Elegy For The White Hart
The White Hart c. 1800 by John Thomas Smith
Charles Goss, one of the first archivists at the Bishopsgate Institute, was in thrall to the romance of old Bishopsgate and in 1930 he wrote a lyrical history of The White Hart, which he believed to be its most ancient tavern – originating as early as 1246.
At the end of the year which saw last orders called at The White Hart forever, I have been reading Goss’ account to compose this elegy for one of London’s oldest inns.
“Its history as an inn can be of little less antiquity than that of the Tabard, the lodging house of the feast-loving Chaucer and the Canterbury pilgrims, or the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap, the rendezvous of Prince Henry and his lewd companions.” – CWF Goss
In Goss’ time, Bishopsgate still contained medieval shambles that were spared by the Fire of London and he recalled the era before the coming of the railway, when the street was lined with old coaching inns, serving as points of departure and arrival for travellers to and from the metropolis. “During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, The White Hart tavern was at the height of its prosperity.” he wrote fondly, “It was a general meeting place of literary men of the neighbourhood and the rendezvous of politicians and traders, and even noblemen visited it.”
The White Hart’s history is interwoven with the founding of the Hospital of St Mary Bethlehem in 1246 by Simon Fitz Mary, whose house once stood upon the site of the tavern. He endowed his land in Bishopsgate, extending beneath the current Liverpool St Station, to the monastery and Goss believed the brothers stayed in Fitz Mary’s mansion once they first arrived from Palestine, until the hospital was constructed in 1257 with the gatehouse situated where Liverpool St meets Bishopsgate today. This dwelling may have subsequently became a boarding house for pilgrims outside the City gate and when the first licences to sell sweet wines were issued to three taverns in Bishopsgate in August 1365, this is likely to have been the origin of the White Hart’s status as a tavern.
Yet, ten years later in 1375, Edward III took possession of the monastery as an “alien priory’ and turned it over to become a hospital for the insane. The gateway was replaced in the reign of Richard II and the date ‘1480’ that adorned the front of the inn until the nineteenth century suggests it was rebuilt with a galleried yard at the same time and renamed The White Hart, acquiring Richard’s badge as its own symbol. The galleried yard offered the opportunity for theatrical performances, while increased traffic in Bishopsgate and the reputation of Shoreditch as a place of entertainments drew the audience.
“Vast numbers of stage coaches, wagons, chaises and carriages passed through Bishopsgate St at this time,” wrote Goss excitedly, “Travellers and carriers arriving near the City after the gates had been closed or those who for other reasons desired to remain outside the City wall until the morning, would naturally put up at one of the galleried inns, or taverns near the City gate and The White Hart was esteemed to be one of the most important taverns at that time. Here they would find small private rooms, where the visitors not only took their meals but transacted all manner of business and, if the food dispensed was good enough, the wine strong, the feather beds deep and heavily curtained, the bedrooms were certainly cold and draughty, for the doors opened onto unprotected galleries – but apparently they were comfortable enough for travellers in former days.”
The occasion of Charles Goss’ history of The White Hart was the centenary of its rebuilding upon its original foundations in 1829, yet although the medieval structure above ground was replaced, Goss was keen to emphasise that, “When the tavern was taken down it was found to be built upon cellars constructed in earlier centuries. Those were not destroyed, but were again used in the construction of the present house.” This rebuilding coincided with Bedlam Gate being removed and the road widened and renamed Liverpool St, after the Hospital of St Mary Bethlehem had transferred to Lambeth in 1815. At this time, the date ‘1246 ‘- referring to the founding of the monastery – was placed upon the pediment on The White Hart where it may be seen to this day.
“This tavern which claims to be endowed with the oldest licence in London, is still popular, for its various compartments appear always to be well patronised during the legal hours they are open for refreshment and there can be none of London’s present-day inns which can trace its history as far back as The White Hart, Bishopsgate,” concluded Goss in satisfaction in 1930.
In 2011, permission was granted by the City of London to demolish all but the facade of The White Hart and this year the pub shut for the last time to permit the construction of a nine storey cylindrical office block of questionable design, developed by Sir Alan Sugar’s company Amsprop. Thus passes The White Hart after more than seven centuries in Bishopsgate, and I am glad Charles Goss is not here to see it.
The White Hart from a drawing by George Shepherd, 1810
White Hart Court, where the coaches once drove through to the galleried yard of the White Hart
Design by Inigo Jones for buildings constructed in White Hart Court in 1610
Seventeenth century tavern token, “At The White Hart”
Reverse of the Tavern Token ” At Bedlam Gate 1637″
The White Hart as it appeared in 1787
The White Hart, prior to the rebuilding of 1829
The White Hart in recent years
The White Hart as it stands today
Amsprop’s impression of the future of The White Hart as a facade to a cylindrical office building.
Archive images courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
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Part 2. Christmas On The Moor
Following Part 1. A Discovery At Christmas, this is the second in a series of three short memoirs, revealing the contents of a locked box that my father carried his whole life and telling the story it contained, which I discovered after his death.
Gwladys Brown, 3rd September 1917, aged 22
After Peter, my father, died in October 2001, I collected all the old photographs in the house and attempted to identify them, but there were many people from the time before I was born whom I did not recognise. I arranged those who were familiar to me in a series of photo albums, while those who were unknown were reluctantly consigned to a box.
At Christmas that year, when I opened my father’s padlocked document chest and discovered a series of letters from Gwladys Brown, revealing that she had been compelled to give him up as a baby – a secret so painful that he carried it his whole life – I returned to the box of photographs seeking pictures of her. Labelled in Gwladys’ own handwriting that I recognised from her letters, I found this photograph of her looking so bright and full of life, and it was a curious sensation to recognise my own features in her face. This image of Gwladys had always been in our house but I never looked at it before because I did not know who she was.
Now that Gwladys is present in my life as my grandmother, the intimate quality of this photograph fascinates me and I find myself scrutinising it to ascertain the precise emotional timbre of the picture. Even though it was taken six years before she gave birth to my father, I cannot separate the portrait from this event and I equivocate between seeing composure and uncertainty in her beautiful features. Most of all I am consoled to recognise the sense of dignity and self-possession apparent, reflecting the courage and strength of mind revealed in her writing.
Among the dozen of Gwladys’ letters to my father’s adoptive mother that I discovered in his box were a series written from Hawkmoor Sanatorium, Bovey Tracey. I found that once Gwladys had returned to her work as a housemaid in the employ of Mrs Dimond, after she had given birth to my father in 1923 and a friend had agreed to adopt him, a further crisis overcame her. At first, when Gwladys wrote repeatedly of “feeling bad” I understood this as a reference to her grief but, once I learnt that Hawkmoor was a hospital built at the edge of Dartmoor for patients suffering from pulmonary tuberculosis, her language took on its true meaning.
Gwladys’ account of her bizarre treatment at Hawkmoor, which included sleeping in unheated chalets in winter with the doors open to admit rain and snow, makes you wonder how she survived such harsh therapy in her vulnerable condition.
Dear Mrs -, At last I am writing to you as I promised to. Well dear, it is lovely place up here & such nice views you can see right down on the moors. You will be pleased to hear that I am much better & my cough has gone thank goodness. I don’t take medicine, they just keep you out in the air all day. We all have to go for a long walk every day. You need some strong shoes up here as the walks we go on are so muddy and stones, it cuts your shoes awful. I am getting quite sunburnt. Must tell you I had nice company when I got out at Bovey Station, she was going to Hawkmoor as well so it was nice to have company. There was a car at the station waiting for us, so we had a lovely ride. It is a good three miles from the station. I have breakfast in bed for a bit, must tell you we have to rest before dinner at 11:50 to 12:50 & again before tea at 4:50 t0 5:50. We have breakfast at 8 o’clock, dinner at 1 o’clock & tea at 6, bed at half past 8. We see the Dr every morning & get examined every month. There are such a lot of women & they are so jolly, & such a lot of men. It is pitiful to see some of the men up here, poor things, & a lot of them are married. We had 3 more came in today, so they are getting full up again now. I expect I shall only be here for 3 months. How I would love to see you all, but I must wait until I come back & then I will come up & see you. How are you getting dear? How I do think of you, as you have been a good friend to me, like a mother. It do seem hard to get down bad like this through hard work. Well dear there is only one post out a day here & that is 4 o’clock. So we have to write pretty early to catch post as the time goes so quickl. By the time we have been for our walks & then rest hours, it don’t give you much time. I do hope you will write to me as I don’t get many letters. I do wonder how little Mary is getting on. Well dear, I must stop now as I shall miss the post. Hoping you are keeping well & dear little Peter. My love to you all, Evelyn, John, Mr – , also dear little Peter from Gwladys xxxxx Hoping to hear from you soon dear. I will write again when I hear from you xxx future
My Dearest Mrs -, You will think I am unkind not to answer your last letter but really dear I have not been very well. I caught a nasty chill & had to stay in bed a fortnight, but glad to say I am much better & about again. What would I give to see you again. Am longing to come home & see you. I don’t think I shall be home for Xmas. Must tell you it is a bitter cold place here in winter. We sleep out in the open & when it rains it comes right in & you are not allowed to shut any doors & the wind nearly blows you out of bed. We have had dreadful weather, rain every day. We had a lot of snow yesterday. It is so pretty to see the children playing with the snow, it makes me think of dear little Peter. I do think of him such a lot in this cold weather wondering how he is keeping, bless him. It is awful here, no fires at all, have not seen a fire since I left home. I guess you have got a lovely fire now. I can just picture John sitting around it. I don’t know what sort of Xmas they spend here. Have you made your Xmas pudding yet? I hope you will send me a little bit to taste. It will seem more like a Xmas to me if I taste a bit of pudding. Glad to say I am putting on weight so I must be getting better…
My photograph of the view from Haytor towards Bovey Tracey at Christmas 2002
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Christmas At The Whitechapel Mission
Before dawn on Christmas Eve, Contributing Photographer Colin O’Brien & I ventured out in a rainstorm to visit our friends down at the Whitechapel Mission – established in 1876, which opens every day of the year to offer breakfasts, showers, clothes and access to mail and telephones, for those who are homeless or in need.
Many of those who come here are too scared to sleep rough but walk or ride public transport all night, arriving in Whitechapel at six in the morning when the Mission opens. We found the atmosphere subdued on Christmas Eve on account of the rain and the season. People were weary and shaken up by the traumatic experience of the night, and overcome with relief to be safe in the warm and dry. Feeling the soothing effect of a hot shower and breakfast, they sat immobile and withdrawn. For those shut out from family and social events which are the focus of festivities for the rest of us, and facing the onset of winter temperatures, this is the toughest time of the year.
Unlike most other hostels and day centres, Whitechapel Mission does not shut during Christmas. Tony Miller, who has run the Mission and lived and brought up his family in this building over the last thirty-five years, had summoned his three grown-up children out of bed at five that morning to cover in the kitchen when the day’s volunteers failed to show. Although his staff take a break over Christmas which means he and his wife Sue and their family have to pick up the slack, it is a moment in the year that Tony relishes. “40% of our successful reconnections happen at Christmas,” he explained enthusiastically, passionate to seize the opportunity to get people off the street, “If I can persuade someone to make the Christmas phone call home …”
Tony estimates there are around three thousand people living rough in London at present, whom he accounts as follows – approximately 15% Eastern Europeans, 15% Africans and 5% from the rest of the world, another 15% are ex-army while 30%, the largest proportion, are people who grew up in care and have never been able to establish a secure life for themselves.
Among those I spoke with on Christmas Eve were those who had homes but were dispossessed in other ways. There were several vulnerable people who lived alone and had no family, and were grateful for a place where they could come for breakfast and speak with others. Here in the Mission, I recognised a collective sense of refuge from the challenges of existence and the rigours of the weather outside, and it engendered a tacit human solidarity. “This is going to be the best Christmas of my life,” Andrew, an energetic skinny guy who I met for the first time that morning, assured me, “because it’s my first one free of drugs.” We shook hands and agreed this was something to celebrate.
Tony took Colin & me upstairs to show us the pile of non-perishable food donations that the Mission had received and explained that on Christmas Day each visitor would be given a gift of a pair of socks, a woollen hat, a scarf and pair of gloves, with a bar of chocolate wrapped inside. Tony told me that on Christmas Day he and his family always have a meal together, but his wife Sue also invites a dozen waifs and strays – so I asked him how he felt about the lack of privacy. “My kids were born here,” he replied with a shrug and a smile and an astonishing generosity of spirit, “after thirty years, I don’t have a problem with it.”
Food donations
Photographs copyright Colin O’Brien
Click here to donate to the work of the Whitechapel Mission
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Part 1. A Discovery At Christmas
In the first of a series of three short memoirs, I reveal the contents of a locked box that my father carried his whole life and tell the story it contained, which I discovered after his death.
You deceive yourself into thinking that you know yourself and that you have made your own choices in life, until another hidden reality is revealed to you which explains how you came to be who you are. Such was the nature of my discovery, uncovering events that happened decades before my birth, and the existence of someone whose fate defined the direction of my father’s life and coloured my own.
In October 2001, I got an unexpected phone call on a Sunday evening in London to say that Peter, my father, had collapsed and been taken into hospital. “Is he conscious?” I asked, fearing the worst. “No,” came the reply. “Is he breathing?” I asked in surprise, growing suspicious. “No,” came the reply. “Is he dead?” I asked, seeking confirmation even though I already knew the answer. Each autumn, my father cut the privet hedge which surrounded the small house and orchard in Exeter where I grew up, and – after completing the task that year – he took a nap on the sofa and never woke up again. Aside from recurring feelings of weakness on his part, there had been little warning and, in retrospect, I think he was blessed to take his leave in the way that he did.
I am an only child, so it was just Valerie, my mother, and me for Christmas that year. We went for carols on Christmas Eve in the cathedral and I cooked a meal on Christmas Day. My fear that it would all become a painful empty ritual was unfounded, as we discovered consolation in repeating the usual activities in the familiar surroundings. Already, I had cleared out most of my father’s things and undertaken a few minor home improvements to inspire hope in my mother that life could go on there. After dark, while she dozed in front of the television downstairs, I sat upstairs in my childhood bedroom, following the pattern of my adolescent years when I spent my evenings in study.
As long as I could remember, my father had a padlocked document box, of homemade wooden construction and painted black. It was stored in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, among his folded shirts, socks and sweaters. He had a desk downstairs where he kept his bills and football pool coupons and my school reports – and this black box was used to store other papers, I understood. Yet it was both so peripheral and so familiar in my consciousness, I never gave it a second thought until after he died.
One night between Christmas and New Year, I decided to open it. Alone in my room, I took my father’s hammer and chisel and prised the box open. Inside, I discovered around a dozen letters on faded notepaper that my father had kept hidden through the years.
All but one were written by Gwladys Brown, a young housemaid working for a Mrs Dimond, who became pregnant and was compelled to give up my father as a baby in 1924. Immediately, I realised that the old couple who brought him up had died before he met my mother and I was born. He adopted their surname which in turn became mine. Thus, circumstances permitted him to bury the truth of his origin, which was such a source of shame that he had carried it as a lonely secret his whole life long.
The letters spoke eloquently across time. Touched by Gwladys’ pain and emotional distress, I was thrown into an intimate relationship with a relative whom I could never meet. I was filled with a strange sense of helplessness. Ironically, it was in 2001 that more babies were born to unmarried parents than to wedded couples in Britain and I was shocked to confront the meaning of this social change personally, recognising that for my father’s generation the stigma was sufficient to blight an entire life.
Yet even as I began to decipher the letters, tracing the unfurling of events and constructing the fragmentary story they revealed, questions proliferated. Who was my grandfather? What became of my grandmother? How much of my father’s life, behaviour and desires could be explained by the drama of his origin? And, as I became aware of my mother sitting downstairs, I asked myself if I should tell her or if – perhaps – she already knew?
Dear Mrs – , Just a line to say that have written to [the] deaconess telling her about you, [that] you have been to see me about Peter & that you are going to have him altogether, which is more than kind of you. Mrs Dimond thinks there will be a written paper for me to sign for Peter, so now we shall hear something or perhaps they will send up to you. She will get her letter tomorrow morning. Mrs Dimond will sign it for me, dear Mrs – , a thousand thanks I give to you and Mr – for having my dear Peter which I cannot thank you enough for I am broken hearted over it & I will do my best for you when I am out & well again. Mrs Dimond is putting in a note as well, she is a dear woman & one in a thousand to me which I shall never forget her & you & Mr -. Shall be so thankful when it is over and I am back with my dear Mistress again. Will not forget to write while I am there. Love to you all, from G xxx xxxxxx for sweet Peter
This is to certify [I] do hereby give full charge to Mrs – of 55 Victoria Street, St James, Exeter, Devon of my child named Peter Stanley Brown
Dear Mr & Mrs -,
Just a few lines to enclose with Gladys’ letter to you, I do think it is so kind of you both to take dear little Peter. It will be good to know the little soul will be in good keeping & looked after & I sincerely hope he will turn out to be a blessing to you. Gladys will be coming to me after the affair is over & she promises she will be a very different girl in future if I will have her here again. So I feel I must give her a chance. She has been a very faithful girl to me in every way, so I must hope for the best.
I am sorry I could not see you this afternoon. I had such a worrying week last week with the affair, my nerves would not permit me to see anyone. I am so grieved over her, I cannot express how I feel it is so terrible.
I will try to go out tomorrow morning to get the little shoes for Peter & some socks, so your daughter can take them back with her tomorrow evening.
My best wishes to you
Yours sincerely
A M Dimond
My Dearest Ma, I am sending dear Peter’s vest. So sorry I could not send it before, but have been so bad, but glad to say I am feeling so much better. Well dear I must tell you, I am broken hearted, I only wish I was up with you. My Mrs is like a devil to me. It is hard as I have no-one to go to & no home. It makes me cry bitter. You are the only best friend I have & I can tell you all my troubles. I do wish I was with you. She is a devil & the work I do for her, I am heart broken dear. She makes me cry bitter. Will make Peter some socks now. Do burn this dear when you have read it dear. Don’t write dear in case she gets hold of it. I will come up to see you, don’t send any letters. Have finish with him. Well dear I must hurry up as it is nearly dinner time only I thought I must tell you what she is like to me ( it is hard for me, eh dear ) My love to all & dear Peter. My best love & xxx to you dear ma who has been the best friend in the world to me & will always be a good friend. God bless you dear from broken hearted Gwladys. I am so miserable dear.
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The Lotteries Of Old London
On Boxing Day, traditionally the occasion for sport and gambling, it is my pleasure to publish this selection of lottery handbills from John Ashton’s ‘History of English Lotteries’ published by the Leadenhall Press in 1893 – just in case any of my readers fancy a flutter…
Images courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
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Mr Pussy’s Christmas Message
As you know, at Christmas animals gain the power of speech and, since the Gentle Author retreated wearily to bed hours ago, I am taking this opportunity to sneak in a seasonal greeting upon behalf of us both. While the author slumbers and dreams, I watch over Spitalfields and ensure that all are safe through the long hours of the night. Brick Lane is empty, the Market is still, the stars gleam over Christ Church and I keep my lonely vigil in the dark streets, so you may sleep peacefully. I bless you every one. Your Feline Servant, Mr P.
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Christmas Baubles
Each year on Christmas Eve, I bring in the tree at dusk, fetch the box of old glass decorations from the roof to hang upon its boughs, and set to work, decorating the tree as darkness falls
I do not know when my grandmother bought this glass decoration and I cannot ask her because she died more than twenty years ago. All I can do is hang it on my tree and admire it gleaming amongst the deep green boughs, along with all the others that were once hers, or were bought by my parents, or that I have acquired myself, which together form the collection I bring out each year – accepting that not knowing or no longer remembering their origin is part of their charm.
Although I have many that are more elaborate, I especially admire this golden one for its simplicity of form and I like to think its ridged profile derives from the nineteen thirties when my mother was a child, because my grandmother took the art of Christmas decoration very seriously. She would be standing beech leaves in water laced with glycerine in October, pressing them under the carpet in November and then in December arranging the preserved leaves in copper jugs with teazles sprayed gold and branches of larch, as one of many contrivances that she pursued each year to celebrate the season in fastidious style.
Given the fragility of these glass ornaments, it is extraordinary that this particular decoration has survived, since every year there are a few casualties resulting in silvery shards among the needles under the tree. Recognising that a Christmas tree is a tremendous source of amusement for a cat – making great sport out of knocking the baubles to the ground and kicking them around like footballs – I hang the most cherished decorations upon the higher branches. Yet since it is in the natural course of things that some get broken every year and, as I should not wish to inhibit the curiosity of children wishing to handle them, I always buy a couple more each Christmas to preserve the equilibrium of my collection.
Everlasting baubles are available – they do not smash, they bounce – but this shatterproof technological advance entirely lacks the poetry of these fragile beauties that can survive for generations as vessels of emotional memory and then be lost in a moment. In widespread recognition of this essential frailty of existence, there has been a welcome revival of glass ornaments in recent years.
They owe their origins to the glassblowers of the Thuringian Forest on the border of Germany and the Czech Republic where, in Lauscha, glass beads, drinking glasses, flasks, bowls and even glass eyes were manufactured since the twelfth century. The town is favoured to lie in a wooded river valley, providing both the sand and timber required for making glass and in 1847 Hans Greiner – a descendant of his namesake Hans Greiner who set up the glassworks in 1597 with Christoph Muller – began producing ornaments by blowing glass into wooden moulds. The inside of these ornaments was at first coloured to appear silvery with mercury or lead and then later by using a compound of silver nitrate and sugar water. In 1863, when a gas supply became available to the town, glass could be blown thinner without bursting and by the eighteen seventies the factory at Lauscha was exporting tree ornaments throughout Europe and America, signing a deal with F.W.Woolworth in the eighteen eighties, after he discovered them on a trip to Germany.
Bauble is a byword for the inconsequential, so I do not quite know why these small glass decorations inspire so much passion in me, keeping their romance even as other illusions have dissolved. Maybe it is because I collect images that resonate personally? As well as Father Christmas and Snowmen, I have the Sun, Moon and Stars, Clocks and even a Demon to create a shining poem about time, mortality and joy upon my Christmas tree. I cannot resist the allure of these exquisite glass sculptures in old-fashioned designs glinting at dusk amongst the dark needles of fir, because they still retain the power to evoke the rich unassailable magic of Christmas for me.
This pierrot dates from the nineteen eighties.
Three of my grandmother’s decorations. The basket on the left has a piece of florists’ wire that she placed there in the nineteen fifties.
This snowman is one of the oldest of my grandmother’s collection.
Bought in the nineteen eighties, but possibly from a much older mould.
Baubles enhanced with painted stripes and glitter.
The moon, sun and stars were acquired from a shop in Greenwich Avenue on my first visit to New York in 1990, amazingly they survived the journey home intact.
These two from my grandmother’s collection make a fine contrast of colour.
Even Christmas has its dark side, this demon usually hangs at the back of the tree.
It is always going to be nine o’clock on Christmas Eve.
Three new decorations purchased at Columbia Rd recently.
A stash of glittering beauties, stored like rare eggs in cardboard trays.
My first bicycle, that I found under the tree one Christmas and still keep in my attic
