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January 31, 2010

The Warwick Vase: The History Behind the Norman Brookes Challenge Cup.

Today Roger Federer, the most successful male tennis player ever to grace an international court raised a solid silver trophy.  It's big, handsome and just a little bit ugly; it's the Warwick Vase.

Most sporting trophies started life as the nearest big lump of cheapish and suitably gaudy silver that came to hand, but the Warwick (as it's known) is a little different.  The 18th century saw the heyday of the Grand Tour, and the English enthusiasm for the antiquities of the ancient world.  Rome was a particular focus for the young men who travelled to the Continent and whilst there they met up with various people who both showed them the sights and acted as agents for procuring a little, or a large piece of history to take home with them.

 

One of these fixers was Gavin Hamilton.  Ostensibly an artist, he was a skilled negotiator and succeeded in getting some astonishing antiquities out of Italy during the late 18thC.  The marble Warwick Vase was found in marshy ground on the site of Hadrian's Villa at Tivoli in 1771, and Hamilton rapidly secured permission to excavate it.  It was in a poor state of repair and mostly smashed, but it has the diameter of a modern paddling-pool and was exceptionally rare.  Hamilton got it out of the ground and with the help of the famed artist Piranesi and a large block of Carrera marble, reconstructed its original appearance (see the image in the gallery).

 

Sir William Hamilton, husband of Emma, was the buyer of the pieces and he had it repaired, with the replacement segments hewn from a block of Carrera marble.  William Hamilton was not only a collector, he was a speculator and he wanted to sell the vase when it was restored.  He hoped to raise some interest from the recently established British Museum but they could muster neither funds nor enthusiasm for the gigantic piece.  In the meantime, Piranesi published his famous book of Classical designs in 1778, securing the reputation of the vase.  Still no buyer was found, and Sir William deemed it too large to sit in any house he could ever afford.  He sent it to his nephew, George Greville, Earl of Warwick.  George was cash-rich, but wasn't going to set the intellectual or artistic world alight.  He initially placed the vase on the lawn in front of Warwick Castle, where the fashionable set visited to see it.  He then had a faux-Gothic greenhouse built to house it, and described it as 'Grecian'.  

 

The Warwick Vase would remain at the castle for the next two centuries.  It came to symbolize the Grand Tour, early civilization and sophistication, and sheer grandeur.  The symmetry of the vase, its proportions and detail appealed to the Regency taste, and the aristocracy clamoured for George to allow them to copy it.  He finally agreed and the Royal Goldsmiths and Jewellers Rundell and Bridge were commissioned to create solid silver versions in varying sizes, to be used as ice buckets and wine coolers.  Paul Storr, the finest ever English silversmith created the most exceptional versions in the second decade of the 19thC.  The Vase was made in cast-iron, stone and also marble, for homes and also for gardens.  There are cast-concrete versions available in posh garden centres instead of gnomes.

 

During the Victorian period, many different versions, sizes and proportions of the Vase were produced, but only the most faithful and accurate are highly valued today.  In 1978, after a disastrous century for the Warwicks, the castle was sold to The Tussauds Group and many of its works of art were sold off.  The Vase was not highly valued enough for a London museum to raise the funds to buy it.  This was probably a grave mistake.  They allowed it to be sold to the Met in New York, but then the government refused to grant it an export license.  It was resold and it is now housed in the Burrell Collection in Glasgow.  

 

   
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January 13, 2010

'A tear in each note and a sigh in each breath': The Castrati

Castration has been used as a punishment, for religious purposes, and also for musical purposes.  By the 18thC, men were castrated only as a punishment for sodomy (and not in England), or to keep their voices high and sweet (and only in Italy).  Italian castrati were popular throughout Europe for the extraordinary quality of their voices, usually ranging from soprano to contralto but able to sing very high notes without the forced quality of falsetto.  

Music was very highly valued and anticipated in the 18thC, and almost every person receiving a rounded education was taught to appreciate music on a level not as common today.  Musical artists were superstars and their arrival in London was keenly anticipated.  The most famous of all the artists were the castrati, who were usually Italian born.  If their voices proved exceptionally sweet as young boys, they were given the option (I hope they were given the option) of retaining their voice at the expense of their testicles.  The operation was deemed most successful after the age of eight, but before puberty, and was carefully timed so as to allow the boy to develop some male characteristics, but to beat the voice change.  The centre for castration was apparently Naples, but this may little more than an old wives tale, and certainly Charles Burney, who roamed Naples in an attempt to find a surgeon who carried out the operation, was disappointed.  It is estimated that during the 18thC, three to four thousand boys were castrated every year in Italy, for the purpose of pursuing a musical career.

If you are still attached to your scrotum, in every sense, feel free to skip this paragraph. Imagine a pair of lobster crackers, with blades instead of grips; that's pretty much was a castratori looked like.  A quick incision would be made around the scrotum with a lancet to allow for some loose skin to close the wound, then the castratori would be applied to a no doubt drugged little boy and clamped down for a period of up to five minutes.  When it was decided that the bleeding had stopped and there was no risk of haemorrhage, the castratori and the testicles were removed together, and the remaining skin stitched back together.  There are no statistics on how many of the boys survived this operation, but I think the vast majority must have done, no matter how awful it sounds.

Growing up as a castrato couldn't have been much fun.  They grew tall, with long ribs, arms and legs, making them an unusual, gangly barrel-shape.  Even if their voice didn't break, there was no guarantee that it could be trained into a world-class opera 'voice' and most ended up singing in cathedral choirs. They were prone to weight gain, and had chubby, androgynous faces.  Their hair was thick and fine, as early castration prevents male-pattern baldness (the thing that works, but no one wants the cure) and they rarely wore wigs.  No facial hair, and little body hair spoiled the picture of smooth childhood grown to adult size.  Much is made of the ladies of the 18thC going wild for castrati, but whilst they may have been charming and talented company, their penis remained child-sized and their sex drive was low.  

The greatest castrati appeared in London in the 1720s and 30s, when Handel was at the peak of his influence.  The comparatively few numbers of properly trained female singers meant that castrati were in demand for the female roles.  I find the idea of a portly castrato playing a lead female part ridiculous.  This does not make me right, and the cognoscenti of the opera world went wild for the likes of Senesino and Farinelli.  

Senesino in particular was very popular in England as an artist, Farinelli more so as a heart-throb.  Senesino originated from Siena but loved the life of an English gentleman and made friends with the top artisans and designers of the day, such as William Kent and Paul de Lamerie.  He had waited until thirteen for castration, and was more facially and physically developed than many castrati, so often played the older parts.  Farinelli once played the young lead to Senesino's despot and there is a famous incident recounted by Charles Burney where Senesino became overwhelmed by Farinelli's singing, forgot his part entirely and embraced his young prisoner.  Velluti is thought to be the last of the great castrati to perform in London, in 1829, although Pergetti came after in 1844.  Both struggled with poor critical reception in England, largely due to changes in attitude amongst the audience.

The later life of a successful castrato was a solitary in 18thC terms, where family and extended family all relied heavily upon each other: they had no children but a great deal of money, so were often surrounded by hangers-on and toadys.  Prone to diva tendencies, they hadn't made life easy for their friends and many came to lonely ends.  Very few people suffer for their art in the 21stC.  They might equate brief poverty, or a squalid drug addiction as part of their artistic learning curve, but very few would be prepared to live with the consequences of such a life-changing surgery.  Thankfully, by 1800, the craze for castrati had all but died out, although the last castrato Alessandro Moreschi, was not to die until 1922.  His voice was recorded in 1902 and can be heard here.  Castration for musical purposes was made illegal in 1870.  

In recent years, an astonishing phenomenon in the form of Michael Maniaci has appeared on the opera scene.  His larynx developed only very slightly during puberty, and he retains an extraordinary soprano voice as an adult male.  He has been called 'the modern castrato'. You can witness part of one of his performances here.  I find it astonishing and rather unsettling.

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January 4, 2010

Making philosophy less mischievous: Isaac Newton on his official birthday-

 

If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants.

Isaac Newton was born in Lincolnshire, more than ten weeks prematurely in the winter of 1642/3.  His father died before he was born, but the family were not without money, and Isaac and his mother pottered on alone until she remarried a rector when he was three.  Isaac, understandably, loathed his step-father.  Less understandably, he later recorded that he had threatened to burn both his mother and step-father alive in an outburst of temper. His mother went on to have more children, but remained devoted to her eldest son.  After attending local schools, Isaac went off to board with an apothecary in Grantham and attend King's School, under the tuition of Mr Henry Stokes.  Isaac was in the 'lowermost form' until an incident he would later recount to John Conduitt: one day on the way to school, a boy gave him 'a kick in the belly which put him to great pain'.  Isaac challenged the boy to meet him in the churchyard after school, where they fought and Isaac apparently won.  After that, the spark of competition was lit and he was determined to beat the boy in studies, which he soon achieved.  He learned to draw, and filled the walls of his room above the apothecary's shop with sketches of ships he had designed, as well as animals and fantastic beasts.  Mr Clarke the apothecary must have been fond of Isaac, or recognized his potential, as none of this, including Isaac's wild outbursts of temper stopped him teaching the boy about the 'Chymical' properties of the things on the shelves.  The Clarkes let Isaac create a workshop on their property and in return, he built them an accurate sundial in their backyard, based upon pegs he drove into a brick wall, so they could see it from the house.  He also constructed a water-clock for inside the house, which he adjusted in the mornings before he went to school.  He made kites, models, toys and 'knick-knacks' and spent much time experimenting with liquids, until his mother took him home to have him trained up as a farmer.  To say that Isaac had absolutely no interest in the life of a country gentleman would be an understatement.  He liked mill-wheels and weirs, and windmills, but that was about it.  Henry Stokes came to hear of his talented pupil's dilemma, and contacted Isaac's mother to suggest the completion of his education.  

At Trinity, young Isaac was finally among people who wanted to learn, to think.  Although shy and stubborn, he still managed to make friends with John Wickins, who became his firm friend, room-mate and assistant for the next 20 years.  Cambridge traditionally relied upon Aristotle but Isaac quickly disregarded him, and the curriculum in general, in favour of Descartes and Copernicus amongst others.  He also continued to study theology and was extremely interested in dissecting ancient texts on Christianity and Judaism (he left a larger bulk of work on this than on science).  Aged 22, Isaac 'discovered' binomial theory and began work on what would become infinitesimal calculus.  Cambridge closed shortly afterwards due to the Plague and Newton went home to Woolsthorpe for the next two years, where an apple fell on his head and he had some incidental thoughts on optics which he tested on his own eyes and nearly blinded himself.  Although many have observed Newton was unremarkable as a Cambridge scholar, he returned there as a Fellow in 1667, and in 1669 constructed the first functioning reflecting telescope, and was elected Lucasian Professor of Mathematics, aged 26.  

By this time, the other fellows were discussing his work and it was being circulated amongst the great thinkers of England.  Newton appears to have held off publishing his more fundamental theorems, which went against him in later life, as others such as Leibniz were working along the same lines and published earlier.  It has been said that he feared ridicule for his near-revolutionary thinking.  By 1671, Isaac had been persuaded to demonstrate the telescope for the Royal Society.  It caused an uproar of approval, and he was elected a Fellow soon afterwards, but Robert Hooke, Curator of Experiments, was critical, and he and Newton became involved in a bitter row that would continue until Hooke's death in 1703.  Isaac vowed to publish nothing more, but continued to work in secret on his own alchemical experiments, installing a furnace in his and Wickens's rooms, along with elaborate apparatus.  In 1675, Isaac came to London to petition the King for a release from taking Holy Orders (it was necessary to be ordained within 7 years of being made M.A. to remain as a Fellow).  Charles IInd consented, and Newton was made exempt.  At this time, Isaac also began an intensive study of the textual history of the Bible.

In 1683, Wickens had finally had enough, and wanted to marry.  Isaac found another amanuensis, but things wouldn't be the same.  In 1687, Newton finally published the first book of his Principia.  Although few but the greatest European minds understood it, it propelled Newton into popular thinking as a celebrity genius.  His lectures, which has previously been poorly attended, became full (although how good a speaker he was is in doubt) and he became a figure of adoration for bright young things.  

Around 1693, Isaac had a breakdown.  Always eccentric, he stopped sleeping and turned against his friends, saying they were trying to embroil him 'with woemen'.  It is likely it was little more than the suggestion Isaac would benefit from a little feminine company.  He began a series of epic fallouts with the great thinkers of the day, mainly due to his erratic sense of morality regarding other scientist's unpublished works.  By 1696, he had recovered and was appointed Warden of the Royal Mint, which necessitated a move to London.  He took his job very seriously, much to the annoyance of those already there, who had carved out lucrative little niches for themselves.  More enemies.  Some time before 1700, his half-sister's teenage daughter Catherine came to live with him.

In 1703 Hooke died and Isaac succeeded him as President of the Royal Society and would hold the position until his death.  In 1704 he published Opticks, his second masterwork, on the properties of light, and was knighted the following year.  By this time, Isaac was getting older, and less prone to the huge tantrums that marked his earlier life.  He had severed his ties with alchemical experimentation upon his move to London, but his excessive use of mercury may well have exacerbated his temperament.  

He continued to write, think and speak, and in 1710 he and Catherine moved from Jermyn Street to 35 St Martin's Street in Soho.  Although still shy and moody, he was seen out and about at the coffeehouses.  He revised his earlier works obsessively, and tried to sort out the controversy surrounding his and Leibniz's calculus discoveries.  The young Huguenot J.T. Desaguliers became Isaac's assistant and Demonstrator at the Royal Society, but by this stage, Isaac regarded demonstrations as necessary only for 'vulgar' minds.  His later years were marked by misfortune (the South Sea Bubble cost him tens of thousands of pounds) and decline (due to kidney stones), although his mind remained as sharp as ever.  He presided over his last Royal Society meeting in at the end of February 1727, and went home in agony.  He had recorded that around 1724 he had passed two kidney stones that appeared broken, but together would have been the size of a pea.  The type of agony this would have caused is almost unknown in the Western world in the 21stC.  Passing a kidney stone the size of a grain of rice rates about 8 or 9/10 on the pain scale, with 10 being full body trauma like a massive car accident.  Anyone who has passed a gallstone, which rates about a 7, will understand.  Kidney and bladder stones cause other infections inside the body, and Newton became prone to debilitating 'voiding' which left him much weakened.  Despite the attentions of famous 'stone doctor' Cheselden, the next bout of stones would kill him at the end of March 1727.  He died after refusing the last rites, declaring that he did not need them.

Isaac Newton's titanic intellect left little room for the man he was; consumed by the need to discover, he lost much of his humanity.  He died without issue and some assert he was a virgin, but I hope this isn't true.  After his death his family were marked out only by their intellectual mediocrity, highlighting again Isaac's incredible individuality.  Newton's own words at the beginning of this post lead people to mark him as a modest man but his actions speak of an obsessive, selfish and driven.  He did not tolerate anyone who stood in his way, yet there is a glamour to his over-riding curiosity and his astonishing mind.  In many ways, Isaac Newton never stopped being the small boy who made kites and drew on his bedroom walls, no matter how exalted his later stage became:

I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem only to have been a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay undiscovered all before me.

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November 16, 2009

The Birth of the Surveillance Society

Morals reformed - health preserved - industry invigorated, instruction diffused - public burthens lightened - Economy seated, as it were, upon a rock - the gordian knot of the Poor-Laws are not cut, but untied - all by a simple idea in Architecture!
Jeremy Bentham, The Panopticon

Jeremy Bentham was, without doubt, a genius.  Born in Spitalfields in 1748 to a Tory family, he began his formal education at the age of 3 after showing remarkable precocity.  He went on to promote equal rights for women (and also animal rights), recommend the decriminalization of homosexuality, the hanging of pederasts, experimentation with bestiality and the banning of masturbation.  A mixed bag then.  


He was a Utilitarian, which is an excellent idea in theory, but results in the sort of inflexibility that left him unmarried despite desiring greatly to acquire a wife.  His emphasis upon purpose and utility, plus his experience of the law led him to create the Panopticon, a new kind of prison.  Prisons at the time were usually either older buildings, adapted with varying degrees of success, or purpose-built hulks interested only in segregation and secure confinement.  Bentham's proposals for the Panopticon, produced in 1787, read very reasonably and there is much to recommend, but along the way it becomes something far more than the sum of its parts: a monster.  A circular prison whose capacity was limited only by the contemporary inability to build much above four stories, cells were ranged about a central observation tower.  In the tower, a hidden warder was able to watch each barred cell without the inmates knowing if he was even there or not.  They could not rely on a warder's inattention, even for a moment, but nor could they assume their actions, or lack of said were even noted.  Now, we are used to the omniscience of CCTV, and some even find being watched throughout their day reassuring.  At the end of the 18thC, this was a seriously disturbing concept and not one readily adopted by prison planners (although many other of Bentham's recommendations, such as central heating for prisoners were adopted in new prisons).  Whilst they were keen on the idea of being able to leave prisoners unfettered, and on the economies allowed by dramatically reducing warder to prisoner ratio, the idea of being watched by a faceless entity was viewed as deeply sinister, a fact that slipped past Bentham completely:

A building circular... The prisoners in their cells, occupying the circumference—The officers in the centre. By blinds and other contrivances, the Inspectors concealed... from the observation of the prisoners: hence the sentiment of a sort of omnipresence—The whole circuit reviewable with little, or... without any, change of place. One station in the inspection part affording the most perfect view of every cell.

The Panopticon has gone on the fire the imagination of almost every philosopher, not to mention science-fiction writer since (1984 anyone?).  For reasons I cannot quite place, it is one of the most disturbing ideas ever concocted for honest, humanitarian reasons.  The only true Panopticons ever built were in North America, to Bentham's model.  (Pentonville prison is often incorrectly cited as an example.)  There's tons I could write on Bentham, but instead I shall let you consider the Panopticon through the gallery.   

         
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November 9, 2009

The Tart Hall Sale-

 

Part of what I do (when I'm not blogging, tweeting or shouting at the lost and noisy tourists in the courtyard) involves finding things: finding reference to them in old auction catalogues, or when they were sold through the 'Three Dees': death, divorce and dearth.  People, houses, even original drawings by interior designers, or Rate books, surveys, taxes, letters, newspapers and even laws: references to objects turn up everywhere, not just in Wills.  

For as long as there have been old objects of great beauty, there have been those who collect them.  The most notable of the early recorded collectors is Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel (1585-1646).  He is most famous for the Arundel Marbles he bought in Italy on his Grand Tour, but he was a voracious buyer of anything that interested him.  Thomas was born into a family with plenty of title and no money.  The Howards were eternal plotters, and could not reconcile their Catholic faith with the Protestant Elizabeth Ist, and understandably she did not favour them.  However, Thomas married well and his wife provided the vast estates in Yorkshire and elsewhere that would form the basis of a massive fortune extant today.  Employed on the Continent by Charles Ist, Thomas kept buying, but he also bought up home grown treasures, as we will see.  I happened upon a brief description of parts of Tart Hall (next to Buckingham 'House' - see map section), their London home, written in 1641, which included carpets of yellow leather in rooms hung with green and yellow taffeta, Titians, a Tintoretto, a Bassano and a Honthorst.  Obviously, a hovel.

Upon Thomas's death in 1646, the family rapidly backed the wrong horse (again), and Cromwell came down on them, hard.  A nasty divorce in 1700 further split the collection, and in 1720, Henry Charles Howard died and parts of the Arundel Collection were sold off in a sale at the house.  Tart Hall was then pulled down, for reasons that are no longer clear.  I would dearly love to see an auction catalogue for this one, and indeed there is record of one being printed, and marked at the sale by a member of the Howard family.  Applebee's records some details for the sale as follows (I have highlighted in bold what one might term 'the star lots'):

The Sale of that part of the Old Arundel Collection as belong'd to the late Earl of Stafford, and after his Demise devolv'd to the Honourable Henry Charles Howard, deceas'd, about a Month ago, for whole Use it was sold, is over, and appears to be the greatest of its kind that ever was known in England, the whole amounting to near 30000l. being one half more than was expected it would sell for.  Among many other Rarities were sold these following, Viz.

-A Cabinet of Ebony, finely painted, and Silver Ornaments, in the Inner Room, and Mosasick Work, being the Curiosity in Europe, for 310L. to a Lady in Soho-Square.  
-A Folding Japan Chair, the finest that ever was seen in England, for 47 Gunineas,  
-A Knot of fine Rubies set in Gold, worn by Queen Elizabeth, sold for 27l. 6s.  
-Twenty four Buttons of Gold and Pearl, worn by the said Queen, sold for 42l. 11s. both bought by Sir Andrew Fountaine for her Royal Highness the Princess.  
-A curious Head of Jupiter in Brass, bought by Sir Andrew Fountaine for his Royal Highness the Prince, for 43l. 1s.  
-A fine Persian Carpet, sold for 299l. 5s. to Baron Swartz, the great Jew.  
-Two Manuscripts of about 1200 Years standing; the one being a Translation of the New Testament; and the other a Book of Prayer; the former sold for 60l and the latter for 76l. bought by the Lord Edward Harley, Son of the Earl of Oxford.  
-A Pack of Cards, the first that ever were used in England, sold for 15l. 4s. 6d. to James Bateman, of Soho-Square, Esq; 
-The Handle of a Brush of Japan, not a Foot in length, for its Workmanship the finest in Eurpe, sold for 13l 2s. 6d. to the same Gentleman.  
-A gilt Box with 30 Cards, made of Silver, sold for 6s. 3d. per Ounce, to the same Gentleman.  
-A Coronet and a Buckle of some Diamonds, sold to the Prince for 4l. 1s.  
-Nine Lotts of curious Japan Wares, the like not in Europe, were bought by her Grace the Dutchess of Marlborough.  
-The Two Parcels of Combs of great Antiquity, belonging to an Empress of Germany, sold at 32s. 6d. and the Person who bought them was the next Day offered 5l. for each Comb. 
-A fine large Eagle Stone, sold at 38l. 8s. 6d.  
-A Representation of Heaven, and the Saints, Father, Martyrs &c. in Painting, by Rottenhamer, sold at 52 Guineas.  
-The Head of John Vanike, done in Oil by himself, he being the first that invented the Art of Painting in Oil, sold at 52 Guineas, and 300l. has since been bid for it.  
-A Dagger worn by King Henry the 8th, set with Jacynths in Gold sold at 43l. 1s. bought by Sir Andrew Fontaine for the Prince. 
-A Profile, with a white agate Head and Busto, rarely done, sold at 294l.  bought by a Foreign Minister.  
-Two Bottles of gilted China, made 1500 Years ago, sold at 116l. 11s.
-Ditto, a Madonna of the Holy Family, sold at 57l. 15s.
-Fourteen Drawings by Julio Romano, sold at 110l. 5s. 
-Two Stone Tables, said to be Oriental Marble, a great Curiosity, at 42l.
-A Gold Pair of Scales, sold at 55 Guineas to Mr. Warner, a Goldsmith.
-Some certain pieces of Plate, sold at 26s. 21s. 20s per ounce, being the Workmanship of Veanna, the most celebrated silversmith of his Age.  
Many other surprizing Curiosities and Rarities were sold, the Particulars of which are too tedious to insert.

The last line is immortal.  One of the things too tedious to insert was the remarkable 'Head of Homer', purchased by Dr Mead and not in the collection of the British Museum.  I have tracked down a few of the pieces from this sale for the sake of this post (although I'm not sure about the Henry the VIIIth dagger), and as a simplified (and very glorified) illustration of what I do, and you can see them in the gallery.  The importance and magnitude of this sale is astonishing, as is the amount of money raised, in the tens of millions in today's money.  The early 18thC was the very beginning of real art and antique collecting amongst the English aristocracy, and through extant records it is possible to track some of the most important works of art in their journeys down the centuries.  They often disappear for a while, but I like to think that is because people are using or enjoying them quietly, before one of the Three Dees forces them back onto the market.  

 

         
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November 3, 2009

John Keats: Apothecary, Surgeon's Pupil, Poet-

The airwaves are abuzz with Bright Star, Jane Campion's biopic of John Keats (1795-1821). Of all the Romantic poets he is the 'real' Londoner and as such I find his life interesting; more interesting than his poetry anyway.

John Keats' short and painful life began at the Hoop and Swan by Moorgate where he was the eldest of three boys and a girl.  His father Thomas was a barman who came to manage or even own the pub (now Keats and the Globe for some reason, being nowhere near The Globe).  When Keats was seven he was sent to a school in Enfield, North London. Nine months after he started at the school, John's father came to visit him and on the way home was thrown from his horse.  Thomas Keats's skull was fractured and he died.  John's mother, Frances, remarried almost instantly but it wasn't a success and she was forced to move in with her mother in north London.  She died in March 1810, leaving her fourteen year old son in the charge of Thomas Hammond, an apothecary.  He shared Hammond's lodgings, giving him a sense of continuity and an interest in medicine that would lead John to become a student at Guy's Hospital when he was 18.  He would study there for 5 years, as a dresser (attending in theatre and dressing the patients' wounds after surgery). In 1816 Keats took his apothecary exams, and passed.  He was an avid letter writer (although his handwriting was often more 'doctor' than 'poet'), rapidly developing a friendship with Leigh Hunt, Ben Haydon and others.  He frequently left off 'spouting Shakespeare' to go and attend a surgery.  In that year, Hunt helped him achieve publication with his first poem, and the following year, a collection of his poems were put before the public, to little success. 

During a Scottish summer holiday in 1818 with his friend Charles Brown, Keats developed a cold so severe he could not continue and for the first time began to drop weight.  When he came home, it was to the reality of his brother Tom's full-blown tuberculosis.  Keats nursed Tom, but was probably succumbing to the early stages of TB himself.  Their other brother George had left for America (although he would later return to borrow money from John, who was broke anyway and complained that 'He ought not to have asked,').  Tom died late in 1818 and by that time Keats had started his own slow decline.  He had also started to take laudanum, claiming it eased the tightness in his chest, but it soon became a habit, and one he and Brown fell out over more than once.  The two friends moved to Hampstead, where he met the elusive Miss Fanny Brawne, who would inspire so much of his work.  Keats knew himself to be extreme in nature, and it is almost amusing he chose someone so practical and down-to-earth as Fanny to fall in love with.  She was an incorrigible flirt and not just with John, which tore him up.  He wrote her cruel and often spiteful notes, then others full of contrition.  She seems to have taken them all in her stride and they developed a close relationship which would lead to an engagement.  The convention of the day insisted John raise enough money to provide her with at least somewhere to live before they married, but he wished to devote himself to poetry, and so had to make some money out of writing.  These hopes were almost dashed in 1819 with the publication of Endymion.  It was savaged by the critics and Keats was heartbroken.  Byron sniped at Keats as a 'Cockney' and a 'dirty little blackguard', but he was genuinely sorry for his fellow poet's mauling at the hands of the critics.

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuffed out by an Article.

Keats' odd appearance was perhaps one of the factors that drove his unbalanced character.  He was of short stature, perhaps no more than five feet tall, and delicately built.  He was painfully aware of a mismatch between his mind and his body.  He perceived himself as unattractive to women and regarded them with suspicion, perhaps always imagining them to be laughing behind their hands at him.  Severn's appalling duck-faced, fuzzy-headed portrait remains one of the most popular images of John.  Much better are the various sketches featured in the gallery, by various artists.  His life mask shows a fine sensitive face with remarkable eyelashes and a beautiful, if slightly top-heavy mouth (emphasised in the silhouette).  The touching image of him asleep as he was dying, also by Severn, conveys both the heartbreak of a friend, and the character of the patient.

Joseph Severn was to become Keats' greatest friend, and also his nursemaid, but through an odd series of events.  Towards the end of winter in 1820, Keats returned from the City to Brown's house, thoroughly chilled.  He was sent to bed by Brown, who brought him up a glass of spirits.  Keats coughed once, but blood hit the sheet.  He ordered Brown to bring him the candle in order to see the colour of the blood.  His surgical training allowed him to recognize it as arterial blood, meaning his lungs were compromised.  'That drop of blood is my death warrant,' he told his friend.  Later that night, he had his first serious lung haemorrhage, his mouth filling with blood.  Brown later remembered the calm with which Keats wiped his chin and remarked, 'This is unfortunate.' 

This period was one of his most productive, and with Leigh Hunt's support he began to think that it may be possible to support himself, and a wife through writing.  John had run through three doctors, who seemed to have no idea what to do with him.  He was bled, starved, fattened and opiated.  He fretted for Fanny's company and began to suffer palpitations.  Finally, the doctors recommended a warm climate.  Joseph Severn, a promising young artist with an award for travel from the Royal Academy was singled out as a good friend for John, and he became a regular visitor, along with Coleridge.  John was living with the Hunts, but found the noise and the children distressing.  An odd incident drove all matters to a head: a letter from Fanny was opened by mistake.  Keats had a tantrum then began to cry, walking the streets in a distracted state.  He passed the house where his brother had died, then made his way to the Brawne house, where he collapsed.  Mrs Brawne took him in and she and her daughter nursed John for a month.  His lungs became more congested and he began to produce blood on a regular basis.  Rome was settled upon as the place for him to convalesce, and Jospeh Severn as the companion.  Fanny gave John paper that he might write to her and a large marble she used to cool her fingers when sewing.  It would rarely leave his reach for the rest of his life.

John and Joseph Severn left England on the 17th of September 1820.  As the distance from Fanny grew, John's spirits sank.  Severn did not know how to help him, but listened when the poet talked.  They employed an English doctor, who encouraged a robust diet and walking.  When Keats continued to decline, the doctor confirmed what John already knew: that he was dying.  Keats became set upon suicide by laudanum, determined not to suffer the loss of dignity his brother Tom had undergone.  Severn confiscated Keats' supply of the drug and John punished him with descriptions of the incontinence, vomiting and raving that was to come.  Severn was a stoic and ignored his friend, nursing him as his health plummeted early in 1821.  Their friendship was a rare one.  Keats became frightened of the dark, so Severn rigged up a system whereby one faltering candle would light the wick of the next, an invention Keats named 'the fairy lamplighter'.  The sketch at the head of the gallery was drawn on 28th of January 1821 in the light of one of those candles.

Keats became resigned to his fate and encouraged Severn in his nursing: 'Now you must be firm for it will not last long.'  A letter arrived from Fanny, but he would not open it, only asking for it to be placed in his coffin with his lock of her hair.  On the 23rd of February, his lungs began 'to boil'.  He asked Severn to lift him up and hold him, resolving to die easily, and soon.  So he and Severn sat, hand in hand for the next seven hours, until John Keats died.  The Police visited the house the following day (as was the law in Italy for consumptive deaths) and ordered all destroyed.  Severn saved some things for himself, but Keats was buried in the Protestant cemetery as they had agreed.  Severn wrote to Brown to tell him the news:

I am broken down from four nights' watching, and no sleep since, and my poor Keats gone.  Three days since, the body was opened; the lungs were completely gone.  The Doctors could not conceive by what means he had lived these two months.  I followed his poor body to the grave on Monday...

The news took a month to reach London, where it was published in The Times on March 23rd, 1821.  

At Rome on the 23rd of Feb., of a decline, John Keats, the poet, aged 25.

 

           
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October 8, 2009

John Castaing, Jonathan's Coffee House and the birth of the Stock Exchange

When asked to name a London coffee house, most people automatically say, 'Lloyd's'.  In way they'd be right; Lloyd's is famous for the birth of the insurance industry, but Jonathan's was arguably a more important venue, and also based around Exchange Alley.

Jonthan's was opened by Jonathan Miles in 1680.  Along with Garraway's, it was frequented by City businessmen, although the 'quality' was better at the latter.  Trading in stocks was no new invention but it accelerated quickly with the arrival of the Huguenots.  They had liquidated their assets on leaving France and some of them were very rich indeed.  It is a mystery how they got their money out of France, but stocks would certainly have been one method, and there was a strong history of Huguenot stock trading in the Netherlands already.  

By 1690, there were at least 100 companies selling stocks that were traded in London.  Their value fluctuated according to the news that came and went along the international information routes: the ships coming and going from London's docks.  News of lost cargoes, huge hauls, diseased crews and delays for repair were brought back by thousands of vessels, both large and small.  The coffee houses employed boys to go to the docks, hang around and wait for news, then run back as soon as they heard anything.  They would also run to the houses of the biggest merchants and butter up the servants for information.  Then they would report to the coffee house and their findings would be displayed on a board behind the bar.  Entry to the coffee house cost a penny, and then the coffee was included, so this service wasn't free.  The better coffee houses such as Jonathan's soon began to print their own news sheet, with the gossip relevant to their clientele.  John Castaing was a Huguenot broker who spent a lot of time at Jonathan's and he began to write up stock prices, bullion prices and exchange rates in 1698, publishing the sheet on a Tuesday and a Friday as The Course of Exchange and Other Things.  

Castaing's prices were relied upon by many of the coffee houses in the City, even though other more comprehensive sheets were printed.  His exchange rate was commonly used, and the publication continued for almost a century.  Castaing's success was largely connected to his Huguenot background.  It can be no coincidence that the packet boat from Harwich to the Hook of Holland ran on Wednesdays and Saturdays, taking Castaing's prices along with the scribblings of Pierre Des Maizeaux from the coffee houses of the West End where men such as Newton informed the conversation.  The Huguenots who remained in the Netherlands were a substantial network of both money and thinkers.  

Jonathan's burned down in 1748, ending an era.  New Jonathan's was built without delay, supported by various brokers and soon took on the name of The Stocks Exchange.  The coffee house was close to the site of London's original livestock market (The 'Stocks Market); the two were soon combined, and the London Stock Market was born.

Future posts will include the other London coffee houses, their origin in the Levant Company and the first records of Muslim London.    

 

   
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September 22, 2009

Old Slaughter's Coffee House

Old Slaughter's is perhaps the most famous of all the Georgian coffee houses. From the band of intellectuals and artists who congregated there, William Hogarth formed the St Martin's Lane Academy (which became the Royal Academy).

Covent Garden had long been a haunt for the artistic: it was full of noble houses in the mid 17C, yet there were still cheap lodgings for the tutors and artists who hung on the coat tails of the nobility.  The residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales in Leicester Square was to become a meeting place for those who patronized the arts, and it was the clever artist who was on hand to be called upon.  There was a topsy-turvy food market, theatres, whores and plenty of cheap drink.  When coffee became the thing, rather than early morning small beer or thin wine, the houses which served it proliferated.  It was no surprise that Old Slaughter's became the focus of so many creative and intellectual types as soon as it opened in 1692 at numbers 74 and 75, St Martin's Lane.

Coffee houses had advantages over taverns, although they did also serve wine and food.  Firstly, they were a bit more civilized, and there were no women.  Taverns had become the focus for whoring, like theatres.  Coffee houses were places men could go to be together and talk, with no 'distractions'.  The interiors were bare, almost like offices, with plain tables and chairs.  Furthermore, the proprietors were quick to cater to the prevailing taste within the establishment.  'Running boys' were employed to dart between offices, businesses and other places, gathering news relevant to the clientele, which was then chalked up behind the counter.  The clearest example of this is the Baltic Coffeehouse in Threadneedle Street, specifically opened to cater for the traders to the Baltic.  Stock prices, and news of the coming and going of each vessel was chalked up at hourly intervals.

The news on the board at Old Slaughter's is lost to us, more's the pity, but details of those who patronized it are not.  One of the most valuable sources are letters addressed to particular individuals at the coffee houses, which acted as both post boxes, and post drops.  Many of the artists and intellectuals who patronized Old Slaughter's, and Rainbow's around the corner, lived in lodgings or boarding houses, and would move often.  The coffee house provided a safe place to send and receive mail.  For one or two of the more seditious clients, it was a good way to avoid letting anyone know where they lived.  The Huguenot journalist Pierre Des Maizeaux received most of his mail (including a good deal of international correspondence) at the Rainbow.

One of the reasons Old Slaughter's is the most famous is its spectacular list of regular visitors, including: 

William Hogarth, English artist and engraver
William Kent, English artist and designer
Hubert Gravelot, French engraver
François Roubiliac, French sculptor
Francis Hayman, English artist
Thomas Gainsborough, English artist 
George Moser, Swiss enameller
Richard Yeo, English medallist 
Isaac Ware, English architect
James Paine, English architect
Henry Cheere, English sculptor
Thomas Hudson, English artist
Johann Muller, German engraver
Louis and Joseph Goupy, French miniaturists
Abraham de Moivre, French Huguenot mathematician
Robert Adam, architect and designer
William Hallett, cabinetmaker (although he made chairs, mostly)
John Linnell, cabinetmaker

Two famous residents of St Martin's Lane never joined the St Martin's Lane Academy, but I think it unlikely they did not visit Old Slaughter's.  Thomas Chippendale took the lease opposite the coffee house in 1753, and made them his premises for the rest of his working life.  Matthew Lock, engraver of the majority of Chippendale's Director, gave competing life drawing classes from the premises Chippendale later took over.

Old Slaughter's is just one of the coffee houses in Georgian London, each based around its own speciality.  Any student of this aspect of Georgian life owes a great debt to Mark Girouard, as do I.

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