Thomas Bewick’s Cat
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I discovered a copy of Thomas Bewick’s General History of Quadrupeds from 1824 in the Spitalfields Market and – of course – I turned first to his entry upon the domestic cat, from which I publish these excerpts below.
To describe an animal so well known might seem a superfluous task – we shall only, therefore, select some of its peculiarities as are least obvious and may have escaped the notice of inattentive observers.
It is generally remarked that Cats can see in the dark, but though this is not absolutely the case, yet it is certain that they can see with much less light than other animals, owing to the peculiar structure of their eyes – the pupils of which are capable of being contracted or dilated in proportion to the degree of light by which they are affected. The pupil of the Cat, during the day, is perpetually contracted and it is with difficulty that it can see in strong light, but in the twilight the pupil regains its natural roundness, the animal enjoys perfect vision and takes advantage of this superiority to discover and surprise its prey.
The cry of the Cat is loud, piercing and clamorous, and whether expressive of anger or of love is equally violent and hideous. Its call may be heard at a great distance and is so well known to the whole fraternity that, on some occasions, several hundred Cats have been brought together from different parts. Invited by the piercing cries of distress from a suffering fellow creature, they assemble in crowds and with loud squalls and yells express their horrid sympathies. They frequently tear the miserable object to pieces and, with the most blind and furious rage, fall upon each other, killing and wounding indiscriminately, till there is scarcely one left. These terrible conflicts happen only in the night.
The Cat is particularly averse to water, cold and bad smells. It is fond of certain perfumes but is more particularly attracted by the smell of valerian and cat mint – it rubs itself against them and if not prevented will infallibly destroy them.
Though extremely useful in destroying the vermin that infest our houses, the Cat seems little attached to the persons of those who afford it protection. It appears to be under no subjection and acts only for itself.
All its views are confined to the place where it has been brought up. If carried elsewhere, it seems lost and bewildered, and frequently takes the first opportunity of escaping to its former haunts. Frequent instances are recollected of Cats having returned to the place from whence they have been carried, though at many miles distance, and even across rivers, where they could not possibly have any knowledge of the road or the situation that would apparently lead them to it.
In the time of Hoel the Good, King of Wales, who died in the year 948, laws were made to fix the different prices of animals, among which the Cat was included as being at that period of great importance on account if its scarceness and utility. The price of a kitten was fixed at one penny, till proof could be given of its having caught a mouse twopence, after which it was rated as fourpence which was a great sum in those days.
If anyone should steal or kill the Cat that guarded the Prince’s granary, he was either to forfeit a milk ewe, or her fleece and lamb, or as much wheat as when poured on the Cat suspended by its tail would form a heap high enough to cover the tip of the former.
Hence we may conclude that Cats were not originally native of these islands, and from the great care taken to improve and preserve the breed of this prolific creature, we may suppose, were but little known in that period. Whatever credit we may allow to the circumstances of the well known story of Whittington and his Cat, it is another proof of the great value set upon this animal in former times.
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Blackie, the Last Spitalfields Market Cat
At Morden College
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At the southeast corner of Blackheath Park stands a red-brick nineteenth century gatehouse with a drive curving beyond and disappearing into the trees. You might wonder if this is the London retreat of a reclusive plutocrat, yet a sign announcing ‘Morden College’ disabuses you of this notion. So then you assume it must be an exclusive private school and you look for errant pupils in uniform, yet you are wrong again. Morden College is one of the capital’s best-kept secrets.
It was founded by Sir John Morden (1623-1708) in 1685 as a charitable home for ‘decayed merchants’ of the Levant Company and constructed in the style of Christopher Wren by Wren’s master-mason Edward Strong. Remarkably, it is still going strong and now offers good quality retirement accommodation to four hundred people, including a nursing home.
I walked up the sweeping drive to pass through the main entrance beneath the statues of Sir John & Lady Susan Morden and arrive at the central quadrangle, which looks as fine today as it did three hundred years ago. It was my privilege to enjoy lunch in the dining hall, sitting beneath the portrait of Sir John, followed by a stroll around the well-kept gardens.
Sir John Morden administered the college himself in his final years and it flourishes today as a inspirational and far-sighted example of philanthropy. Born into a modest family in the parish of St Bride’s, Fleet St, he rose by his own ability through an apprenticeship to a Committee Member of the East India Company. After a successful posting to Aleppo, he later became Deputy Governor of the Company and a Board Member of the Levant Company. Yet he also lived through the Plague and the Great Fire, causing him to move from the City to Greenwich where Charles II held court and many distinguished Londoners sought refuge at the time. As his friend Daniel Defoe noted, “The beauty of Greenwich is owing to the lustre of its inhabitants.”
Without children, Sir John had no heir for his fortune and decided to use his wealth to found a college for, “Poor Merchants and such as have lost their Estates by accidents, danger and Perills of the Seas or by any other way of means in their honest endeavours to get a living by means of Merchandizing.”
Defoe wrote describing the venture.
“I had it from his own mouth that he was to make apartments for forty decay’d merchants to whom he resolv’d to allow forty shillings per annum each, with coals, a gown (and servants to look after their apartments) and many other conveniences so as the make their lives as comfortable as possible.
Each apartments consists of a bedchamber and a study, or large closet for their retreat, and to divert themselves with books etc.
They have a public kitchen, a hall to dine in. There is also a very good apartment for the chaplain, whose salary is fifty shillings a year, there are also dwellings for the cooks, butlers, porter, the women, and other servants, and reasonable salaries allow’d them. Behind the chapel is a handsome burial ground wall’d in, there are also very good gardens. In a word, it is the noblest foundation and most considerable single piece of charity that has been erected in England since Sutton’s hospital in London.”
While enjoying the benefits of good fortune, John Morden recognised that it was equally possible to suffer ill-fortune and – with startling insight and generosity – left his inheritance to support to those who needed it, in perpetuity. When William Morris campaigned to save the Trinity Green Almhouses in Whitechapel in the eighteen-eighties, he argued that we need them as a reminder of the enduring spirit of fellowship. I came away from Morden College uplifted by the same thought, humbled and touched by John Morden’s open-handed appreciation of the needs of others, and with a renewed recognition of the responsibility we all have to support those who are vulnerable in our society.
Anagram & acrostic in memory of Sir John Morden over the entrance to the dining hall
At the southeast corner of Blackheath Park stands a red-brick nineteenth century gatehouse
Constructed in the style of Christopher Wren by Wren’s master mason Edward Strong
“His statue in stone set up by his lady and since her death her own is set up near by the trustees” – Daniel Defoe commented on the statues of Sir John & Lady Susan Morden when he visited in 1725
Entrance to the quadrangle
“And that there be a Sun Dyall set up for Keeping the Clock right w’ch often goes wrong.” The motto reads “Sic Umbra, sic vita,” comparing the transiency of life to a fleeting shadow.
“the chaplain, whose salary is fifty shillings a year”
Mulberry tree c.1700
The college fire engine was presented by Richard Chiswell in 1751
Morden College, 1755
Sir John Morden (Courtesy of Wellcome Foundation)
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Andrew Scott’s East End
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In Sclater St, Spitalfields
“In the autumn of 1974, we stuffed our belongings into a van and headed for London. Like all newcomers, we had to find somewhere to live – and fast, since none of us had family or friends in the capital. Someone who knew someone directed us to the Tower Hamlets Squatters’ Union, a grass roots community organisation who could help us squat an empty property. The people who ran the Union believed that the amount of council property sitting empty or scheduled for demolition was a disgrace. And we agreed with them.
We were first ‘put into’ two prefab dwellings in Shadwell. The next morning we were evicted (and secretly relieved). The Squatters’ Union then delivered us to a terraced house in Stepney where we stayed for several months, hardly able to believe our luck. There was no bath or indoor toilet, but did we care? We were in our early twenties, hungry for everything London could offer. That included the East London street markets – rich repositories of fresh fruit, vegetables, and every sort of tat.
We adored London – its throb and thrum, its variety and eccentricity. Our East End neighbours were tolerant of us, but others were not so lucky. We witnessed blatant racism for the first time. Andrew took photographs for the Squatters’ Union to help publicise their anti-racist work with Bangladeshi families and to document the re-housing of some of those living in the worst housing conditions.”
Caroline Gilfillan & Andrew Scott
In Sclater St, Spitalfields
In Sclater St, Spitalfields
In Sclater St, Spitalfields
In Spitalfields
In Stoneyard Lane, Poplar
At Stephen & Matilda Houses, Wapping
In York Sq, Stepney
In Stoneyard Lane, Poplar
In Bromley St, Stepney
In Corfield St, Bethnal Green
In Corfield St, Bethnal Green
In Corfield St, Bethnal Green
In Corfield St, Bethnal Green
In Aldgate
In Corfield St, Bethnal Green
In Poplar
South of Commercial Rd, Stepney
In Commercial Rd, Stepney
At Stephen & Matilda Houses, Wapping
In Whitechapel
In Whitechapel
In Whitechapel
In York Sq, Stepney
In Ben Jonson Rd, Stepney
In Ben Jonson Rd, Stepney
In Ben Jonson Rd, Stepney
In Broad St Station
In Bromley St, Stepney
Dock Wall, St Katherine’s Basin
South of Commercial Rd
South of Commercial Rd
In Aldgate
In Whitechapel Rd
In Commercial Rd, Stepney
The George in Commercial Rd, Stepney
Photographs copyright © Andrew Scott
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Caroline Gilfillan & Andrew Scott’s East End
The Mystery Of Arthur Cousins’ Printers
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(Click to enlarge this image and study it in detail)
‘A tribute to the pioneers and masters of printing who through 500 years have perpetuated and adorned the written word, spreading far and wide the rich currency of ideas, knowledge & understanding’
Who can name the printers featured in this epic wooden relief carving by Arthur Cousins in 1951? I have made some suggestions below but I call upon the superior knowledge of my readers to identify them all.
The origin of this panel, which was acquired by anthropologist & collector Dr Kaori O’Connor at a sale room in the eighties, is a mystery too. Dr O’ Connor understood it came from the office of a print union. Can anyone enlighten us further or tell us more about Arthur Cousins?
On the far left is the profile of a Chinese printer with a chronological sequence of figures from the history of printing in the West arranged from left to right. I think I identify William Morris and Eric Gill on the right, but those of earlier periods are unknown to me, although I recognise the gods Minerva and Mercury presiding overhead.
Readers may recall that it was Dr O’Connor who rescued Cecil Osborne’s murals, commissioned for St Pancras Town Hall, in a similar enlightened fashion from a general sale at Christies in South Kensington, and thanks to her initiative they have been reinstalled in the Town Hall again.
Now Dr O’Connor wants to find a permanent home for Arthur Cousins’ wooden relief of printers where it can be seen publicly. It is approximately eight feet wide by six feet high and carved into a block of oak a couple of inches thick.
If any of my readers can help, please drop me a line to spitalfieldslife@gmail.com and I will forward your message to Dr O’Connor.
William Morris is seated on the left with Eric Gill holding a tablet on the right. Who is standing behind Morris and who are the two men in the middle?
Who are these Early Modern printers? Could one be William Caslon?
Is that William Caxton standing to the right. Who are these Renaissance printers?
Arthur Cousins, 1951
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The Facades Of Spitalfields
As part of Open House – in collaboration with House of Annetta and Assemble – I am leading guided walks to view the façades of Spitalfields on Friday 9th September at 2pm, 4pm & 7pm.
In my walk, I shall be exploring the histories of local buildings that have been façaded, explaining why it is happening and what it means.
Each walk lasts an hour and tickets are free but you need to reserve your place online. Click here for tickets
Tours commence outside the Metro Bank on the corner of Bishopsgate and Liverpool St, and end at House of Annetta in Princelet St.
My book THE CREEPING PLAGUE OF GHASTLY FACADISM combines a gallery of London’s most notorious facades with a humorous analysis of facadism – the unfortunate practice of destroying everything apart from the front wall and constructing a new building behind it.
The facade of Paul Pindar’s House in the Victoria & Albert Museum
Spitalfields is quickly becoming the epicentre of façadism in London. Confronting these examples daily has become such a source of disquiet, it has lead me to consider the nature and meaning of these curious transformations that have taken place before my eyes.
At first in Spitalfields, there was only the facade of the Cock A Hoop public house in Artillery Lane, two nineteenth century front walls punctuated by window openings, standing at angles to each other like a book cover propped open. They stand six feet in front of the new building and their windows do not coincide with the windows behind. Only the steel props which stabilise the facade connect the old and the new.
Although this was a troubling sight, it was the facading of the London Fruit & Wool Exchange in Brushfield St in the heart of Spitalfields that truly shocked me. The destruction of a high quality building from 1927 was forced through by the Mayor of London against the wishes of the local council and offices for small independent businesses replaced by an international legal corporation. This was followed by the destruction of the White Hart in Bishopsgate which traces its origins to 1246 and was replaced with a cylindrical office block rising over the front wall of the ancient tavern. Currently a dignified stable block to the north of Spitalfields in Quaker St, constructed by the Great Eastern Railway in 1888, is being reduced to its exterior wall that will contain a new chain hotel. This building had previously been occupied by local businesses too.
British Land has demolished more than eighty per cent of the fabric of their development site in a Conservation Area in Norton Folgate, a former ancient liberty to the west of Spitalfields. Again this was forced through contrary to the wishes of the local council who were overruled by the Mayor of London. More than forty separate premises spread across several streets are being reduced to a handful of large corporate offices with floor plates extending the width of a city block. Only the facades of a few distinctive buildings within this medieval quarter will be preserved as evidence of an urban landscape that developed over centuries. ‘A kind of authenticity’ is the developer’s oxymoronical language to sell this approach. As if there were fifty-seven varieties of authenticity, when ‘authentic’ is not a relative term – something is either authentic or it is phoney.
Now that I am surrounded by façadism on all sides, a certain pattern has become evident. Historically, Spitalfields evolved as a place outside the walls of the City of London where small trades could benefit from the proximity of wealthy customers while paying cheaper rents for workshops. Yet equally the City has been an ambivalent influence. It has been a consistent source of violence in the subjugation of its less powerful neighbour and policies enacted in the City commonly have implications in Spitalfields. When Jewish people were forbade from trading in the City in the twelfth century, they started a market outside the walls which trades to this day as Petticoat Lane Market.
Over the centuries, violence has always had a hand in the creation of the identity of Spitalfields. When Henry VIII ‘dissolved’ the Priory of St Mary Spital which gives its name to the place, he distributed the properties among his friends and turned the gardens and orchards into his artillery ground. When the Great Eastern Railway cut across the north of Spitalfields in the eighteen-thirties, thousands were forced from their homes crowding into nearby streets. It was the same pattern when Commercial St was cut through in the eighteen-fifties – bisecting the parish from north to south – in order to carry traffic from the docks which the City of London wished to divert from its own streets. And again when the railway was extended south across the west side of Spitalfields to Liverpool St, residents were forcibly evicted and their homes demolished.
The construction of Liverpool St Station entailed the destruction of Paul Pindar’s house, a lavish renaissance mansion built in Bishopsgate to house the extravagant collections of Queen Elizabeth’s envoy to Constantinople, Sir Paul Pindar. The headquarters of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings sits nearby in Spital Sq upon the site of the medieval priory and in their archives are letters written in the late nineteenth by architect CR Ashbee pleading with the railway company to save Pindar’s mansion or at least integrate it into their new building. Many of the sentiments and arguments rehearsed in his letters will be familiar to those campaigning to protect historic buildings from destruction today.
In the event, only the frontage of Paul Pindar’s house was saved by the Victoria & Albert Museum in South Kensington where it sits to this day as a poignant relic, the earliest Spitalfields facade – both a reminder of earlier world and a strange precursor of things to come. I can only speculate at the how those in the future will view the museum’s recent acquisition of a fragment of the frontage of Robin Hood Gardens, an idealistic attempt at social housing in East London in the sixties.
The wonder is how, through the centuries, Spitalfields has thrived as a working community in spite of the violence enacted upon it. As if an indomitable spirit of survival arose that found its expression in the resourcefulness of the residents. Yet the generation of such a culture relies upon the provision of cheap workshops and housing.
For the most part, the façadism that has been imposed upon Spitalfields in recent years enables the transformation of buildings which once provided multiple spaces for small local businesses into a handful of large offices for international businesses in the financial industries, and chains. The bizarre and awkward appearance of these structures speaks of this discontinuity, reconciling elements that do not belong together. In short, the facades of Spitalfields are indicative of the corporate takeover of spaces forcibly imposed upon the neighbourhood while maintaining the superficial appearance of a continuum of use.
Yet these new structures are not intended to have longevity. History tells us that Spitalfields is a consistently mutable place where the influence of the greater world always makes itself felt. When Henry VIII’s soldiers ‘dissolved’ the hospital and priory of St Mary Spital, turning out the patients from infirmary and Augustinian brothers from the precinct, it must have seemed like the end of days. But the world always moves on and, a century later, the Truman Brewery opened and the Spitalfields Market was established by royal charter, endeavours whose legacies shape the neighbourhood to this day.
There is no doubt that limited resources will increasingly effect how buildings are constructed. I hope it will demand greater reuse of existing structures and less destruction. London already has examples of buildings that have been facaded more than once. Maybe the facades of Spitalfields will outlive their current forced marriages to find themselves in more sympathetic relationships with buildings yet to be conceived.
We can only dream of this future but we can be certain that this grotesque contemporary practice will not endure.
The former Cock A Hoop tavern in Artillery Lane
The former Fruit & Wool Exchange in Brushfield St
The former White Hart in Bishopsgate is now a Metro Bank
The former Great Eastern Railway stables in Quaker St is now a Hub Hotel
British Land describe the impending facadism in Norton Folgate as ‘a kind of authenticity’
Norman Foster’s proposal for a facaded tower at the corner of Commercial St in a Conservation Area
CLICK HERE TO ORDER A COPY OF THE CREEPING PLAGUE OF GHASTLY FACADISM
Two Bank Holiday Visitors From Ilfracombe
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Two young men from Ilfracombe
A small cache of glass slides of a century ago arrived at the Bishopsgate Institute as a donation from Ilfracombe Museum without any accompanying information, yet the fact that nothing is known of these two men from Ilfracombe featured in the photographs has not prevented my speculation.
“Don’t we look like born Londoners, taking a stroll down the Victoria Embankment in our best suits on a Saturday morning? It makes the quay at Ilfracombe look pitiful I must say. We sought out the statue of old Raikes on his pedestal in the park and took a picture for Norah and her Sunday School nippers, like we promised. I never thought there were so many people in the world as we saw in Fleet St, it makes you wonder who cooks them all dinner? Everyone seems to know where they are going, so we did our best to blend in, keeping our noses directed towards St Paul’s up ahead in the fog. Himself tugged upon my cuff at every watering hole and it was all I could do to resist. Yet I still felt intoxicated by the train journey, changing at Exeter St David’s and whisking us at lightning speed to Paddington yesterday. We kept our wallets in our inside pockets, like you told us, and made sure that we did not both fall asleep at once, lest we should get robbed. Himself snored all the way up and missed the changing wonders of the landscape, of course. The sheets in the guesthouse were not of the cleanest but rather than raise a fuss I slept on top of the blanket. You do fear you might get lost in all the streets and never find your way out again. Magnificent vessels moored in the Pool and it reminded us of home to see the little tugs and pilot boats bobbing. It makes my head spin to see the big cargo ships lined up and think of the dark continents so far away. I swear I never walked so much as we did through the West End and back across the Park, and I felt we deserved a decent refreshment but the prices were iniquitous and I shall regret that cold roast beef sandwich as long as I live. Yet Himself was philosophical and asked what is existence without adventures like this? The boots are bearing up well, thankfully. At least, if we never go outside dear old Ilfracombe again, we can say that we have seen life now. Greetings to Ernie and Nan, and little Ralph and the twins.”
“Behold Sir Robert Raikes who founded the Sunday Schools movement”
“Best foot forward up Ludgate Hill”
“Outside St Paul’s”
“At the Pool of London”
“Passing ourselves off as Londoners”
“This is me and Albert”
Photographs courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
A Review In The Oldie
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I am delighted to republish this review by Patrick Barkham from the August issue of The Oldie
