In The Winter Garden
A few years ago when the city was shut down and empty, I used to take long lone cycle rides in parts of London that were unknown to me, seeking an escape. One day in January, after cycling around Regent’s Park in the frost to admire John Nash’s terraces, I came to the winter garden.
It was late afternoon, the sun had set and dusk was gathering but, when I came upon the narrow gate leading through a rose arch to the garden, I could not resist exploring. Beyond the entrance lay a large formal garden once attached to a grand Regent’s Park mansion. It was divided by hedges into a series of hidden spaces like a labyrinth. I found the place empty and deserted, save a few lonely blackbirds. In the last light of day, I took these photographs.
I intended to publish my pictures and write about my visit then. Yet when I studied the photographs, I grew so enchanted that the experience barely seemed credible anymore. Instead, I kept the evidence of my melancholy pilgrimage to myself. Each year at this time, I revisited the photographs without finding any words to accompany them. On one occasion, I even set out to visit the garden again to verify my experience only to discover it was closed that day.
Contemplating these pictures now, they feel far away and I find it difficult even to remember the lockdown. It no longer seems real to me. Many are still struggling with the after-effects of that time yet when I look at these photographs I realise it is over. My pictures of this cold garden at twilight, with only a few plants showing, are how I shall recall it. The winter garden was where I found solace at the heart of the empty city.
Hylas
In the Rose Garden
The Sunken Lawn at St John’s Lodge
The Shepherdess Border
Snowdrops
The first primroses
‘To all protectors of the defenceless’
The Giant Urn
The Arbour Walk
St John’s Lodge Garden, Inner Circle, Regent’s Park, NW1 4NR
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A Final Walk Home
I am proud to publish this edited extract from Awful Rigours & Wretched Pay by a graduate of my writing course. Christine Swan set out to write her family history and other stories.
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I am taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 1st & 2nd.
Come to Spitalfields and spend a winter weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.
I thought long and hard about what to do with my parents’ ashes. My dad died four years ago and my mum last year. In 2015, my parents moved into a little bungalow opposite my house leaving behind their home in St Margaret’s at Cliffe, Kent.
Mum was happy to make the move as she could not manage my dad’s falls and recognised that she needed help. My dad hated the idea initially and then swung between understanding and not fully understanding what was happening.
My dad was a seafarer. He joined the Royal Navy in 1941, aged just fifteen. On D-Day, he was deployed to an Assault Landing Craft. After the invasion, he was transferred from the Navy to the Army, firstly into the South Wales Borderers and then the Royal Welch Fusiliers as part of the 53rd division. Troops were deployed where they were needed rather than by the geography of their birth. He was an East Ender through and through.
In the years before he died, I saw him every day and he told me innumerable stories of the war but, as his memory faded still further, even these became less frequent. He would ask me questions instead. Sometimes the same question five or six times over. “Who is that nice lady from over the road?” he would ask Mum, “I don’t know why she comes here every day,” completely oblivious to me being his daughter.
My dad died in May 2019 and, in 2020, my mum had two massive and devastating strokes. From then on, her life and mine changed dramatically. My role as carer restricted my movements. After an active life, Mum had lost all will to move. Her sole joy was watching others going about their daily lives from the window. When she died, my life changed again, I could travel further from home. I never wanted to resent my loss of freedom but to regain it was bittersweet.
I thought long and hard about what to do with my parents’ ashes. This summer, I felt ready for closure and knew that there was only one possible resting place. I must go back to Kent. I did not bother to look at the weather prior to leaving, I was going to do this no matter what. As it turned out, I do not think I could have picked a better day.
I left London and arrived at Dover a little before midday. I had some bottles of water and a few sweets but I guessed that would be insufficient to power me during the afternoon, so I purchased two bottles of fizzy drink and two chocolate bars and off I went. As I had not booked a hotel in Dover, I was also loaded with my rucksack containing things for a few days, including my trip to the theatre the previous evening, as well as the ashes sealed in large, thick boxes.
The initial part of my journey was flat, through the town and then alongside the thundering A20 heading towards the Port of Dover. The path took me along the East Cliff which includes the back end of some magnificent houses that face Marine Parade. Then the ascent begins. The sun was beating down and the wind surprisingly warm. My shoes turned from black to grey as the chalk dust coated them. This was a physical toil but felt more like a pilgrimage.
The edges of the paths were bordered by wildflowers and flitting butterflies, mostly stunning blue. The sea appeared turquoise against the brilliant white of the chalk cliff, azure sky and fresh green grass. Everything seemed to add to the spiritual element of my quest, nature’s stained glass window.
The white shape of the South Foreland Lighthouse came into view. First, it appeared to be peeping over the top of a summit but gradually its entire structure was visible to me. Nearly there.
Past the lighthouse and along the footpath I remember walking with my children so many times to St Margaret’s at Cliffe. It became quieter the further inland I walked. I was now protected from the wind and there were fewer walkers. The lighthouse entrance acted as another filter, until I was completely alone.
A buzzard soared overhead, goldfinches twittered among the trees, the tall grasses wafted wildflowers and yet more butterflies. This was the place. I sat with my parents for some time. Everything was quiet, just me, mum and dad. I told them I loved them and I thanked them for everything. The sun moved in the sky and it was time for me to leave.
The walk back was easier. The declines outnumber the inclines and the physical weight I was carrying was less. I panicked a little when I lost track of time and realised that I did not have as much time as I thought to catch my train to Canterbury. I relaxed when I realised that my phone was displaying French time, as it sometimes does walking along the White Cliffs. Upon turning a bend, the time retreated by a whole hour.
I walked alongside the thundering traffic heading to the port. I was dusty, sweaty and tired. I arrived at the station in good time and, as I relaxed into my train seat, I reflected on the day. I had not slept well before and was dreading carrying out my task, but we all have to let go of people we love. When the time is right, we find the strength and it can be an experience that brings you closer not only to them but to yourself.
On Twelfth Night
I am proud to publish this entry from THE SILVER LOCKET by a graduate of my writing course. The author sets out to share stories of literary life: books old and new which inspire and comfort, and the people met along the way.
I am taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 1st & 2nd.
Come to Spitalfields and spend a winter weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.
Galette des Rois baked by George Fuest of Populations Bakery, Spitalfields
My sister introduced me to the Galette des Rois. I love frangipane, so the notion of a pastry tart with almond paste immediately appealed, but what really captured my imagination was the notion of figurines baked into the pie. Whoever gets the ‘feve’ or charm in their slice is named king or queen for the day. Many countries have their own version of the Galette, which marks the feast of Epiphany, when the three wise men visited the stable in Bethlehem. I asked a friend of mine who has lived in France for many years about the Galette and she told me:
‘One of the children goes under the table when the galette is being cut and calls out each person’s name randomly – you are served your portion when your name is called and the one with the feve gets to wear the crown.’
Twelfth Night marks the end of Christmas on 6th January, when we take down our decorations. This has been a tradition since at least the Middle Ages. In ‘Christmas Past Christmas Present’ Simon Carter explains ‘It combined elements of the Christian Feast of Epiphany and the end of the twelve days of the pagan feast, loosely based on the Roman Saturnalia and centred around the Winter Solstice. In medieval tradition, Twelfth Night revels always incorporated disguises, elaborate display and role-reversal, and were often led by an elected master of ceremonies who had the power to impose ‘punishments’ on those who refused to obey his will. This character could either be the Lord of Misrule but more often it was the ‘bean king’.
During the Commonwealth from 1644 to 1660, Christmas was banned by Act of Parliament. In 1660, with the restoration of the monarchy Christmas celebrations returned and it was marked with parties and family gatherings in which the Twelfth Night cake featured. In ‘The English Year’ Chris Roud explains that the roles of King and Queen ‘were chosen at random by items placed in the cake, in earlier times a bean and a pea were used: whoever found the bean became the King and whoever found the pea, the Queen… a clove was also used and whoever found it in their slice was designated them Knave’. Other items that were sometimes used were coins, thimbles and rings, and those present could be given other characters to play’.
On 6th January 1669, Samuel Pepys mentioned his Twelfth cake in his diary:
‘I did bring out my cake, and a noble cake, and there cut into pieces with wine and good drink, and, after a new fashion, to prevent spoiling the cake, did put so many titles into a hat and so draw cuts, and I was the Queen and The Turner, King, Creed was Sir Martin Marrall, and Betty was Mrs Millicent. And so we were merry till it was night’.
Marrall and Millicent were characters in John Dryden’s ‘Sir Martin Marrall’, a popular comedy of the period.
The tradition of baking cakes was so strong that people would gather round shop windows to admire the confectioners’ art. Picture if you will a scene in which boys in the crowd nail bystanders’ clothes to the shop window frames. Francis Place, in his autobiography written in the 1820s, describes this practice:
‘One great fete day with boys was Twelfthday. On this day they used to divert themselves and others with a most mischievous practice, now discontinued, of nailing people’s cloaths to Pastry Cooks Shops … Scarcely any one could stop to see what was in the shop without being nailed, the tails of men’s coats and the gowns and petticoats of women were generally so firmly nailed that to get loose without tearing their clothes was impossible … Sometimes a womans gown and the tail of a mans coat were nailed with the same nail. It frequently happened when a person was nailed that he or she turned round either to extricate himself or herself or to attack the boys and were instantly nailed on the other side also.’
Fanny Austen Knight, niece to Jane Austen, described their Twelfth Night ceremonies in 1809 at Godmersham Park, the country seat of Jane’s brother, Edward:
‘after Dessert Aunt Louisa, who was the only person to know the characters… took one by one out of the room, and having equipped them, put them into separate rooms, and lastly dressed herself. We were all conducted into the library and performed our different parts … Aunt Louisa and LDeedes were dominos (a Venetian disguise of a grotesque white mask and black tricorn hat and cloak); F Cage, Frederick Flint (which she did excellently), M Deedes, Orange Woman; Mama, Shepherdess; self, fortuneteller, Edward, … beau; G, Irish postboy; Henry, watchman; William, harlequin, we had such frightful masks, that it was enough to kill one with laughing at putting them on and altogether it went off very well and quite answered our expectations’.
Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the importance of Twelfth Night declined. Some traditions were transferred to our modern Christmas Day – finding a sixpence in the Christmas pudding for example.
As I take down my decorations this year, I will be thinking about times past and the excuse for misrule that Twelfth Night allowed and raising a glass to the Galette des Rois.
Two porcelain feves or charms made to bake in a Galette des Rois. They belong to my sister, who picked them out of a basket containing dozens in a flea market in Provence. She has photographed them with a penny to show how tiny they are.
Isaac Cruikshank’s depiction of a Twelfth Night party, 1794. (courtesy British Museum)
Bystanders’ clothes pinned together outside the bakery by mischievous boys from William Hone’s ‘Every Day Book’ of 1827
An innovative design for an individual Gallete des Rois by George Fuest
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Cherry Gilchrist On Cheshire St
I am proud to publish this edited extract from CHERRY’S CACHE by Cherry Gilchrist, a graduate of my writing course. The author ran Tigerlily, a vintage clothes shop in Cambridge for seven years in the seventies, and has vivid memories of her weekly trips to Cheshire St in search of new stock. I have published Cherry’s text alongside photographs by Colin O’Brien.
I am taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 1st & 2nd. Come to Spitalfields and spend a winter weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.
If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.
‘The East End was where my serious buying began, in terms of sourcing ‘period clothing’ as we called it then. I drove down almost every Sunday morning, leaving Cambridge in the dark, and often getting there before daybreak. Often my business partner Helen would accompany me or meet me there. It was she who had introduced me to this extraordinary collection of stalls and sellers, with their treasures and junk, rubbish and bric-a-brac.
The sprawling ragamuffin of a market was held around Sclater St and Cheshire St. They were lined with stalls, which also edged into the dilapidated old warehouses plus improvised sales pitches anywhere there was space. Piles of old clothes, shoes, bicycle parts and knick-knacks would be spread out along the walls and the pavements. Some were only fit for the dustbin and may even have come from there. Others could be treasures, retrieved from attics and forgotten places of storage. I had to be quick off the mark to decided which was which.
The first buyers would arrive before the day had dawned, flashing their torches onto the jumble of goods They were dealers, expertly picking out what was desirable for their own particular sales niche. It could be antiques, second-hand modern clothes, vintage radios, old machinery, watches and clocks, collectable books, or anything else potentially specialist and desirable. And we were not the only ones looking for textiles and clothes. Some of the upmarket and expensive London vintage stores had buyers on the prowl, it was a relatively new type of business but sellers in Portobello Rd and the Kensington Antiques Market were already cashing in.
I made these trips to London for a year or two before we opened our shop Tigerlily and we carried on after we began trading. It was not all straightforward – I remember when my car broke down at about 4:00am on a solo trip to London. I had to try and hitch a lift home in the dark. I was picked up by a car full of male partygoers on their way home. Luckily, they were all shattered by then, the driver was sober, and they were courteously silent for the half an hour or so that it took to drop me off in Cambridge.
I did a lot of these trips while pregnant – my daughter was born just before the shop began trading – and the nausea I felt in early pregnancy was intensified by the ripe smells of Brick Lane, the rotting fruit left over from weekday trading and the smell of mould and decay from some of the ancient bundles of fabric piled up at the back of the derelict warehouses. It was not always a pleasant task, sorting through what was on offer.
After Jessica was born, I sometimes brought her with me on these trips, perfectly content in her carrycot-on-wheels. Sometimes I met with East End disapproval – the custom there was for enormous, shiny prams. So our progress was greeted with shrieks of horror from Cockney mothers and grandmothers.
We did find marvellous things in Cheshire St. One day, I had finished my buying and was sitting waiting in the car for Helen to re-appear so that we could start the drive back to Cambridge, when she finally arrived, puffing under a load of blue velvet tailcoats. ‘I was on my way back, when I saw these. Some guy had just put them out.’ Apparently, they had been worn by the Parliamentary Whips, in the style of the eighteenth century and were now being scrapped for something more modern.
Once, I picked up a full-length hand-embroidered dress, draped over some railings with a few pitiful items, on sale for next to nothing. It was made of heavy hand-woven cream cotton. That I did keep, and wear, for a while. Like Helen’s tailcoats, it appeared just at the last moment in the morning. Although most of the good things went very early, you never knew what you might spot later on. It was difficult, sometimes, to drag ourselves away.
We would turn for home about 11:00am – Cambridge was not a long drive away. I emptied my flask of coffee while on the prowl and, on return, I made myself a large fried brunch and went back to bed for a few hours. The baby could share my nap, and I hoped that my husband would look after both children and make our tea! The sorting, washing, and pricing could wait until the Monday.
Those finds were never quite enough though, especially when it came to stocking a shop, so eventually my forays led to the bigger rag mills, where I made links with the sorters and sellers. Planned, longer trips, took over from the frenzied excitement of Brick Lane in the early dawn of a Sunday morning. But Cheshire St and Sclater St remain as my essential memory of hunting for treasures in the debris of the past.’
Coming and goings at the corner of Brick Lane.
At the time of the miners’ strike.
Photographs copyright © Estate of Colin O’Brien
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The Story Of Oxford Marmalade
I am proud to publish this story from THE OXFORD SAUSAGE by a graduate of my writing course. The author set out to write a spicy mix of Oxford stories from a house once belonging to a city sausage maker.
I am taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 1st & 2nd. Come to Spitalfields and spend a winter weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.
If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.
Sarah Jane Cooper and her jars of sunshine
One of the activities that perks me up as I claw my way through January is marmalade making. A couple of weeks into the New Year, crates of the required bitter Seville oranges (smaller and more pitted than their sweeter counterparts) appear at Bonners in the covered market here in Oxford.
They are only available for a short period, a couple of weeks if you are lucky. So, as this is a city of marmalade eaters, you must be quick to secure your basketful of Spanish sunshine. My mother used to produce vast quantities, boiling the fruit whole to make the peel soft and easier to shred. She made it principally for my father who loved the thickly cut and chunky variety, spread liberally on buttered toast for breakfast and in suet puddings for Sunday lunch. I use the same recipe though I cut the rind thinner, but the heady smell of boiling fruit and sugar is still sweetly nostalgic for me.
I feel the weight of history as I boil and slice. Because Oxford is as well known for its marmalade as it is for its sausages. Indeed, 151 years ago, at this time of year in 1874, that Sarah Jane Cooper – as the story goes – made her first 75 lbs batch of marmalade just before the birth of her first child, using leftover Seville oranges from her husband Frank’s grocer’s shop in the High St. It was one of several ‘Italian Warehouses’ in the city that sold olive oil, parmesan, tea and hard-to-source oranges amongst other offerings.
Sarah certainly did not invent the bitter spread. More commonly made from quinces – the name is derived from marmelo the Portuguese word for quince, it was used medicinally to settle the stomach and was already popular in Scotland by the nineteenth century. Yet this was Sarah’s own special ‘Oxford’ recipe and it happened to arrive at the right time in the right place. By the eighteen-seventies, lunch was beginning to find favour over the substantial breakfasts of sole, haddock, bacon, eggs, porridge, steak, veal cutlets, kidneys and curried meats still served privately in Oxford college rooms. But toast and marmalade fitted the bill for a cheaper, healthier breakfast that could be eaten communally in the Dining Hall. The jars flew off the shelves and so, after having her baby, Sarah Jane made some more, a lot more. And, as was often the way in those days, her husband took the credit – ‘Frank Cooper’s’ Oxford Marmalade was born.
Sarah came from a well-known local family – the Gills had been ironmongers since the seventeenth century, until quite recently trading from a shop down the narrow alleyway that is Wheatsheaf Yard. To visit was like going back in time, every nook and cranny stacked high with pots, pans and boxes of screws of various sizes which you could buy singly, packed carefully in a brown paper bag. Now ironically the place is a nail bar, but not of the iron sort.
It seems unjust that the concoction Sarah cooked up should be branded with her husband’s name. There is blue plaque in her memory on the eighteenth century house at 83 High St where the family once lived, next to what was the old shop, now the Grand Café. But it is high up and hard to spot, so I hope I am doing my bit to put the record straight.
Cooper’s marmalade was at first produced in copper vats at the back of the shop on the High St by Sarah and a small team. The sweet smell must have been intoxicating as it wafted down the maze of the narrow back alleyways and up through the windows as students were assessed in the Examinations Schools next door. By the turn of the century, its growing popularity demanded an industrial scale of production. In 1903, a purpose-built factory was opened on Park End St – opposite the railway station – each storey catering for a different part of the manufacturing process. And despite the devastation afforded so much of this part of Oxford, it is still there.
Designed by Herbert Quinton and built by Thomas Kingerlee (now in its fifth generation as a family construction business), it is one of the few buildings that deserve attention as you alight from the train hoping for views of dreaming spires. Ornate wrought iron gates still stand where once horse-drawn carriages carried pots of marmalade for direct delivery to the station and shops in town. Huge, light filled curved windows reflect the shape of the roofline and beautifully ornate stone carvings of flowers and oranges adorn the frontage. The factory moved down the Botley Road in 1947, then the family sold up in 1964 and marmalade production moved fo Wantage and then out of the county altogether.
Frank Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade was in its heyday on Park End St. Employing a hundred staff, it was marketed as a cottage industry producing a natural product with no added ingredients, the peel shredded by hand, and packaged in beautiful Malings porcelain jars.
It received the Royal Warrant in 1913 – it was apparently a favourite with King George V – and there is even a tiny sample pot, complete with miniature signature label in Queen Mary’s doll’s house at Windsor. It accompanied Scott on his expedition to the South Pole. One of the only survivors is a rusty tin of the stuff, now on show at the Museum of Oxford, along with other Cooper memorabilia including a huge paddle used to stir the orange jam as it spluttered and spat.
It was to be found on the most aristocratic of breakfast tables. “Cooper’s Oxford, please Linda,” says Nancy Mitford’s Uncle Mathew in ‘The Pursuit of Love’. James Bond eats it in Ian Fleming’s ‘From Russia with Love.’ And you can be sure it was the principal ingredient of the marmalade sandwich the Queen took from her handbag when she met Paddington Bear.
And so it is in Sarah’s memory that I set about concocting what I hope will be a vintage marmalade year. First boiling until the fruit is pillow soft. Cooling, then scooping out the pith and pips, to be boiled again before sieving the amber juices onto the finely shredded peel. Add the warmed sugar, then watching while it boils because if you are not careful it will burn.
Marmalade makers can be a difficult bunch. We all do it slightly differently. Some use brown sugar which makes it darker and richer, others add cardamon or whisky. There is also the question of consistency. I prefer mine not so stiff that it stands to attention but not so runny that it dribbles down your sleeve. I know I have made a good marmalade when I hold the jars up to the light and the thin strands of orange seem to have stopped in the middle of a lively dance, suspended in pure sunshine. Sunshine on toast. I will settle for that. Thank you Sarah Jane Cooper.
On the left is 83 High St where Sarah Jane Cooper made her marmalade
The former jam factory in Park St, Oxford
Women in aprons and removable sleeves to protect clothes, shredding oranges at the jam factory. (courtesy Historic England)
The tin of Oxford marmalade that accompanied Scott to the South Pole
My Seville oranges. I boil them whole and then let them cool so the peel is soft enough to shred easily.
Scoop out the pulp and pips, and add to the liquid. This is what gives it a good set. Cool then strain.
Add the shredded peel and sugar. Then, once dissolved, boil for about twenty minutes.
My Oxford marmalade
Photographs copyright © John Milnes
Planting Diaries
I am proud to present these extracts from PLANTING DIARIES, Gardens, planting styles and their origins by Siân Rees, a graduate of my blog writing course who has been publishing regularly for more than six years.
I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 1st & 2nd.
We have such an interesting mix of people booked for this course that I am very excited to meet everyone and I am sure we are going to have a lot of fun.
Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.
If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.
This plate showing a bright crimson ‘Picta Perfecta’ dahlia, with its beautifully shaped petals edged in black, was first published in The Floricultural Cabinet and Florist’s Magazine in 1835. Launched in 1833 by Joseph Harrison, a gardener and florist, his magazine reflects the appetite amongst amateur and professional gardeners alike for the cultivation of dahlias for show.
In the eighteen-thirties, dahlias were enormously popular garden and exhibition flowers, loved for their jewel colours, abundance of blooms and long flowering season. Starting in July, dahlia shows took place at regular intervals through the summer and early autumn. Harrison visited floral exhibitions all over the country, many hosted by newly formed horticultural societies, and published his accounts of these in the magazine.
Today his accounts give us valuable insights into the character and atmosphere of these shows. Dahlia shows ranged from those staged in public houses, such as the Baker’s Arms in Hackney Road, East London, and the Bull and Mouth Inn in Sheffield, to large exhibitions attracting huge crowds, such as the Metropolitan Society’s Grand Dahlia Show at Vauxhall Gardens in London. Many of the shows hosted dinners for members after the prizes had been given out, and some enjoyed dancing, and music from brass bands. Whatever their size, all the shows were united by appreciation for the dahlia and the spirit of competition.
Harrison’s attendance at these shows allowed him to meet the horticulturalists producing new dahlias, giving him an important overview of dahlia cultivation in England and contacts in the wider horticultural industry. He soon established himself as an influential voice informing taste and trends in gardening through his magazine, in much the same way horticultural journalists and garden designers do today.
With a format that gave advice on growing techniques from expert growers and seed and bulb suppliers, the magazine also encouraged amateurs to write in with questions and their own gardening tips. The Floricultural Cabinet was an instant success, boasting sales of 50,000 copies in 1833, its first year of publication.
Harrison appears to have understood the power of attractive colour images as a marketing tool to inspire readers to purchase his magazine, and the new plants he showcased. The dahlias in the coloured plates are accomplished artworks, portraying the flowers with accuracy and with a slightly naïve quality in the diagrammatic stylisation of the flowers. The ‘Picta Perfecta’ dahlia, praised in The Floricultural Cabinet for its perfectly round form and spectacular colours, was in fact a seeding raised by Harrison.
Harrison was meticulous in recording the names of prize winning dahlias as well as those of the judges and entrants. From his records, certain grower’s names re-appear, such as Mr Pamplin, a florist who lived in Islington, and raised the beautiful golden yellow dahlia ‘Pamplin’s Bloomsbury’ which was illustrated in the magazine.
Joseph Harrison (1798 – 1856) was born in Sheffield where his father worked as head gardener at nearby Wortley Hall, a position Joseph took over in 1828. He left Wortley Hall in 1837, setting up as a florist in Downham, Norfolk and eventually moving to Richmond, Surrey. As well as The Floricultural Cabinet, Harrison also edited The Gardener’s Record.
While they are an important part of our horticultural history, flower shows are by their nature ephemeral events. The plants, the exhibitors, and in some cases, even the venues where the shows took place are now long gone, but they live on in Harrison’s vivid descriptions.
Here follow extracts from The Floricultural Cabinet of three contrasting dahlia shows, documented by Harrison during his country wide tour of 1835. They start with the East London Dahlia Show, a small and well established local event with sixty stands of flowers on display. At the opposite end of the scale, Harrison is clearly captivated by The Bath Royal Flora and Horticultural Society’s Grand Annual Dahlia Show. Its decorations included an extraordinary figure of a Mexican chief made out of dahlias, to celebrate the country where the plant originated. But later in the season, Bath is topped by The Cambridge Florists’ Society Dahlia Show, with its model of a hot air balloon constructed out of 2,300 dahlia blooms and arranged around a chandelier:
The East London Dahlia Show
‘This exhibition took place, as usual, at the Bakers’ Arms, Hackney-road, and was well attended. Sixty stands of flowers were placed in competition, and the judges, Messrs, Alexander, Catleugh, and Glenny, placed them as follow :—
Stands of Twelve Blooms.—1, Mr. Dandy; 2, Mr. Crowder; 3, Mr. Rowlett; 4, Mr. Wade; 5, Mr. James; .6, Mr. Turner; 7, Mr. Dunn; 8, Mr. Williams; 9, Mr. Brown; 10, Mr. Riley; 11, Mr. Sharp; 12, Mr. Hogarth; 13, Mr. Green; 14, Mr. Buckmaster.
Stands of Six Blooms.—1, Mr. Williams; 2, Mr. Thornhill; 3,My. Dandy; 4, Mr. Crowder; 5, Mr, Wade; 6, Mr, Hogarth; 7, Mr, Dunn; 8, Mr, Carp
Sadly this pub that once stood at the corner of Warner Place and Hackney Road is now demolished.
The Bath Royal Flora and Horticultural Society’s Grand Annual Dahlia Show
‘The committee made extraordinary exertions to render this show the most splendid and attractive of the whole season, and they fully realized their purpose. The first object which met the view was a most singular figure on the right-hand lawn: it was that of a Mexican chief, holding a basket of flowers; the whole figure was composed of Dahlias, which, as our readers well know, came originally from that country ; and difficult as the task must have been, even the features of the countenance were very ingeniously delineated. This figure exhibited no less than 150 varieties of the Dahlia, in every imaginable tint, and of every gradation of size. A little beyond was the figure of a tree of considerable size, the trunk and every branch being composed of Dahlias of an equal number of varieties, and in the colour and size of the flowers.’
The Cambridge Florists’ Society
‘This Society had their grand Autumnal Show of Dahlias on Thursday, Sept. 24th, in the Assembly room at the Hoop Hotel. We have witnessed many floral exhibitions here and at other places, but we never before beheld any thing approaching the beauty and magnificence of this exhibition; on no previous occasion was the Dahlia exhibited in so high a state of excellence. We may expect to see great additions made to the colours and varieties of this very beautiful flower, but we much doubt if ever the grand stand of prize flowers displayed on this occasion will be surpassed in size or quality by that of any future show. The task of decorating the room was entrusted to Mr. Edward Catling, florist, of Cambridge; and nothing could possibly exceed the happy and elegant taste with which every ornament was executed. The sides and ends of the room were beautifully decorated with evergreens, wreaths, and Dahlias. At the head of the grand stand was an immense orange tree thickly studded with Dahlias, to represent the fruit in its various stages of growth, backed by a beautiful Fuchsia multiflora, 12 feet high, from the Botanic Garden. At the end of the room, was a prettily variegated crown entirely composed of Dahlias. But the grand attraction of all was a splendid balloon, wholly formed of Dahlia-blooms, suspended from the ceiling, the car of which appeared to be illuminated, from being placed over a gas chandelier. This ariel machine had a striking effect, the flowers being arranged in stripes to represent variegated silk; and we were told that more than 2,300 Dahlias were required to complete the balloon, exclusive of the car, from which two flags were pendent.—The afternoon show was attended by a numerous and respectable company; but the evening exhibition was crowded beyond all former precedent, owing to its being on the eve of the horse-fair, which gave the neighbouring country people an opportunity of witnessing the finest display of Dahlias ever seen in Cambridge. Upwards of 700 well-dressed persons were in the room at one time, and from eight to half-past nine o’clock the number amounted to little, if any, short of 3,000 persons, all with happy countenances, highly delighted with the fairy scene ; added to which were the musical strains of the Cambridge Military Band, who played several new and difficult pieces, with a precision and taste that would have done credit to veteran performers. After the ladies had withdrawn, more than 200 members and their friends sat down, with the splendid flowers before them, and enjoyed the scene with music, song, and toast. Fifteen new members were elected, and we rejoice to learn that the Society meets with the well-merited support of all classes.’
Levick’s Beauty of Sheffield
The Floricultural Cabinet
Brown’s Royal Adelaide
The Floricultural Cabinet
Harris’s Acme of Perfection
The Floricultural Cabinet
Harris’s Inimitable Dahlia
The Floricultural Cabinet
Dodd’s Mary
The Floricultural Cabinet
Barratt’s Vicar of Wakefield
The Floricultural Cabinet
Cox’s Yellow Defiance
The Floricultural Cabinet
Pamplin’s Bloomsbury
The Floricultural Cabinet
Harrison’s Charles XII
The Floricultural Cabinet
Images courtesy Natural History Museum
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The Gates Of The City
On this first day of the year let us contemplate those places of going out and coming in, specifically the old gates of the City of London.
Discovering the sixteenth century figures of Old King Lud and his sons that once stood upon Ludgate yet are now forgotten in an alley of Fleet St, made me think more closely of the gates that once surrounded the City.
So I was delighted to come upon this eighteenth century print in the Spitalfields Market for a couple of pounds with the plangent title “The City Gates As They Appeared Before They Were Torn Down.”
Printed in 1775, this plate recorded venerable edifices that had been demolished in recent decades and was reproduced in Harrison’s History of London, a publication notable for featuring Death and an Hourglass upon the title page as if to emphasise the mutable, ever-changing nature of the capital and the brief nature of our residence in it.
Moorgate (demolished 1761)
Aldgate (demolished 1761)
Bishopsgate (demolished 1760)
Cripplegate (demolished 1760)
Ludgate (demolished 1760)
Newgate (demolished 1767)
Aldersgate (demolished 1617)
Bridgegate (demolished 1762)
The City Gates As They Appeared Before They Were Torn Down, engraved for Harrison’s History of London 1775
Sixteenth century figures of King Lud and his sons that formerly stood upon Ludgate, and stowed ever since in an alley at the side of St Dunstan in the West, Fleet St
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