYBAr8g1p4e9geuiccrS/s1600/a+child+nurse.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9uD8GWOMCZKIqSU1On1UwZX3yHme1eYMHeQ3DNYsKltStMf-PIKc62D-61AJdlBbOnWeQdZI241EpfD8Z6evKKMNVICnksM9uRd_ye8xhDF4_We5iSsVvzY_ILYBAr8g1p4e9geuiccrS/s400/a+child+nurse.bmp" width="347" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And off darted the little
maid to the top of the house as if she were not on her thin legs from morn to
night, returning presently with a huge and well-fed baby, about three times as
fat as herself. I am bound to say this girl seemed contented, and, as
lodging-house landladies go, her mistress seemed a fairly good one; but what a
life of exhaustive and unremitting labour, even under these conditions, for a
child of thirteen; and what a life of horrors if her mistress had been a brutal
or cruel woman! The usual payment is 2s. 6d. a week, but I found in a number of
cases the girls only receive 1s., or even 9d., their mistresses deducting the
rest of their salary for the payment of the clothes which they have been
compelled to buy for them on arrival, the little servant being too often in
possession of a hat with feathers, a fur boa, and a brass locket, which, with
the garments she stands up in, form her entire outfit. A pathetic little story
was told me about a bright-faced girl I happened to come across.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I got to know of her,” said
my informant, a lady who does much quiet good, and whose name is unknown to
newspaper readers, “last year. A friend of mine whose Sunday-school she
attended in Deptford asked me to look her up. I happened quite by chance to
call in at the coffee tavern where she was to act as a servant, a few moments after
she had arrived, and I was told I might go up to the ‘bedroom.’ Well, I wont go
into particulars about that ‘bedroom.’ It was nearly dark, and I found the poor
little soul sitting on the only available piece of furniture in the room – her
own little tin hat-box. I shall not easily forget that dazed, bewildered look
with which she met me. It was all so strange; everyone had been too busy to
attend to her, and, though she had come from a wretched home, where the playful
father had been in the habit of making her a ratget for his boot shying, still
there had been familiar faces round her. She seemed to realize in the sort of
way young people do not, as a rule, the intense loneliness of her lot; and,
when I put my arm round her she clung to me with such sobs that I could hardly
help crying too. “<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Fortunately, sensitive
child-servants are tolerably rare, and I am bound to say I failed to find any
answering to this description. They were generally what one might describe as
decidedly “independent!” one girl – she was barely fifteen – told me she had
been in six places.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Are you so fond of change?”
I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“’Tain’t that so much,”
returned the young lady; “but I cant put up with ‘cheek,’ and some o’ my
missises do go on awful. ‘I says: ‘Ave yer jaw, and ‘ave done with it.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This certainly was rather an
awful specimen; but she could not have been very bad, as her present mistress –
who, I presume, has not up to the present “checked” her – assured me that the
girl handed over her 2s. 6d. a week regularly to her mother. This seems to be
the usual practice with the girls. Their mothers buy their clothes, and give
them a shilling on Bank Holidays and a few pence every week to spend on
themselves. A large proportion of these little drudges marry dockers and
labourers generally, and, as their training has not been exactly of the kind to
render them neat, thrifty housewives, it is perhaps not surprising that their <i>cuisine</i> and domestic arrangements
altogether leave much to be desired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There is perhaps no form of
entertainment more popular amongst a large class of playgoers than that
afforded by the clever acrobat, of whose private life the public has only the
vaguest knowledge. The general impression, derived from sensational stories in
newspapers and romances, is that the profession of the gymnast is a
disreputable one, involving a constant danger of life and limb; and that young
acrobats can only be made proficient in the art by the exercise of severity and
cruelty on the part of trainers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The actual facts are that
the owners, or, as they are called, “fathers,” of “troupes” are, in a number of
cases, respectable house-holders, who, when not travelling over Europe and
America, occupy little villas in the neighbourhood of Brixton and Clapham; that
the danger is immensely exaggerated, particularly in the case of boys, who are
always caught when they fall; and that the training and discipline need not be
any severer than that employed by a schoolmaster to enforce authority.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Of course,” said a trainer of long experience
to me, “I sometimes get an idle boy, just as a schoolmaster gets an idle pupil,
and I have my own methods of making him work. But I would lay a heavy wager
that even a lazy lad sheds less tears in his training with me than a dull
schoolboy at a public school. I have never met with a single boy who didn’t
delight in his dexterity and muscle; and you will find acrobats as a whole
enjoy a higher average of health than any other class.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are no “Schools of
Gymnastics” for training acrobats in London, the regular method being that the
head of each troupe – which usually consists of five or six persons, including
one or more members of the family, the acrobatic instinct being strongly
hereditary – trains and exhibits his own little company. The earlier a boy begins,
of course, the better; and, as a general rule, the training commences at seven
or eight years old. Many of the children are taken from the very lowest dregs
of humanity, and are bound over by their parents to the owner of a troupe for a
certain number of years. The “father” undertakes to teach, feed and clothe the
boy, whilst the parents agree not to claim him for a stipulated number of
years. A boy is rarely of any good for the first couple of years, and it takes
from five to six years to turn out a finished gymnast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Is it true,” I asked of the
head of the celebrated “Yokohama Troupe,” “that the bones of the boy are broken
whilst young?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mr. Edwin Bale, who is
himself a fine specimen of the healthy trapezist, smiled pityingly at my
question, and asked me to come and watch his troupe practice. All gymnasts
practice regularly for two hours or more every day. The “Yokohama Troupe”
includes three boys, all well-fed looking and healthy, one of them being Edwin,
the fifteen-year-old son of Mr. Bale, a strikingly handsome and
finely-developed boy, who has been in the profession since he was two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The first exercise that
young boys learn is “shoulder and legs,” which is practiced assiduously till
performed with ease and rapidity. After this comes “splits.” This exercise
looks as if it ought to be not only uncomfortable but painful; but a strong
proof that it is neither was afforded me involuntarily by one of the little boys.
He did it repeatedly for his own benefit when off duty! After this the boy
learns “flip flap,” “full spread,” and a number of intricate gymnastics with
which the public is familiar. In all these performances boys are very much in
request, partly because they are more popular with the public, and partly
because in a variety of these gymnastic exhibitions men are disqualified from
taking any part in them owing to their weight. In the figure technically known
as “full spread” (<i>shown in illustration</i>)
it is essential that the topmost boy shall be slightly made and light in
weight; but even under these conditions the strain on the principal “supporter”
is enormous. As regards danger, so far as I have been able to learn from a good
deal of testimony on the point, there is very little of any kind. The only
really dangerous gymnastic turn is the “somersault,” which may have serious
results, unless done with dexterity and delicacy. There is no doubt that
exercise of this kind is beneficial to the boys’ health. Several boys in
excellent condition, with well-developed muscles and chests assured me they were
often in the “’orspital” before they became acrobats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOEmWmBkgyKdxpcvbXCEgW5GZ-pQiuAzqU-5lYTuP0LlYRo81saIn4s8vXB5RAaAmT2iF-Zr0S5UAXyIBFQx8G10gvX9MwptLljwSvq2G9RK8TuxO-oY2zVxm3hZuFlhoCP6zaUb1xh7O/s1600/full+spread.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOEmWmBkgyKdxpcvbXCEgW5GZ-pQiuAzqU-5lYTuP0LlYRo81saIn4s8vXB5RAaAmT2iF-Zr0S5UAXyIBFQx8G10gvX9MwptLljwSvq2G9RK8TuxO-oY2zVxm3hZuFlhoCP6zaUb1xh7O/s400/full+spread.bmp" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Their improved physique is
possibly in a great measure due to the capital feeding they get, it being
obviously to the advantage of the “father” to have a robust, rosy-faced company.
Master Harris, of the “Yokohama Troupe,” informed me that he generally has meat
twice a day, a bath every evening (gymnasts are compelled by the nature of
their work to keep their skins in good condition by frequent bathing), that
Mrs. Bale was as kind to him as his own mother, and that he thought performing
“jolly.” He further informed me that he got three shillings a week for pocket
money, which was put inton the bank for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Another boy in the same
troupe told me he had over £9 in the bank. Of course, all companies are not so
well looked after as the boys in Mr. Bale’s troupe; but I have failed to
discover a single case where the boys seemed ill-used. Where the troupe
travelled about <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>, the lads were
exceptionally intelligent, and several of them could talk fair French of
German. A really well-equipped acrobat is nearly always sure of work, and can
often obtain as much as £30 a week, the usual payment being from £20 to £25 a
week. As a rule, the boys remain with the master who has given them their
training, and who finds it worthwhile, when they are grown up, to pay them a
good salary. A troupe gets as much as £70 or £80 a day when hired out for fetes
or public entertainments. There is one point which will possibly interest the
temperance folk, and which I must not forget. The boys have constantly before
them moderation in the persons of their elders. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Directly an acrobat takes
to drinking,” said Mr. Bale, impressively, “he is done for. I rarely take a
glass of wine. I can’t afford to have my nerves shaky.” Altogether there are
worse methods of earning a livelihood than those of the acrobat; and <i>a propos</i> of this point, an instructive
little story was told me which sentimental, fussy people would do well to note.
There was a certain little lad belonging to a troupe the owner of which had
rescued him from the gutter principally out of charity. The boy was slight and
delicate-looking, but good feeding and exercise improved him wonderfully, and
he was becoming quite a decent specimen of humanity when some silly people
cried out about the cruelty of the late hours, and so on, and insisted that he
should be at school all day. The lad, who was well fed, washed, and clothed,
was handed back to the care of his parents. He now certainly attends school
during the day, but he is running about the gutter every evening, barefooted,
selling matches till midnight!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On the subject of ballet
children there is also a great deal of wasted sentiment. All sorts and
descriptions of children are employed in theatres, from the respectable
tradesman’s child to the coster’s child in Drury Lane; but the larger
proportion are certainly of the very poorest class, and it must be remembered
that these children would not be tucked up safely in their little beds, if they
were not earning a few badly-wanted shillings; they would be running about he
London streets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mr. D’Auban – who has turned
out a number of our best dancers, such as Sylvia Grey, Letty Lind, and others, -
was kind enough to call a rehearsal of his children, who are now performing at
the Lyric, Prince of Wales, Drury Lane, and other theatres, so that I was
enabled to see a very representative gathering of these useful little
breadwinners. Whatever else may be urged against the employment of children in
theatres, there is not the least doubt that dancing is a pure pleasure to them.
Out of all the little girls I questioned, not a single one would admit that she
ever felt “tired.” A good many of the children belong to theatrical families,
and have been on the stage since they were babies; they were distinguished by a
calmness and self-possession which the other little ones lacked; but in the
matter of dancing there was very little difference, and it was difficult to
believe that a large proportion of the children now playing in “La Cigale,”
knew nothing about dancing six months ago. Mr. D’Auban has no apprentices, no
agreements, and no charges, and he says he can make any child of fair
intelligence a good dancer in six months. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The classes begin in May,
and, as soon as it is known that Mr. D’Auban wants children, he is besieged by
parents with little maids of all sizes. The School Board only allows them to
attend two days a week; but Mr. D’Auban says: “Everything I teach them once is
practiced at home and brought back perfect to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">me.</st1:place></st1:state>” The children wear their ordinary dress,
and practicing shoes of any kind are allowed. First the positions are mastered,
then chasses, pirouettes, and all the rest of the rhythmic and delicate
movements of which ballets consist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Many of these graceful
little dancers are the real bread winners of the family. Little Minnie Burley,
whose charming dance in “The Rose and the Ring” will be remembered, though only
eleven years old, has for more than a year practically supported herself and
her mother by her earnings. The mother suffers from an incurable spinal
complaint, and, beyond a little help which she gets from another daughter who
is in service, has nothing to live upon but the little one’s earnings. During
the double performance of the “Rose and the Ring,” Minnie earned £1 5s. a week;
now she is earning as a Maypole dancer in “Maid Marian” 12s. a week: but her
engagement will soon end, and the poor little maiden, who has the sense and
foresight of a woman of thirty, is getting rather anxious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">She is a serious-faced,
dark-eyed child, very sensible, very self-possessed, and passionately fond of
dancing. Her mother is devoted to her, and keeps her exquisitely neat. I asked
her whether she did not feel a little nervous about the child coming home alone
every night from the <st1:place w:st="on">Strand</st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“No,” said Mrs. Burley, “you
see, she comes by ‘bus, and she <i>knows how</i>
to take care of herself – she knows she is not to let anyone talk to her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Minnie is a type of dozens
of other hard working, modest little girls who are supporting themselves, and
very often their families, by dancing. As a rule, the mothers fetch the
children, or make arrangements for several to come home together. Many of them,
whose husbands have been out of work, or who are widows, or deserted, have assured
me they could not possibly have got through the winter without the children’s
earnings, whilst the children themselves are immensely proud of “helping”
mother. The pride they take in their parts is also very amusing. One small girl
ran after me the whole length of a street. She reached me breathless, saying,
“Don’t forget I’m <i>principal</i>
butterfly.” Another small mite gave me a most crushing reply. She made some
allusion to her mother, and I said innocently, “I suppose your mother is a
dresser?” She looked daggers at me, and said indignantly, “My mother’s a lady
wots in the ballet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The wages of the children
range from 6s. to 16s. a week, and, as their engagements often last for four
months at a time, it will be seen that their money is a valuable, and in may
instances an essential, addition to the mother’s purse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Child models, being required
almost exclusively in the daytime, are, thanks to the vigilance of the School
Board authorities, becoming more and more scarce. The larger number of them
comes from “model families,” the mother having sat herself, and having from an
early age accustomed their children to “sitting.” The children of these
families have no difficulty in obtaining regular work; they get a reputation in
the painting world, and one artist recommends them to another. In the
neighbourhood of <st1:address w:st="on"><st1:street w:st="on">Fitzroy Square</st1:street>,
<st1:city w:st="on">Holland</st1:city></st1:address> Park, and <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">St. John’s</st1:place></st1:city> Wood these
families abound, and are mostly in respectable circumstances. A pretty little
girl, whose mother is a well-known model, and who has herself figured in several
of Millais’ pictures, told me with condescension that she had so many
engagements she didn’t know which artist to go to first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mary M–––, whose face is
familiar to admirers of Miss Kate Greenaway’s pictures, is, except for a couple
of months in the summer, never out of work. She is a beautiful child of
fourteen, the daughter of a cab-driver, who is not always in regular
employment; and, as Mary has a tribe of little brothers, her earnings are of
the utmost usefulness. For several months she has been sitting to three
artists, and making the very respectable sum of £1. 10s. a week. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In her spare moments Mary
takes music lessons, and her great ambition is to become an illustrator in
black and white. All her earnings are cheerfully handed over to her mother, who
is careful of her little daughter’s welfare as can be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I don’t sit as a nude
model,” Mary said, “but only for my head, and mother doesn’t let me go into <i>any</i> studio.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As a matter of fact,
children are not used as nude models to any great extent; they do not sit still
enough, and their limbs are too thin and unformed to be of much use. Besides
the regular professional models, who get 5s. a day, and are pretty sure of
engagements, except in the summer, there is a fairly large class of street children
who call at the different artists’ studios, and are taken on occasionally. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I get any number,” said a
well-known artist. “They come down to me, and are kind enough to <i>suggest</i> ideas. One small girl said to me
the other day. ‘could you do me in a blue dress, sir; mother says it would go
well with my golden ‘air.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Many artists prefer these
children to the regular model, who get a stereotyped expression and artificial
poses from long habit. Mr. T.B. Kennington, whose pictures of poor <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> children are familiar
to the public, told me that he always actually paints from the class of
children that he depicts on his canvas. The boy whop figured in that painful
and powerful picture of his, “Widowed and Fatherless,” is a real little <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> waif.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoe-sUpToLvFbktrTJ16Ves2K2F2qQ6l00AaH8W55qWIC-w_huALuZC2RgGcTGSiVHxlaAJw_LC21ZIA5-vrjreXh6md4QCdzIEDrKNfIhgDlzjSpu489IQn_GQ9JB65gkoaLVwDfpAyJ6/s1600/Widowed+and+fatherless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoe-sUpToLvFbktrTJ16Ves2K2F2qQ6l00AaH8W55qWIC-w_huALuZC2RgGcTGSiVHxlaAJw_LC21ZIA5-vrjreXh6md4QCdzIEDrKNfIhgDlzjSpu489IQn_GQ9JB65gkoaLVwDfpAyJ6/s640/Widowed+and+fatherless.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Widowed and Fatherless" T.B. Kennington, 1888</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">His mother is said to have
been pitched out of window by her husband, and the boy, whose sad face arrests
the attention of the most careless observer, lives with his grandmother, who
does washing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Do you make the children
‘put on’ this sad expression?” I asked Mr. Kennington.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“No, indeed; my great
difficulty is to make them smile, except momentarily. Haven’t you ever noticed
how melancholy children look in repose?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This may be true about
children who are constantly half-starved and ill-treated, but surely it is not
true of children in general, or even of the majority of children of the lower
classes, who contrive to wear an air of marvelous brightness, in spite of cold,
hunger, and even blows. “Sitting” does not seem to be an occupation that
commends itself to children, who naturally dislike keeping perfectly still in
one position. Nearly all the little models prefer ladies, who keep them quiet
by telling them stories, and bestowing sweets and cakes on them; whereas male
painters have less persuasive methods of making them do what they want. These
latter, however, make many attempts to reform the manners and morals of their
small models, many of whom, they say, evince an appalling amount of depravity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mr. F.W. Lawson, who painted
some veritable little slum waifs, in his series of pictures called “Children of
the Great Cities,” told a good little story of one of his attempts in this
direction. His model was a small, bright-faced, black-eyed street boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Well, Fred, what have you
been doing today?” asks Mr. Lawson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Playing on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Battersea</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>, sir, and chucking stones at mad
old Jimmy,” was the reply of the urchin, who then proceeded with much gusto to
describe the details of this sport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mr. Lawson, on learning that
mad old Jimmy added blindness to his other infirmities, spoke strongly about
the cruelty and cowardice of such an entertainment; and ended up by telling a
story of a heroic deed by a blind man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“When I looked up,” said Mr.
Lawson, “I saw the boys eyes were full of tears, and I thought to improve the
occasion by asking, ‘And now, Freddy, what will you do if you meet mad old
Jimmy again?’ The little scamp looked up with a wink and said, chuckling,
‘Chuck stones at ‘im, sir.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Professional models,
especially those who have sat to eminent artists, have an exaggerated idea of
their comeliness, and they will draw your attention to their good points with
much frankness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“I’ve got beautiful ‘air.”
Said one little girl, modestly pointing to her curly, chestnut locks; whilst a
small boy, usually called the “Saint,” from having figured in several religious
pictures, requested me to observe his “fine froat,” as if he had been a prize
beast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, owing to the numerous restrictions
imposed on employers, there are only a comparatively small number of children
working in factories. Girls of thirteen and upward are employed in
confectionary, collar, jam, and match and other factories where skilled labour
is not required, whilst small boys are principally found at rope works, foundries,
and paper-mills, where their chief business is to attend to the machinery. It
is almost impossible to mistake the factory-girl, and even at a glance one
notes certain characteristics which distinguish her from her sister workers.
Contrast her, for instance, with the theatre child out of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Drury Lane</st1:address></st1:street>. The little actress may be as
poor as the Mile End factory girl, but in nine cases out of ten she will be
neatly clad, with spotless petticoats and well-made boots and stockings. If you
watch her, you will notice she walks gracefully, and instinctively assumes,
whenever she can, a picturesque and taking attitude. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The little factory girl is
decently enough attired so far as her frock is concerned, but she, or her
mother, cares nothing about her boots, which are invariably cheap and untidy, whilst
any superfluous coin is devoted to the adornment of her hat, an article of
great importance amongst factory-girls – young as well as old. But a still more
characteristic feature, which, so far as I know, is peculiar to factory-girls,
is their curious method of walking, which is carefully cultivated and imitated
by the young ones. It is a sort of side “swing” of the skirts, and has one of
the ugliest effects that can be produced, especially when executed by half a
dozen young ladies walking abreast on the pavement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">At Messrs. Allen’s chocolate
and sweet factories, in Mile End, some two hundred women and girls are
employed. Referring to the strike, I asked a highly respectable,
intelligent-looking girl, why she joined it:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Well, I don’t hardly know,”
was the candid reply. “It was all done in a rush, and the other girls asked me
to come out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This girl was earning, by
the bye, 17s. a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The quite young girls are
principally employed in packing chocolate into boxes, covering it with silver
paper, which operation they perform with great dexterity, labeling, and other
easy work of this nature. The rooms are large and well ventilated, and each
department is under the care of a forewoman, who not only keeps a sharp
look-out on the work, but exercises what control she can have over behaviour
and conversation.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvLzOwnlijj6unL_rDwOiyci4RTnn3MlBJQJo6LLK8XcSRCYLXqbfTANgsN6hU9xv6Vzl361hHm5U3Iz0j-EzetUacE9qtYNETGDibcQHVrQJAeYs6oQB1UELo79DHBKlX3jI-cF01Nhn/s1600/Packing+Chocolate.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvLzOwnlijj6unL_rDwOiyci4RTnn3MlBJQJo6LLK8XcSRCYLXqbfTANgsN6hU9xv6Vzl361hHm5U3Iz0j-EzetUacE9qtYNETGDibcQHVrQJAeYs6oQB1UELo79DHBKlX3jI-cF01Nhn/s400/Packing+Chocolate.bmp" width="285" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The discipline did not
strike me as particularly severe, considering that the girls left their work <i>en masse,</i> as soon as one of their number
had announced, referring to the artist, “She’s takin’ Em’ly’s likeness.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The hours, from 8 to 7, are
certainly too long for girls in delicate health; but the work itself is light,
and a capital dining-room is provided on the premises, where the girls can cook
their dinners and make themselves tea. Nor are the prospects at all bad. Here
is Alice C <a href="" name="OLE_LINK2"></a><a href="" name="OLE_LINK1">–</a>––, a girl of fourteen, the daughter of a flower carman,
not always in work. She is a packer, and gets 6s. a week, which she hands over
to her mother. She says she likes doing things with her hands, and would not
like to be in service, as then she wouldn’t have her Sundays to herself. If she
stays on at Messrs. Allen’s, her wages will be steadily raised to 18s. a week;
and, if she ultimately becomes a piece-worker, she may make as much as 24s. or
25s. a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Considering that a good many
educated women are teaching in High Schools for salaries of £65 per annum, this
is surely not bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Of course all factories are
not as well managed as these chocolate works, and where the hardship comes in
is where hands are turned off at certain periods of the year, or when the work
itself, like match-making, is injurious to health.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_1FbJmzN8Px3ro3lG3RfAHImhzW5S_zNHewbTmsysJnwmzKLVmEbo6b3XLz30Kjiq-SZnjk0TmxWdPNw60MqpHigEieUzqV403jVbXcjLL706QlfE7t7UwKGEWb6yAGTSQ78AvFdG2RB/s1600/flower+seller.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_1FbJmzN8Px3ro3lG3RfAHImhzW5S_zNHewbTmsysJnwmzKLVmEbo6b3XLz30Kjiq-SZnjk0TmxWdPNw60MqpHigEieUzqV403jVbXcjLL706QlfE7t7UwKGEWb6yAGTSQ78AvFdG2RB/s400/flower+seller.bmp" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Still more unfortunate is
the lot of some of the little girl workers who assist their mothers at home in
tailoring, button-holing, and dolls-clothes making. The united work of mother
and child yields only a wretched pittance, and, carried on as it is in a room
where sleeping, eating, and living goes on, is, of all forms of labour, the
saddest and most unhealthy. Meals consist of bread and tea, and work is
prolonged till midnight by the light of one candle, with the consequence that
the children are prematurely aged and diseased. This is the most painful kind
of child-labour that I have come across, and would be unbearable, if it were
not ennobled by the touching affection that almost invariably exists between
the worn-out mother and her old-woman-wise little daughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The lot of the child-vender
in the streets would be almost as hard, if it were not, at any rate, healthier.
Terrible as are the extremes of weather to which the little flower-girl or
newspaper boy is exposed, the life is in the open air, and a hundred times
preferable, even if it results in death from exposure, to existence in a
foul-smelling garret where consumption works its deadly way slowly. Children
find an endless variety of ways of earning a living in the streets. There are
the boot-black boys, who form a useful portion of the community; newspaper
boys, of whom the better sort are useful little capitalists, with an immense
fund of intelligence and commercial instinct; “job chaps,” who hang about
railway stations on the chance of earning a few pence in carrying bags;
flower-girls, match-girls, crossing sweepers, who can make a fair living, if
they are industrious; and lastly, although this enumeration by no means
exhausts the list – street prodigies, such as pavement painters and musicians.
All Londoners must be familiar with the figure of little Master Sorine, who
sits perched upon a high stool diligently painting away at a marine-scape in
highly coloured chalks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This clever little artist of
eleven is the principal support of his parents, who do a little in the
waste-paper line when there is anything to be done. As a rule, Master Sorine is
<i>finishing</i> his marine picture or
landscape when I pass by, so that I have not had an opportunity of judging of
his real ability; but his mother, who keeps guard over him, assures me that he
can draw “anything he has seen” – an assertion which I shall one day test. The
little fellow is kept warm by a pan of hot charcoal under his seat, which would
seem to suggest rather an unequal distribution of heat. However, he seems to
think it is “all right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJr3u5-rvqH01XErGyPGBMrsu6EXelphVw_MRCoHlCNWXE_DrQdR0nt43hHr_OE4vusxkXwSZnGti431ijXR4SVVpYdWYpYJV2qd0U0QaXvFrLjDdNJTTnC8tCnHe_URoMjADvDc_7oYrd/s1600/Master+Sorine.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJr3u5-rvqH01XErGyPGBMrsu6EXelphVw_MRCoHlCNWXE_DrQdR0nt43hHr_OE4vusxkXwSZnGti431ijXR4SVVpYdWYpYJV2qd0U0QaXvFrLjDdNJTTnC8tCnHe_URoMjADvDc_7oYrd/s400/Master+Sorine.bmp" width="372" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">His artistic efforts are so
much appreciated by the multitude that on a “good day” he earns no less than
9s. or 10s., which mounts up to a respectable income, as he “draws in public”
three days a week. Master Sorine, however, is exceptionally fortunate, and
indeed, there is something particularly taking about his little stool, and his
little cap, and the business-like air with which he pursues his art studies.
Nothing can be said in praise of such “loafing” forms of earning a livelihood
as flower-selling, when the unhappy little vender has nothing but a few dead
flowers to cover her begging; or of “sweeping,” when the “crossing” of the
young gentleman of the broom is often dirtier than the surrounding country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now and again one comes
across industrious, prosperous sweepers, who evince a remarkable amount of
acuteness and intelligence. It may have been chance, but each of the crossing
sweepers I questioned were “unattached,” disdained anything in the way of
families, and declined to name their residence on the ground that they were “jes’
thinkin’ o’ movin’.” This is a very precarious method of earning a livelihood,
and is generally supplemented by running errands and hopping in summer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In a wealthy neighbourhood,
frequented by several members of Parliament, who were regular customers, a very
diligent young sweeper told me he made on average in winter 2s. 6d. a week; but
he added contemptuously: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Business ain’t what it used
to be. Neighbour’ood’s goin’ down, depend on it. I’m thinkin’ of turnin’ it
up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This young gentleman
supplemented <i>his</i> income by successful
racing speculations, obtaining his information about “tips” from his
good-natured clients. It seems sad to think how much good material is lost in
these smart street boys, whose ability and intelligence could surely be turned
to better account. The most satisfactory point – and one which no unprejudiced
person can fail to recognize – in connection with the subject of child-labour
is that healthy children do not feel it a hardship to work, and that,
therefore, considering, in addition, how materially their earnings add to their
own comfort, all legislation in the direction of restriction and prohibition
ought to be very carefully considered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I must express my best
thanks to Mr. Redgrave, of the Home Office, for his help in obtaining entrance
to factories, and to Mr. Didcott, the well-known theatrical agent, for his kind
services in the matter of acrobats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> -<i> Strand Magazine, 1891</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Strand Magazine ran for
almost sixty years, before ceasing to be in 1950, however, it was brought back
into publication in 1998, and has a website;</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <a href="http://www.strandmag.com/">strandmag.com</a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Anyone interested in
articles of this ilk, or lesser-known works of fiction by popular authors of
the past would be well-advised to look on eBay, or search antique book shops
for bound editions of this magazine, as they really do contain some interesting
work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Returning to the subject of
Victorian children before I close, to offer a little contrast I may return to
The Strand for another article on Victorian children in the near future, but on
a somewhat brighter note.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Finally, in closing, a
picture of the modern-day <st1:place w:st="on">Strand</st1:place>!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />The Amateur Casualhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553683833137054780noreply@blogger.com2