"I declare the opening of the first international Olympic Games in Athens. Long live the Nation. Long live the Greek people." Or: The 1896 Olympics – Part One:

This is a big year for sport in the UK, with the Olympics and Paralympics set to descend upon us in the summer after a seven year wait, and make London the first city to stage the event three times, after previously hosting in 1908 and 1948.

Naturally, I was interested to see how the Victorians got on with the Olympics (the games having been revived for the modern age five years before Victoria’s death after a 1,500 year Hiatus) and so I set about looking at details of the 1896 and 1900 games.

The Olympics were – and still are – associated with Greece. The oldest Olympics for which records still exist are the games of 776 B.C, and during this era the sporting event was held every four years in Olympia, Greece, in honour of the God Zeus. This carried on until the Olympics were abolished in 393 A.D by the Roman Emperor Theodosius.

1,503 years later, the Olympics returned; but why?

It all began with a young Frenchman, Pierre de Coubertin, who, in 1870, experienced his country being overrun by the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war when he was only seven years old. This event, and what Coubertin saw as the weakness of his country, would play a major role in the birth of the modern Olympics. So who was this Coubertin?

Coubertin

He was born into an aristocratic family, and so, when he became an adult, had the typical choices ahead of him, such as a military career, or one in politics. Coubertin, though, chose a different path, and became an intellectual. He studied a wide range of topics, from history to sociology, but the one that caught his imagination the most was education.

Coubertin’s studies in education soon led him to focus on physical education, and the significance of schools teaching competitive sports to their pupils. He came to England in 1883, when he was twenty, and studied the physical education system in English schools, (in particular, Rugby School in Warwickshire, where the great educator, Thomas Arnold put physical education systems in place in the late 1820’s) Coubertin saw a direct link between the standard of physical education in schools and the expansion of the British Empire, stating that “Organised sport can create moral and social strength.” In short, he believed that men who were well-practiced at sport would be better prepared mentally as well as physically, to fight in wars. Coubertin was thinking of the ease with which France – a country which practiced very little physical education in schools – was subjected to a humiliating defeat in 1870.

Being an intellectual historian, also, Coubertin knew of the Olympics of ancient Greece, and decided that an event such as the Olympics, if revived, could be key in stimulating not only physical, but intellectual improvements in men. In 1890 he founded Union des Sociétés Francaises de Sports Athlétiques (USFSA) a sports organization which he hoped would be able to drum up support for physical education in schools. His ideas were met with apathy. In 1892, he decided to make public his ideas for reviving the Olympics. In Paris, speaking at a meeting of the Union des Sports Athlétiques, he said:

“Let us export our oarsmen, our runners, our fencers into other lands. That is the true Free Trade of the future; and the day it is introduced into Europe the cause of Peace will have received a new and strong ally. It inspires me to touch upon another step I now propose and in it I shall ask that the help you have given me hitherto you will extend again, so that together we may attempt to realise, upon a basis suitable to the conditions of our modern life, the splendid and beneficent task of reviving the Olympic Games…”

Again, he was met with inaction and apathy. However, he persisted, and a further two years later he managed to organize a meeting made up of delegates of nine different countries at the Sorbonne Congress of 1894. At this meeting he made further passionate pleas and reasons why, in his mind, the Olympic Games should be revived for the benefit of the whole of Europe. This time, he garnered some interest, and the delegates present voted for a return of the ancient Olympic Games. Coubertin formed the international Olympic Committee (IOC) and set about organizing the first Olympics in over 1,500 years.

The obvious and most romantic choice for the first modern Olympics was, of course, Greece. The 1896 Olympics were awarded to Athens, and the city enthusiastically welcomed the impending festival of sport, but the Greek politicians were not so keen, and, according to some reports, asked to be relieved of their duty to host the games. Coubertin, along with the President of the newly formed IOC, Demetrios Vikelas, managed to convince the Athenian politicians to accept the games, and after much consideration, and the backing of the Crown Prince Constantine, who threw his weight behind the return of the games, the minds of the politicians were changed, and the organizing began.

Vikelas

The man charged with organizing the 1896 Olympics was the aforementioned president of the IOC, Demetrios Vikelas. The problem that faced him most immediately was, funnily enough, the fact that Greece was in a financially poor state, and politically very unstable (The country actually had two Prime Ministers at the time, who alternated the job of running the country between them) so the first thing Vikelas had to do was raise funds – and the Royal seal of approval from the enthusiastic Prince certainly helped his cause. Perhaps his biggest contribution was to persuade businessman George Averoff to fund a restoration of the Panathinaiko stadium, which had been built around 500BC to host athletics during the Panathenaic games in ancient Greece. Averoff donated 920,000 Drachma’s to the project, which saw the stadium rebuilt using marble from Mount Penteli. The stadium is – perhaps unsurprisingly – the only one in the world made of marble. A statue of Averoff still stands outside the stadium today.

The Greek public, having caught the wave of enthusiasm from the Prince, donated generously, raising 330,000 Drachma’s, the sale of commemorative stamps raised an impressive 400,000 Drachma’s, and along with successful ticket sales, these funds allowed everything to be put into place, and the first modern Olympic Games could begin.

The opening ceremony took place on 6th April 1896 (Unless you were Greek, and were using the Julian Calendar, in which case the opening ceremony was on 25th March) and the final address was made by Prince Constantine’s father, King George I, who proclaimed:

"I declare the opening of the first international Olympic Games in Athens. Long live the Nation. Long live the Greek people."

Next week…Part Two: In which we will explore the events that took place at the 1896 Olympics, the successful countries, the star athletes and the aftermath of the games.

“…It is Not Nor Does it Pretend to be Anything Else than a Vicious Hotch-Potch of the Vilest Slang, a Mockery of all that is Decent and Virtuous…” Or: What Were Penny Dreadfuls?

Everyone who has picked up a newspaper in the last twenty years will be familiar with the hardy perennial opinion that children are turned into thugs and killers by violent films and video games.

Whilst I don’t think that is true as a catch-all term, I can understand why people think that children may attempt to copy what they see on their various screens, but as a rule, my opinion is that watching a violent film does not make a child violent.

This story – which seems to be dusted off and rolled out every time someone under the age of sixteen slaps one of their friends – is not so new as to have only been thought of in the last two decades, though. The Victorians had similar concerns with certain literature having a negative effect on the nation’s youth.

Penny dreadfuls, penny bloods, penny awfuls, or penny numbers, as they were known, were shocking, violent short stories, usually about the antics of criminals such as highwaymen, grave-robbers and murderers, aimed at the barely literate lower classes of society. The publication of penny dreadfuls began in the 1830’s, when the success of Dickens’ ‘The Pickwick Papers’ demonstrated that books sold as serials – that is, sold in monthly installments – were more appealing to the greater populous, since the lower classes had not the time nor attention span to sit and read an entire novel, but could easily digest a whole book in short, ‘bite-size’ and dramatic chunks.

The penny dreadfuls were extremely cheap to produce, and being printed on the cheapest of pulp papers, could be sold at a price that the target audience could afford, and since they were sold as serials, once the reader had purchased the first installment, he would certainly have to purchase the rest to see how the story progressed.

The penny papers proved so addictive, that even those who could not afford it still purchased them by forming groups who would each put money in and buy a single paper to read between them.

Whilst the working classes devoured the ghoulish crime stories with relish, there were, of course, more upstanding members of society who frowned upon and dismissed the penny bloods as vulgar and coarse. One of their most vehement critics was the great James Greenwood, who wrote an article in St. Paul’s Magazine in 1873 condemning them and their affect on society’s youth. The article is below. As you read it, think of similar articles that have appeared in the present-day pres with regards to violent films and video games, and you will see that the problem of modern media corrupting the youth of today is not new at all;

 "It would be an excellent and profitable arrangement if the London School Board were empowered not only to insist that all boys and girls of tender years shall be instructed in the art of reading, but also to root up and for ever banish from the paths of its pupils those dangerous weeds of literature that crop up in such rank luxuriance on every side to tempt them. Until this is done, it must always be heavy and uphill work with those whose laudable aim it is to promote education and popular enlightenment.

To teach a girl or boy how to read is not a very difficult task; the trouble is to guide them to a wholesome and profitable exercise of the acquirement. This, doubtless, would be hard enough, were our population of juveniles left to follow the dictates of their docile or rebellious natures; but this they are not suffered to do. At the very outset, as soon indeed as they have mastered words of two and three syllables, and by skipping the hard words are able somehow to stumble through a page in reading fashion, the enemy is at hand to enlist them in his service. And never was a poor recruit so dazzled and bewildered by the wily sergeant whose business it is to angle for, and hook men to serve as soldiers as is the foolish lad who is beset by the host of candidates of the Penny Awful tribe for his patronage.

There is Dick Turpin bestriding his fleet steed, and with a brace of magnificently mounted pistols stuck in his belt, beckoning him to an expedition of midnight marauding on the Queen’s highway; there is gentlemanly Claude Duval, with his gold-laced coat and elegantly curled periwig, who raises his three-cornered hat politely to the highly-flattered schoolboy and begs the pleasure of his company through six months or so - at the ridiculously small cost of a penny a week, that, he, the gallant captain, may initiate our young friend in the ways of bloodshed and villainy; there is sleek-cropped, bullet-headed Jack Sheppard, who steps boldly forth with his crowbar, offering to instruct the amazed youth in the ways of crime as illustrated by his own brilliant career, and to supply him with a few useful hints as to the best way of escaping from Newgate.

Besides these worthies there are the Robbers of the Heath, and the Knights of the Road, and the Skeleton Crew, and Wildfire Dick and Hell-fire Jack, and Dare-devil Tom, and Blueskin, and Cut-throat Ned, and twenty other choice spirits of an equally respectable type, one and all appealing to him, and wheedling and coaxing him to make himself acquainted with their delectable lives and adventures at the insignificant expense of one penny weekly.

It is not difficult to trace back the evil in question to its origin. At least a quarter of a century ago it occurred to some enterprising individual to reprint and issue in “penny weekly numbers” the matter contained in the “Newgate Calendar,” and the publication was financially a great success. This excited the cupidity of other speculators, in whose eyes money loses none of its value though ever so begrimed with nastiness, and they set their wits to work to produce printed weekly “pen’orths” that should be as savoury to the morbid tastes of the young and the ignorant as was the renowned Old Bailey Chronicle itself.

The task was by no means a difficult one when once was found the spirit to set about it. The Newgate Calendar was after all but a dry and legal record of the trials of rogues and murderers, for this or that particular offence, with at most, in addition, a brief sketch of the convicted one’s previous career, and a few observations on his most remarkable exploits. After all, there was really no romance in the thing; and what persons of limited education and intellect love in a book is romance. Here then was a grand field! What could be easier than to take the common-place Newgate raw material, and re-dip it in the most vivid scarlet, and weave into it the rainbow hues of fiction? What was there that “came out” at the trials of Jack Sheppard and Claude Duval and Mr. Richard Turpin and which the calendar readers so greedily devoured, compared with what might be made to “come out” concerning these same heroes when the professional romance-monger, with the victim’s skull for an inkstand, gore for ink, and the assassin's dagger for a pen, sat down to write their histories?

The great thing was to show what the Newgate Calendar had failed to show. It was all very well to demonstrate that at times there existed honour among thieves; the thing to do was to make it clear that stealing was an honourable business, and that all thieves were persons to be respected on account at least of the risks they ran and the perils they so daringly faced in the pursuit of their ordinary calling. Again, in recording the achievements of robbers of a superior grade, the Calendar gave but the merest glimpse of the glories of a highway villain’s existence, whereas, as was well known to the romancist of the Penny Awful school, the life of a person like Mr. Turpin or any other Knight of the Road is just one endless round of daring, dashing adventure, and of rollicking and roystering, or tender, blissful enjoyments of the fruits thereof. Likewise, according to the same authority, it was a well-known fact, and one that could not be too generally known, that rogues and robbers are the only “brave” that deserve the “fair,” and that no sweethearts are so true to each other, and enjoy such unalloyed felicity, as gentlemen of the stamp of Captain Firebrand (who wears lace truffles and affects a horror for the low operation of cutting a throat, but regards it as quite the gentlemanly and “professional” thing to send a bullet whizzing into a human skull ) and buxom, fascinating Molly Cutpurse.

But after all, if the unscrupulous hatchers of Penny Awfuls (this term is no invention of mine, but one conferred on the class of literature in question by the owners thereof ) had been content to stick to Newgate heroes and Knights of the Road, perhaps no very great harm would have been done. At all events, the nuisance must soon have died out. Popular interest in the British Highwayman has for many years been on the wane. There are no longer any mail coaches to rob, and the descendants of the rare old heroes of Bagshot and Hounslow have brought the profession into disgust and contempt by taking to the cowardly game of garroting. Every boy may read of the pitiful behaviour of these modern Knights of the Road when they are triced up, bare-backed, in the press-room at Newgate, and a stout prison warden makes a cat-o’-nine-tails whistle across their shoulders. How they squeal and wriggle and supplicate!

  “Oh! Sir, kind sir! O-o-o-oh-h, pray spare me; I’ll never do it again!”

There is not the least spark of dash or bravado about this kind of thing, and the cleverest penman of the Penny Awful tribe would fail to excite feelings of emulation in the minds of his most devoted readers.

The Penny Awful trade, however, has not been brought to a standstill on this account. Cleverer men than those who paraded Dick Turpin and Claude Duval as model heroes have of late years come into the garbage market. Quick-witted, neat-handed fellows, who have studied the matter and made themselves acquainted with it at all points. It has been discovered by these sharp ones that the business has been unnecessarily restricted; that even supposing that there are still a goodly number of simpletons who take delight in the romance that hangs on those magic words, “Your money or your life,” there are still a much larger number who take no interest at all in gallows heroes, but who might easily be tempted to take to another kind of bait, provided it were judiciously adjusted on the hook.

As for instance, there were doubtless to be found in London and the large manufacturing towns of England, hundreds of boys out of whom constant drudgery and bad living had ground all that spirit of dare-devilism so essential to the enjoyment of the exploits of the heroes of the Turpin type, but who still possessed an appetite for vices of a sort that were milder and more easy of digestion. It was a task of no great difficulty when once the happy idea was conceived. All that was necessary was to show that the faculty for successfully defying law and order and the ordinations of virtue might be cultivated by boys as well as men, and that as rogues and rascals the same brilliant rewards attended the former as the latter. The result may be seen in the shop window of every cheap newsvendor in London - The Boy Thieves of London, The Life of a Fast Boy, The Boy Bandits, The Wild Boys of London, The Boy Detective, Charley Wag, The Lively Adventures of a Young Rascal, and I can’t say how many more.

This much is true of each and everyone, however - that it is not nor does it pretend to be anything else than a vicious hotch-potch of the vilest slang, a mockery of all that is decent and virtuous, an incentive to all that is mean, base, and immoral, and a certain guide to a prison or a reformatory if sedulously followed. If these precious weekly pen’orths do not openly advocate crime and robbery, they at least go so far as to make it appear that, although to obtain the means requisite to set up as a Fast Boy, or a Young Rascal, it is found necessary to make free with a master’s goods, or to force his till or run off with his cash-box, still the immense amount of frolic and awful jollity to be obtained at music halls, at dancing rooms, - where “young rascals” of the opposite sex may be met, - at theatres, and low gambling and drinking dens, if one has “only got the money,” fully compensates for any penalty a boy of the “fast” school may be called on to pay in the event of his petty larcenies being discovered.

  “What’s the good o’ being honest?” is the moral sentiment that the Penny Awful author puts into the mouth of his hero, Joe the Ferret, in his delectable story “The Boy Thieves of the Slums.”

  “What’s the good of being honest?” says Joe, who is presiding at a banquet consisting of the “richest meats,” and hot brandy and water;

  “Where’s the pull? It is all canting and humbug. The honest cove is the one who slaves from morning till night for half a bellyfull of grub, and a ragged jacket and a pair of trotter cases (shoes), that don’t keep his toes out of the mud, and all that he may be called a good boy and have a “clear conscience” ’ (loud laughter and cries of “Hear, hear,” by the Weasel’s “pals”).

  “I ain’t got no conscience, and I don’t want one. If I felt one a-growing in me I’d pisen the blessed thing” (more laughter).

  “Ours is the game, my lads. Light come, light go. Plenty of tin, plenty of pleasure, plenty of sweethearts and that kind of fun, and all got by making a dip in a pocket, or sneaking a till. I’ll tell you what it is, my hearties,” continued the Weasel, raising his glass in his hand (on a finger of which there sparkled a valuable ring, part of the produce of the night’s work),

  “I’ll tell you what it is, it’s quite as well that them curs and milksops, the ‘honest boys’ of London, do not know what a jolly, easy, devil-may-care life we lead compared with theirs, or we should have so many of ‘em takin’ to our line that it would be bad for the trade.”

It is not invariably, however, that the Penny Awful author indulges in such a barefaced enunciation of his principles. The old-fashioned method was to clap the representatives of all manner of vices before the reader, and boldly swear by them as jolly roystering blades whose manner of enjoying life was after all the best, despite the grim end. The modern way is to paint the picture not coarsely, but with skill and anatomical minuteness; to continue it page after page, and point out and linger over the most flagrant indecencies and immoral teachings of the pretty story, and then, in the brief interval of putting that picture aside and producing another, to “patter” (if I may be excused using an expression so shockingly vulgar) a few sentences concerning the unprofitableness of vice, and of honesty being the best policy. And having cut this irksome, though for obvious reasons necessary, part of the business as short as possible, the “author” again plunges the pen of nastiness into his inkpot, and proceeds with renewed vigour to execute the real work in hand.

Writing on this subject it is impossible for me to forget a vivid instance of the pernicious influence of literature of the Penny Awful kind as revealed by the victim himself. It was at a meeting of a society, the laudable aim of which is the rescue of juvenile criminals from the paths of vice, and there were present a considerable number of the lads themselves. In the course of the evening, as a test, I suppose of the amount of confidence reposed by the lads in their well-wishers and teachers, it was suggested that any one among them who had courage enough might rise in his place and give a brief account of his first theft, and what tempted him to it. It was some time before their was any response, although from the many wistful faces changing rapidly from red to white, and the general uneasiness manifested by the youths appealed to, and who were seated on forms in the middle of the hall, it was evident that many were of a great good mind to accept the invitation.

At last a lad of thirteen or so, whose good-conduct stripes told of how bravely he was raising himself out of the slough in which the Society had discovered him, rose, and burning red to his very ears, and speaking rapidly and with much stumbling and stammering - evidences one and all, in my opinion, of his speaking the truth - delivered himself as follows:-

“It’s a goodish many years ago now, more’n six I dessay, and I used to go to the ragged-school down by Hatton-garden. It was Tyburn Dick that did it, leastways the story what they call Tyburn Dick.

Well, my brother Bill was a bit older than me, and he used to have to stay at home and mind my young brother and sister, while father was out jobbing about at the docks and them places. We didn’t have no mother. Well, father he used to leave us as much grub as he could, and Bill used to have the sharin’ of it out. Bill couldn’t read a bit, but he knowed boys that could, and he used to hear ‘em reading about Knights of the Road, and Claude Duval, and Skeleton Crews, till I suppose his head got regler stuffed with it. He never had no money to buy a pen’orth when it came out, so he used to lay wait for me, carrying my young sister over his shoulder, when I came out of school at dinner time, and gammon me over to come along with him to a shop at the corner of Rosamond Street in Clerkenwell, where there used to be a whole lot of the penny numbers in the window.

They was all of a row, Wildfire Jack, the Boy Highwayman, Dick Turpin, and ever so many others - just the first page, don’t you know, and the picture. Well, I liked it too, and I used to go along o’ Bill and read to him all the reading on the front pages, and look at the pictures until - ‘specially on Mondays when there was altogether a new lot - Bill would get so worked up with the aggravatin’ little bits, which always left off where you wanted to turn over and see what was on the next leaf, that he was very nigh off his head about it.

He used to bribe me with his grub to go with him to Rosamond Street. He used to go there regler every mornin’ carryin’ my young sister, and if he found only one that was fresh, he’d be at the school coaxin’ and wigglin’ (inveigling or wheedling), and sometimes bringin’ me half his bread and butter, or the lump of cold pudden what was his share of the dinner. He got the little bits of the tales and the pictures so jumbled up together that it used to prey on him awful.

I was bad enough but Bill was forty times worse. He used to lay awake of nights talkin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin’ what was over leaf, and then he’d drop off and talk about it in his sleep. Well, one day he come to the school, and says he,

  “Charley, there’s somethin’ real stunnin’ at the corner shop this mornin’. It’s Tyburn Dick, and they’ve got him in a cart under the gallows, and there’s Jack Ketch smoking his pipe, and a whole lot of the mob a rushing to rescue him wot’s going to be hung, and the soldiers are there beatin’ of ‘em back, and I’m blowed,” says Bill, “if I can tell how it will end. I should like to know,” says he. “Perhaps it tells you in the little bit of print at bottom; come along, Charley.”

Well, I wanted to know too, so we went, and there was the picture just as Bill said, but the print underneath didn’t throw no light on it - it was only just on the point of throwin’ a light on it, and of course we couldn’t turn over. I never saw Bill in such a way. He wasn’t a swearin’ boy, take him altogether, but this time he did let out, he was so savage at not being able to turn over. He was like a mad cove, and without any reason punched me about till I run away from him and went to school again. Well, although I didn’t expect it when I come out at half-past four, there was Bill again. His face looked so queer that I thought I was going to get some more punching, but it wasn’t that. He come up speakin’ quite kind, though there seemed something the matter with his voice, it was so shaky.

  “Come on, Charley,” he said, “come on home quick. I’ve got it,” and opening his jacket, he showed it me - the penny number where the picture of the gallows was, tucked in atwixt the buttonings of his shirt.

  “But how did you come by the penny?” I asked him.

  “Come on home and read about Jack Ketch and that, and then I’ll tell you all about it.” Bill replied. So we went home; and I read out the penny number to him all through, and then he up and told me that he had nicked (stolen) a hammer off a second-hand tool stall in Leather Lane, and sold it for a penny at a rag-shop. That’s how the ice was broke. It seemed a mere nothing to nail a paltry pen’orth or so after reading of the wholesale robbery of jewels, and diamond necklaces, and that, that Tyburn Dick did every night of his life a’most. It was getting that whole pen’orth about him that showed us what a tremenjus chap he was. Next week it was my turn to get a penny to buy the number - we felt that we couldn’t do without it nohow; and finding the chance, I stole one of the metal inkstands at the school. That was the commencement of it; and so it went on and growed bigger; but it’s out and true, that for a good many weeks we only stole to buy the number just out of Tyburn Dick.”

A question likely to occur to the reader of these pages is - what sort of persons are these who are so ignoble and utterly lost to all feelings of shame that they can consent to make money by a means that is more detestable than that resorted to by the common gutter-raker or the common pickpocket ? How do such individuals comport themselves in society? Are they men well dressed and decently behaved, and have they any pretensions to respectability? The bookselling and publishing trade is a worthy trade: do the members of it generally recognise these base corruptors of the morals of little boys and girls? Or do they shun them and give them a wide berth when they are compelled to tread the same pavement with them?

My dear reader, I assure you that whether they are shunned or recognised by those who know them is not of the least moment to the blackguardly crew who pull the strings that keep the delusive puppets going. Well dressed they are - they can well afford to be so, for they make a deal of money, and in many cases keep fine houses and servants and send their children to boarding-school. They dine well in the city, and bluster, and swagger, and swear, and wear diamonds on their unsullied hands, and chains of gold adorn their manly bosoms. As for any idea of moral responsibility as regards those whose young souls and bodies they grind to make their bread, they have no more than had Simon Legree on his Red River slave plantation. They are labouring under no delusion as to the quality of the stuff they circulate. In their own choice language, it is “rot,” “rubbish,” “hog-wash,” but “what odds so long as it sells?”

They would laugh in your face were you so rash as to attempt to argue the matter with them. They would tell you that they “go in” for this kind of thing, not out of any respect or even liking they have for it, but simply because it is a good “dodge” for making money, and their only regret is that the law forbids them “spicing” their poison pages and serving them as hot and strong as they would like to. I speak from my own knowledge of these men, and am glad to make their real character known, in order to show how little injustice would be done if their nefarious trade were put a stop to with the utmost rigour of any law that might be brought to bear against them.

Again, it may be asked, who are the “authors,” the talented gentlemen who find it a labour of love to discourse week after week to a juvenile audience of the doings of lewd women and “fast” men, and of the delights of debauchery, and the exercise of low cunning, and the victimising of the innocent and unsuspecting? Ay, who are they? Few things would afford me greater satisfaction than to gather together a hundred thousand or so of those who waste their time and money in the purchase and perusal of Penny Awfuls, and exhibit to them the sort of man it is to whose hands is entrusted the preparation of the precious hashes. Before such an exhibition could take place however, for decency’s sake, I should be compelled to induce him to wash his face and shave his neglected muzzle; likewise I should probably have to find him a coat to wear, and very possibly a pair of shoes. His master, the Penny Awful proprietor, does not treat him at all liberally. To be sure he is not worthy of a great amount of consideration, being, as a rule, a dissipated, gin-soddened, poor wretch, who has been brought to his present degraded state by his own misdoings.

As for talent, he has none at all; never had; nothing more than a mere accidental literary twist in his wrist - just as one frequently sees a dog that is nothing but a cur, except for some unaccountable gift it has for catching rats, or doing tricks of conjuring. He works to order, does this obliging writer. Either he has lodgings in some dirty court close at hand, or he is stowed away in a dim, upstairs back room of the Penny Awful office, and there the proprietor visits him, and they have a pot of ale and pipes together - the one in his splendid attire, and the other in his tattered old coat and dirty shirt - and talk over the “next” number of Selina the Seduced; and very often there is heard violent language in that dim little den, the proprietor insisting on their being “more flavour” in the next batch of copy than the last, and the meek author beseeching a little respect for Lord Campbell and his Act.

But the noble owner of Selina generally has his way.

  “Do as you like about it,” says he; “only bear this in mind. I know what goes down best with ‘em and what’s most relished, and if I don’t find that you warm up a bit in the next number, I’ll knock off half-a-crown, and make the tip for the week seventeen-and-six instead of a pound.”

-          James Greenwood, St Paul’s Magazine, 1873.

In the kind of circles of society Greenwood would have moved in, the condemnation of penny papers was widespread, but not all literary figures were critics; in 1901 the great essayist G.K Chesterton wrote ‘A Defence of Penny Dreadfuls’

‘Varney the Vampire’, ‘The String of Pearls’ (AKA Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street ((No, he was never a real person))) and Reynolds’ ‘Mysteries of London’ were a few of the most popular penny titles.

Alfred Harmsworth, a well-meaning publisher, decided to go to war with the penny papers by releasing half-penny papers filled with moral tales. He thought that the cheaper price would encourage readers of the penny dreadfuls to abandon the corrupting tales of murder and crime and read his uplifting tales instead, but such was the influence and popularity of the stories of horror that after a short time, the half-penny-papers began to run similar garish stories in order to compete with the penny bloods.

I suspect that if we could glimpse a hundred years into the future we would discover that our descendants have some form of corrupting media they are vociferously claiming is damaging the youth of the day, but surely, indulging in the reading, watching, doing or playing of something frowned upon by moralists and / or adults is a mainstay of our culture, and every generation frowns upon something its offspring gets up to?

Those who today frown upon violent video games must have watched the occasional video nasty in the eighties, and their parents may have been involved somehow in the punk scene of the seventies, who would have been jeered at by their parents who lived through the swinging sixties, who would have been parented by people there for the birth of rock and roll, and the children of today will, no doubt, in fifteen years or so be raising a finger of complaint to some other movement or cult, thus proving that little has, and will, change in our society since the days of the Victorian moralists and their objections to penny dreadfuls.

“Pause, Young Man, Before you Marry an Irreligious Wife”: Or: Advice on Choosing a Partner in the 1850’s:

Marriage advice for young men:

In the choice of a wife, excellence of moral and religious character must be the first great essential. – your own religious interests on Earth are deeply involved in marriage. What comfort, what piece of mind can the husband have, where there is inconstancy, irreligion and infidelity on part of the wife? Marry an irreligious woman, and you will have no domestic resource to flee to in the hour of religious need. There will be none to admonish you when you neglect your religious duties. An irreligious wife can not counsel you when you are under the influence of deep temptation, neither can she assist to resolve your doubts in cases of conscience. To all matters of religious experience the friend of your bosom will be a stranger and an alien. She cannot help you, she cannot understand you, she cannot sympathise with you.

1 Cor. ii. 14: “But the natural man receiveth not the things of the spirit of God; for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.”

Sad must be the condition of the husband whose griefs his spouse cannot relieve, and whose trials she cannot share. Many young men have great difficulty in maintaining their hold of religion and in discharging its duties even when single. How will that difficulty be increased if they marry irreligious wives! If now you find it hard work to keep the commands of your maker, if you now make such indifferent progress in religion, what will you do when united with one who has no religion, one who has never even sought it with success?

Women: Immoral

Religion is worth more than beauty, accomplishments and talent. “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She will do him good, and not evil, all the days of her life. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.”

It frequently happens that an ungodly wife uses her husband’s profession of religion as the instrument of persecution. Unchristianising him for the least provocation, and often, without any cause whatsoever, she shakes his faith and harrows his heart. You may demur to this and say, although the female I should like to marry is not religious, she is mild and gentle, and therefore will not put a stumbling block in my path. The scriptures tell us that “the carnal mind in enmity against God.” You must either deny the Scripture doctrine, or grant that your quiet intended may one day turn upon you.

Pause, young man, before you marry an irreligious wife. Men have been more than conquerors through the blood of the Lamb, and gone home safe to heaven, although their wives did not serve God. But are you equal to such a task? Can you roll the stone of Sisyphus? Let your own unfaithfulness answer the question. Let your meager religious attainments answer it. Let the frequency with which you have gone astray from God, and brought yourself into condemnation, answer the question. You have no grace to spare. Be honest with yourself, and you will feel that, so far from needing one to hinder you in the way to heaven, you require one to assist you in your progress.

This earth is not the only world in which you will be religiously influenced by your marriage. Its results will make you happier among the spirits of just men made perfect, or more miserable in the unknown regions of the lost. The influences of marriage go beyond earth’s narrow confines, and cleave to the disembodied spirit throughout the mighty cycle of the eternal years. The wife on earth that best deserves the name of angel is she who

“Tries each art, reproves each dull delay, allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way.”

Good health is too important a matter to be overlooked in choosing a partner for life. – Health is next to piety in the scale of ascertained value of blessings. It is more than fortune. Fortunes have been wasted in vain to supply its lack of service. Continual sickness is a continual calamity.

- Leisure Hour, Thursday August 9, 1855

“A Texas Tale of Love and Mystery: Or: Book Review: The Herbalist’s Apprentice by Rosa Morgan Lockwood:

Last year, for the first time, I decided to record a list of all the books I had read over the course of 2011. I have typed up the list below, and as you may observe, I do not waiver much from the Victorian stuff; all of it is either written by Victorians or set in Victorian England, and specifically the hub of the Empire; London.

• Hard Times (Dickens)
• A London Child of the 1870’s (M.V Hughes)
• The Mesmerists Apprentice (Lee Jackson)
• Dickens (Peter Ackroyd)
• Paved With Gold (Augustus Mayhew)
• True History of a Little Ragamuffin (James Greenwood)
• To London Town (Arthur Morrison)
• Diary of a Murder (Lee Jackson)
• The Invention of Murder (Judith Flanders)
• Death at the Priory (James Ruddick)
• In the Year of the Jubilee (George Gissing)
• The Newgate Jig (Ann Featherstone)
• The Herbalists Apprentice (Rosa Morgan Lockwood)
• Dr. Jekyll & Mr Hyde (Re-Read) (Stevenson)
• The Body Snatcher (Stevenson)
• Diary of a Nobody (George & Weedon Grossmith)
• The World for a Shilling (Michael Leapman)

Then, in June last year I wrote a blog post about the Statue of Liberty, the famous landmark that stands in New York, having been given to the USA to celebrate their centennial by France. In the post I wrote that I always struggled to come to terms with America in the nineteenth century. I don’t know why, but I could never think of the USA in that era without thinking immediately of cowboys and Indians and towns full of saloons and pale riders. In a quest to correct me, Rosa – an author and blogger from America – contacted me and told me she had just finished writing a novel set in Texas in 1850, and would I like to read it to try and broaden my nineteenth century American horizon. I said I would very much like to read it, having never read anything set in ‘Victorian’ America before. I also agreed to write a review after I finished – something else I have never done before, and I doubt the nation’s entertainment critics will be fearing for their livelihoods just yet…

The book was ‘The Herbalist’s Apprentice’ and I was reliably informed that ‘Herbalist’ carried a silent ‘H’.

Within a week I received my signed copy, and looked at it with a kind of strange foreboding. What was I hoping for? I was hoping for a book with a good story, first and foremost, and secondly, I was hoping to ‘experience’ 1850’s America as best I could. So, having finished the book I was currently reading, I picked it up and began.

Predictably, I felt like I was in a foreign place, and for the first five or six pages was overcome with a strange feeling of homesickness. (Bizarrely, in my mind I was wondering how preparations were going in London for the Great Exhibition of 1851. Probably, I thought, to try and get the era into context, since the usual clues, such as slang or familiar buildings or streets were not present.) Speaking of slang, another strangeness that fueled my homesickness was the accents of the characters, some of whom, of course, in my mind spoke with a Texan twang. At first, these kept slipping, but after a chapter or so, my inner reading monologue was set firmly to ‘Texan’ for the characters that required it, and it came a little easier.

Onto the actual book then, and I best shed a little light on the story, here is the description from the back of the book:

At seventeen, Mia is bursting with questions about love and life, but none are more pressing than the lavender scented memories concerning her mother's mysterious death. Against her father's wishes, she secretly visits Mosswood, the palatial home of the nefarious Captain Biggs, where she becomes entangled in a web of deception.

Should Mia trust the captain's dashing son, Daniel, whose sincere and refined manners win her heart?

Or should she trust the rugged Frenchman, Henri, a Galveston Customs Officer, who is investigating the Biggs family, and whose seductive ways sweep her off her feet.

Desperate for help and guidance, Mia turns to the one person she can trust; Miss Emily, a freed mulatto slave who dispenses pearls of wisdom as adroitly as her herbal tinctures. Apprenticed to her in the art of healing, Mia begs her for the truth behind all the secrets.

When the past and it's mysteries are finally revealed, what dangerous steps will this impetuous young woman take to find justice?

I enjoyed the story, and the questions posed above are answered with great satisfaction in the final chapters as the story builds and comes to a head. The thing that came across to me most was the sense of sultry, dusty Texan heat, but this feeling was conveyed not by a flurry of adjectives, but concealed within paragraphs that subtly suggested that it was hot and dry and dusty. The atmosphere created was impressive, and certainly helped to set the sense of place for a luddite like me, who needed all the help he could get to be hoisted out of his nineteenth century London rut.

The novel covers an impressively wide range of topics, despite coming in at only 300 pages. Notable topics are racism, war, slavery, forbidden love, loss, class, history, industry, English upper-class pretentiousness and colonialism.

Reading ‘The Herbalists Apprentice’ was a new experience for me, but it’s not simply for that reason that I would recommend giving it a read, but because its an effectively atmospheric and immersive story, which sweeps its skirts gently along the warm and dusty roads of 1850’s Texas, until, before you know it, you find yourself in the centre of an intriguing mystery.

Rosa Morgan Lockwood blogs at http://thevictoriantimes.blogspot.com/ and can be found on Twitter @VictorianTime 

D.O. Hill and Early Photography: Or: A Guest Post by Alison Bacon:

Most people know that Fox Talbot invented photography. Not so many are aware that its first real flowering took place north of the border. Alison Bacon unravels the events that brought an artist into the frame at just the right moment.

The Scottish connection

In 1839 William Henry Fox Talbot found a way of capturing an image on light-sensitive paper and rendering it stable. The negative/positive process allowed any number of prints to be produced from a single ‘calotype’, and so modern photography was born. 

With competitors snapping at his heels, Fox Talbot was quick to protect his invention with patents, but he entrusted the details to his close friend Sir David Brewster. Brewster, an eminent if irascible scientist (now best known for inventing the kaleidoscope) was at that time Principal of St. Andrews University.

St. Andrew's Cathedral & Rule's Tower

Brewster gathered around him a group of academics and townsmen, all interested in the new science of making images from light. One of these was John Adamson, a local doctor. John enlisted the help of his younger brother Robert, a talented engineer dogged by ill-health. After many false starts, the Adamson brothers managed to replicate Fox Talbot’s methods. When the inventor saw their results, he agreed not to extend his patents to Scotland and allowed Robert Adamson to set up a photography business in Edinburgh.

Enter the artist

In the spring of 1843, Edinburgh was galvanised by a crisis in the Church of Scotland over the right of congregations to appoint their own ministers. Earlier that year, appeals to the English parliament to uphold this right had finally failed, and Thomas Chalmers, the radical church leader, called on the General Assembly to assert the church’s independence from the state. On the 18th of May, only a week after Adamson’s arrival, Chalmers and some 450 ministers left the Assembly as it sat in Edinburgh and reconvened to form a new Free Church of Scotland.  This Act of Disruption was followed five days later by the formal signing of a Deed of Demission. Among the many onlookers was David Octavius Hill. 

Hill and Daughter

Hill was an established landscape artist who also held the position of Secretary to the newly formed Royal Scottish Academy. Like many others he was impressed by the moral courage of Chalmers and his followers. He offered to produce a commemorative painting, to include as many portraits as possible of the ministers who had signed the Deed. But his problem was one of time. To create portraits from life he needed to sketch the subjects, most of whom would leave Edinburgh within a few days.
Brewster was also present at the signing and learned of Hill’s intention. Seeing a perfect opportunity to promote Adamson’s work, he suggested Hill could eliminate the need for sketches by using calotypes instead  and persuaded him to visit Adamson’s studio on Calton Hill. Despite Hill’s initial scepticism, Adamson’s demonstration of the new technique quickly won him over.

Hill and Adamson

Although twenty years his senior, Hill struck up an immediate friendship with Adamson and after a few weeks he and his daughter moved in to share the Rock House studio. Hill’s wife having died a few years earlier, the two men and a five year-old must have made an odd household in Victorian Edinburgh.

'Edinburgh Ale' (1843) Left to Right - Ballantyne, Bell & Hill

 But Hill was a key figure in society. He saw that the calotype was much more than an artist’s short-cut and soon had Edinburgh ablaze with the notion of sitting for this new kind of portrait. The Demission painting was put on hold as writers, churchmen, actors and visiting dignitaries all rolled up to have a calotype taken.

The experience of sitting in bright sunlight for over a minute, as was then required, could be an ordeal, but Hill’s social and artistic skills produced results that were both pleasing and naturalistic. By July of 1843, Hill and Adamson prints were appearing in a gallery owned by Hill’s brother, and early the following year were exhibited at the RSA.

King Fisher

This dynamic and creative partnership lasted for four years and in that time Hill and Adamson captured around three thousand images taken not just in the studio but also around Edinburgh, St. Andrews and the fishing village of Newhaven. Some rate as significant works of art, others as social documents. Many are both. A large number can now de viewed online. (The images reproduced here are all from the National Galleries of Scotland Flickr photostream.)

The end of the affair

The partnership might have gone on to even greater achievements, but late in 1847 Adamson, still only twenty six, fell seriously ill. He went home to St. Andrews where he died in January 1848. By his own admission, Hill had never been interested in the technical side of the calotype. After Adamson’s death he failed to find another partner and withdrew to his original career as artist, teacher and administrator.

In the course of his public life, D.O. Hill experienced a series of deep personal losses, from the death of his wife Ann in 1841, to that of his ‘amiable friend’ Adamson and finally, in 1860, the loss of his beloved daughter Chattie. But in 1862 he finally married Amelia Paton, an artist, sculptor and family friend who supported him in his final years. With her help and encouragement he completed the Disruption painting begun almost twenty years earlier and in a touching anachronism included in it both himself and Robert Adamson, immediately recognisable as the man with the camera.

Hill's Memorial

 Hill’s love affair with photography turned out to be short-lived, but his impact was immense. It could be argued that he lacked the technical know-how of a photographer, but it was his energy, vision and compositional skill that placed photography on the artistic and cultural stage. Any good history of photography will make reference to the Hill & Adamson story. Further links and references can be found here.

Alison Bacon graduated from St. Andrews University a lifetime ago. Since then she has been a librarian, an IT trainer and more recently a writer. Back in the seventies she had a mild flirtation with early photography. Her current obsession with D.O. Hill looks like being the real deal. 

A huge thanks to Alison for this super post, writing about a subject I find fascinating, and that makes the Victorian period one of the best in history to study - photography.

“Like Painting the Forth Bridge…” Or: The Greatest Victorian Bridge, Finished at Last…For Now:

Recently, on the 9^th December 2011, the perpetual painting job on the magnificent Forth Railway Bridge in Scotland was at last completed. here is an article from BBC News heralding the end of this task

Originally, a bridge designed by Sir Thomas Bouch was going to cross the Firth of Forth and connect Edinburgh to Fife, but the tragic disaster that befell one of Bouch’s earlier bridges, the Tay (read about that disaster here) meant that the project was suspended, and eventually taken away from him altogether after a public enquiry found that he had utterly mis-designed the tragic Tay Bridge.

The Forth Bridge project was given instead to civil engineers Sir John Fowler (who had worked on the metropolitan underground line in London) and Sir Benjamin Baker (who had transported Cleopatra’s Needle from Egypt to London), who designed the fantastic bridge that stands to this day.

The building and construction was carried out by Glasgow engineering company ‘Sir William Arrol & Co.’ and this project was groundbreaking in a number of ways;

Firstly, it was the first bridge in Britain to be made entirely of nothing but steel – a relatively unknown quantity when it came to bridges – If the Forth Bridge is compared to another bridge designed in the same decade – Tower Bridge in London, the immediate thing that is noted is that the Forth is a fairly sparse looking structure; there is nothing showy to it, is not dressed up with cladding, it is 100% function, 0% aesthetic, and in being so (in my opinion) becomes 100% both, and I can think of no Bridge in the country as industrially picturesque.

The Forth Under Construction

Secondly, when the bridge opened in March 1890, it was the longest single cantilever bridge in the world (though it was overtaken in 1917 by the Quebec Bridge) and was Britain’s first cantilever bridge, but these records were not made simply for the sake of it; as with the appearance of the bridge, they were purely functional.

Following the Tay disaster, public confidence in railway bridges was significantly damaged. The under-engineering of the Tay had given such structures a fearsome reputation, and to remedy this, Fowler and Baker knew that the Forth had to be the biggest and strongest bridge ever seen to restore confidence in railway bridges. The design they came up with was that of a cantilever. The strength of this design was demonstrated by co-designer Benjamin Baker at a lecture. The demonstration is shown in the picture below:

Behind the people is a photograph of the bridge, and in front of that, people act as a human version of the structure, to the same scale as the photograph of the bridge, so the men in the chairs on either side represent the vertical piers directly above them on the photograph, and the bricks next to them assume the role of the anchor piers at each end of the bridge.

The arms of the men in the chairs are supported by wooden beams held in their hands and butted against their chairs, and the tops of the two outermost ends of the beams are steadied by ropes attached to the anchor piers (or bricks) A little platform in the centre of the picture is suspended between the top ends of the wooden beams held by the inner hands of the two men.

This cantilever arrangement provided the perfect balance of forces, and supported the weight of the man sat upon the centre platform with ease. This human version of the bridge perfectly demonstrated that the bridge was well supported enough, and strong enough top cope with rail traffic.

During the building, which lasted from 1883 to 1890, five thousand men worked on the project (most of whom were foreigners) and during the seven-year build, fifty seven men died, the youngest being just sixteen years of age.

The Bridge, which was opened by the Prince of Wales upon its completion, was one of the great Victorian achievements. It was, however, quite high maintenance, and needed constant painting. In those days, and right up until forty or fifty years ago men without harnesses or safety equipment and with nothing but a flat cap on their heads climbed the steel structure with a tin of paint and a brush, coating the bridge with paint from one end to the other, and then turning around and going back again. As the article states, this task will not need to be done now for another twenty or so years due to the paint used, which sounds the death knell on the metaophor ‘like painting the Forth Bridge’ to describe a never-ending or thankless task…

The Child Doomed to a Doll-Less Existence Has an Injustice Inflicted on Her for Which no Other Education can Effectually Compensate: Or: The Importance of Giving Children Toys:

In the evenings it is often my wont to pick up a periodical or a bit of Victorian journalism for a little light reading. An article can be read in around fifteen minutes and doesn’t require the same kind of commitment as a book, and so the other night I turned to my old friend James Greenwood for a little entertainment.

Whilst thumbing through ‘Mysteries of Modern London’ (1883) I came across an article I had not read before, and to my delight I found it pertinent to the last few months for a number of reasons;

Firstly, and most obviously, it speaks of Christmas, and toys, and we are in December, and, having done a bit of Christmas shopping myself recently, have seen the furore surrounding the seasons’ ‘must have toys and gadgets’. But also, and in ways I’m not sure how to describe, the article (for me, anyway) seemed to have some significance when read in context of both the summer riots that occurred in Britain, and also Britain’s place in Europe. Perhaps I saw things in the article that weren’t there, though, and I’d appreciate feedback and comments from anyone who sees what I saw.

On top of that, though, this is a fascinating article, which speaks to the importance of children having good toys to play with, that they may grow into rounded adults. (Perhaps this is the point that led me to think of the riots, and that perhaps the participants missed something whilst growing up.)

The article:

Poor Folly’s Playthings:

IT may at first thought appear an absurdity, but it is, nevertheless, profoundly true, that not least among the many good reasons why England should beware of being beguiled into a war with the rest of Europe is that one of the almost immediate results would be a toy famine in our land. Why it should be would not be easy to tell, but it is a fact that we are no more independent in the matter of toys than as regards our breadstuffs and our bacon, and the hundred other commodities that go towards the sum total of what are called the necessaries of existence. There are some - and they would most likely be the old bachelor portion of the community - who will say that it is ridiculous to speak of mere toys as bearing any relation even to our daily needs; but the only reply that can be made to all such observations is that it is a great pity that those who utter them do not know better.

A very little reflection should convince us that toys are almost as essential to our children's wholesome growth and well-being as the food they eat and the clothes they wear. The melancholy effects of a toy dearth would make themselves apparent in a very short time - ere our present race of small girls and boys became women and men. It is not a mere question of amusing the infant mind. Deprived of their doll and their doll's house, our little maidens would be shut out from influences that are who shall say how valuable in developing characteristics that in after life go so far towards making them inestimable wives and mothers? The waxen image with its pink shoes and flaxen curls is not a mere object to idolise. Were it so, it might be well spared. Children, girls especially, are shrewd observers, and the faculty of imitation is seldom wanting in them. Their treatment is always a more or less exaggerated repetition of their nursery personal experiences, and one, as a rule, finds the parent's or the nurse's method of child management reflected in Miss six years playing at being mother with a sawdust-stuffed baby. She takes an earnest and methodical delight in dressing and undressing it, and in making its bed in the tiny cot. With an expression of countenance indicative of her sense of the responsibility that rests with her, she attends to dolly's wardrobe, and so discovers in a practical manner the use of needles and cottons; in its behalf, she sets the Lilliputian house in order, and makes everything within it neat and tidy, so that even mamma, should she peep into it, could find no faults.

Many an adult might learn a useful lesson were he at times privileged to peep into dolldom when the presiding genius was at home with her waxen and wooden family gathered about her. It is good to be a furtive looker-on when the young dolls' housekeeper, overhauling the contents of the nursery litter cupboard, comes on an old favourite long discarded on account of its infirmities. Accident has deprived it perhaps of its nose, it has become prematurely bald, or a murderous assault by the terrier has incurably crippled both its legs; anyway it has been relegated to obscurity as being no longer presentable in respectable company. But now, as its mistress contemplates it so forlorn and neglected, so dusty and shabby, her old love returns for it in full force, and she bedews its battered visage with remorseful tears and makes humble confession of her penitence to it. Yes, that day at least she will have nothing to say to her new doll, who as yet is spick-and-span and innocent of flaw or defect; she gives herself entirely to the comfort and caressing of the legless one, dressing it in the richest array at her disposal and placing it in the position of honour. Nor does it invariably happen that the newly-fanned flame dies out as quickly as its warmth was rekindled. Often enough it proves that the old affection revived is constant ever after – during doll-hood that is to say – and that, however splendid may be the doll who appears as the reigning favourite, the invalided one is snugly bestowed in the toy box, the doll of dolls, after all is said and done.

The child doomed to a doll-less existence has an injustice inflicted on her for which no other education can effectually compensate, and the result of the unnatural deprivation would of course manifest itself more markedly if she were at the same time deprived of every other kind of plaything as well. Nor does a toyless boy afford a spectacle less to be pitied. Cut him off from bat and ball, from battledore and shuttlecock, from kite and rocking-horse, and from mimic fife and drum and peg-top and whipping-top, and what would life be worth to him? It would be of little use endeavouring to make it up to him by supplying him with an abundance of what are called educational toys - with boxes of wooden "bricks" that he may study the art of bridge-building and the principle of the key-stone, or with magnetic fish and hydrostatic and pneumatic implements and kaleidoscopes, or any other gilded pill of the make-believe plaything sort, by means of which a boy may be beguiled into acquiring a knowledge of scientific laws when he imagines he is simply amusing himself. On the specious plan alluded to they make soldiers in France. In that country miniature guns, swords, and cannons are looked on as almost the only playthings fit for a boy, and the result furnishes significant proof of how great is the influence of the toys of the child on the character and disposition of the man. Take away from an English boy his accustomed playthings and he would mope and be miserable. In sheer desperation he would be driven so constantly to his books that, ere he attained his teens, he would have become so terribly clever as to be a nuisance and an abhorrence to all who knew him: his heart would grow grey while yet his head bore the curly locks of youth, and there would be for him nothing in the world that was not sour to his taste as a green goose-berry.

There would be danger of this alarming state of affairs coming to pass in the event of England being "Boycotted" by other nations, including Germany, France, and Switzerland, from which countries nine-tenths of the toys placed in the hands of English children are derived. We have not the knack of cheap toy-making. It would be a gain to us if we had. It is not a sufficient reason that we do not give our attention to it; because the scanty pay the women and children toy-makers of Germany and Switzerland receive makes it more profitable to import toys than to invest capital for their home production. I don't know what the rate of pay of a German toy-maker may be, but if she earns less than our lucifer-box maker or our slop tailoress, it is a marvel how she keeps whole - hearted enough to stick to toy-making at all. There are thousands of poor souls, women and girls, residing in the back streets of London, whose average earnings do not exceed sixpence a-day, and such, if they could be taught to move their fingers at toy-making as nimbly as they are compelled to at the starving trades at which they at present find employment, the occupation would be far pleasanter, and might be made to pay as well, or better.

And this idea is the more worth consideration in view of the undoubted fact that year-by-year the custom of introducing toys at our domestic festivities grows more common. This is due, no doubt, in great part, to our adoption of the German Christmas tree; and it may perhaps be argued that, since we are indebted to Germany for the pretty idea of the tree, we should not begrudge that country the privilege of providing the fruit for it, especially as the crop she assures us is so abundant and unfailing. There is enough for all. Choice fruit, in shape of imitation horses and donkeys, so elaborately made and finished that they cost almost half as much as the living creatures of the common sort, and clockwork peacocks valued at a guinea and a-half and Noah's arks with every animal so true to nature that the price of the whole collection, with the ark to keep them in, is ten or twelve pounds; and farmyards, with sheep that bleat when you stroke their fleecy backs, and tin ponds for the ducks and geese to swim in. These high- class fruits of the Christmas-tree, for those who can afford to indulge in such luxuries, with hundreds of cases, each one as large almost as a two-roomed country cottage, and stuffed full with toys, cheap and common, are such as eventually find their way at Christmas and on New Year's Eve to the fancy shops and the countless toy-stalls that now, on such occasions, may be seen in every street market-place in the metropolis. Cheap and common though they may be, however, the toys of Poverty Market are neither slovenly in shape, nor coarse and vulgar in design. The only exceptions to the rule are those hideous wooden painted dolls, with eyes that invariably squint, and whose matchwood legs, hinged to their square trunks, stretch out with obstinate rigidity and break off short when any attempt is made to compose them. Where these monstrosities hail from, and how it happens that they still find a place in the English toy market is quite unaccountable, unless it is that there are still to be found amongst the more ignorant of the poorer classes, mothers whose reign over their children is a reign of terror, and part of whose system it is to scare a fractious child by thrusting one of these dreadful little bogies before its eyes. But in every other respect the improvement that has taken place in the manufacture of the cheapest kind of toys is as amazing as it is gratifying.

There was a time, and that not more than a quarter of a century since, when almost the only toy (excepting the squinting penny doll above mentioned) with which a poor man's child was acquainted was the famous "lamb," with its body of clay, cotton-wool for fleece, and five lucifer matches for its legs and tail. Nor was this curiosity of nature to be always obtained. People had to wait for the day when the old woman who appeared to hold a monopoly for their manufacture came round. It was lucky for the old soul that she did not live in these later times, or, with her ringing cry she might have found herself "put down" along with the muffin bell.

"If I'd as much money as I could tell, I'd never come crying young lambs to sell," piped up the old woman; and she did such a trade that it is by no means certain that the reason why she retired from the trade was not that one day she found time to tell over the money she had accumulated, and, finding she had enough, she gave over lamb-making, and that particular breed for which she was renowned became extinct.

You may buy a lamb for a penny still on any street market stall, and, with all respect for the memory, of the old woman, it is worth an entire flock of the ridiculous things she used to turn out at the price. You may buy every other kind of toy at an equally reasonable rate-a clockwork mouse for twopence, and a set of doll's tea-things for three- pence, either in china or artistically turned in wood. The ancient and ludicrous spotted hare with his body like a ninepin and his legs mere stumps, has retired in favour of an animal symmetrically shaped and finished; while the long established peg top has found a formidable rival in a self-acting spring spinner of handsome appearance, the price of which is only one penny. The very marbles are not what they were when I was a boy. There were only two sorts then, and they were known as "commoneys" and "stoneys." The first were brittle disappointments in baked clay, and as often as not shattered themselves and our hopes as well at the moment of victory. The others were more durable, but they were exceedingly expensive. You got no more than six or eight for a penny probably. But marbles are moulded in glass now - elegant little globes, curiously threaded and coloured with all the hues of the rainbow - and I saw them the other day in Brick Lane being sold at the rate of ten for a halfpenny, which, one way and another, is evidence of the eternal fitness of things. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." There never was a time when our schoolboy Jacks, and Jills as well, were so hardly worked as now. They require, consequently, a more abundant supply of toys than formerly, and at a price fairly within their means, and lo! here they are.

In connection with the toy interest there have always been two of its features that I could never understand, nor was anyone I ever yet applied to able to give me any satisfactory information. In the first place, who are the unknown geniuses constantly racking their inventive faculties to produce some new whimsy penny plaything? and, secondly, by whom is it that the said latest inventions carried hot from the factory (wherever that may be) to the neighbourhood of the Royal Exchange, there to be retailed by a band of gutter speculators who seemingly are engaged exclusively in this line of business? As to the first question, it is quite certain that the novelties are not all the creation of one man's brain. Any one familiar with the neighbourhood of the Bank of England, the Exchange and Broad Street, with eyes to see and ears to listen, cannot have missed the fact that scarce a day passes without there being "something new in the hands of the penny toymen exhibited and bawled out to tempt those of the crowd that throng the pavement. The variety is endless. To-day it is a magic mousetrap, a marvellous microscope, or a dancing donkey; tomorrow, a Chinese puzzle of rings and links, a Japanese parasol, a squeaking Jack-in-the-box, a jumping frog, or a wonderful bird- whistle. It would occupy at least half a column to enumerate merely the names of these new wares and toy tricks, that sell by hundreds on a Monday, and are represented by something else on Wednesday, becoming at that time so stale and unprofitable that unsold stock represents so much wasted capital.

What is the system on which the novelties are produced? Are there anywhere in London speculative toy-makers, opulent men who have made much money at the game, and who daily are to be found at their handsome city chambers to give audience to needy inventors with something to sell? Do they wait in an ante-room and crowd on the stairs, there being so many of them, each one jealously hugging in the breast pocket of his shabby old coat the last offspring of his ingenuity in the shape of a comical "grandfather's clock," or a dancing clown, or a magic mirror, and passing one at a time into the great man's presence? One would like unobserved to be a witness of the proceedings. The encourager of genius lolling in his chair at his ease, and with gold-rimmed glasses bestriding his shrewd nose, condescendingly contemplating the "frolicsome donkey" the poor needy wretch of an inventor has brought for his inspection, and which he earnestly recommends as being sure to "take" with the public, while he jerks at the string and shows how by that means the animal cocks its ears and flings up its hind legs, to the dismay of the gay young lady who occupies the saddle. The patron shakes his head.

"Not so bad," says he, "but where's the profit to come from, selling 'em to the trade at fourpence-ha'penny a dozen, with all that precious lot of pasteboard and paint to find, to say nothing about the j'ints and the string. I'll say seven and six, if you like, for the notion, but I won't give another shilling."

And the inventor of the frolicsome donkey, with a sigh (he had asked fifteen shillings for the article), pockets the money, and retires to make way for a brother genius, who has belaboured his brains for a week past to bring to perfection a guttapercha mouse that squeaks when its tail is pinched.

I don't of course say that this is the sort of thing that really goes on; it merely occurs to my mind as being possible, because, unless the ingenious little articles one sees offered for sale cost next to nothing in their production, it would be impossible for the "trade" to maintain its briskness. It is brisk, undoubtedly, in the localities indicated - in Threadneedle Street, and in the neighbourhood of the Stock Exchange - which shows how much success in the most trifling businesses depends on an instinctive knowledge of the desires and weaknesses of our fellow creatures. As an ignorant and inexperienced person with the last invented jumping frog to dispose of, I should no more think of taking it to the Stock Exchange than to the top of the monument. What on earth should a "bull" or a "bear" know, or desire to know, about jumping frogs? or mice that squeak when their tales are pinched, or frolicsome donkeys? You would never dream they could take delight in such absurdities to see them when they are in the street conspiring iii pairs, or brooding solitary, and using their pencil point as a toothpick, lost to the world for the time in a field of figures. Fancy breaking in on such a man's cogitation by soliciting him to buy a Punch's squeaker. The idea is too ridiculous to be for a moment entertained. There appears to be one way of accounting for the mystery and only one.

There are mysteries of Mammon's acre, and this may be of them. Everyone is aware how terribly harassing to the mental powers are complicated calculations made offhand, and frequently against time, which has to be beaten by a neck-by half a head, if money is to be made by the speculation. It is possible-nay, probable - that, under extraordinary pressure, the brain even of a bull may become heated and disturbed and a bear be conscious of symptoms that make him feel uncomfortable. The proper and immediate thing, of course, is to resort to some means of tranquilising the nervous system. The simplest remedies are always the safest, and sometimes the most efficacious. Is it impossible, then, that an excited bull, feeling the fit coming on, may hurry to his chambers and bid his faithful clerk make haste and procure him some toy the contemplation of which shall amuse him, though only for a couple of minutes? He knows that if he can but laugh his congestion will be relieved, and he will be himself again. He therefore sends out into Broad-street for a frolicsome donkey, or a Punch's squeaker, communes with one or the other the secrecy of his chamber for a few minutes, and then emerges as cool and self-possessed a bull as ever pastured in a Devon meadow. If I have hit on a correct solution of the matter, the constant craving in the neighbourhood in question for novel toys is accounted for.

-          James Greenwood, Mysteries of Modern London, 1883

There you have it, parents; by ignoring the incessant advertising and not getting your children the latest must-have gadgets that they desired this Christmas, you have actually destroyed their future. Now, one of those clay sheep sounds delightful…