Chips off the Old Block

A while ago we got wind of a fundraising scheme by The Friends of Lichfield Cathedral to auction off damaged sections of the cathedral that had been removed from the North and South Clerestory during the restoration of the East End of the building. Currently scattered around the cathedral lawn, the advert promised that the stones (which are 17th-century) could make a great garden feature and would come with a proper certificate of authentication. So off we went last Saturday to the stonemason's booth (above) to place bids on 1) part of a quatrefoil taken from below copings 2) the upper section of pinnacle and 3) copings from the Lady Chapel.

We'll get to know today if we've been successful. Perhaps, because the money goes towards the cathedral, we won't be subject to the harsh judgments of the monk, St Wulfstan, whose upset over the demolition of St Oswald's Anglo-Saxon cathedral at Worcester led him to remark: 'We miserable people have destroyed the work of saints, that we may provide praise for ourselves. The age of that most happy man did not know how to build pompous buildings, but knew how to offer themselves to God under any sort of roof, and to attract to their example subordinates. We on the contrary strive that, neglecting out souls, we may pile up stones.'

Photographs © Memoirs of the Celebrated Mrs Woffington.
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Two Blogs to Cherish

Things have been pretty busy lately but I'm glad to say I've been steered towards a couple of great blogs that have proved to be really pleasant diversions. I thought I'd share them with you here.

I think of myself very much as a nerdy history girl, so was delighted to find some like-minded individuals at the Two Nerdy History Girls blog. Written by bestselling authors Loretta Chase and Susan Holloway Scott, it's a cornucopia of quirky historical facts ranging from proper conduct between married persons of the 1830s to the miseries of Regency London. These ladies are experts at winkling out amusing and surprising facts, and the blog is great to dip into.

For those of you who share my twin enthusiasms for Georgian architecture and landscape, David Nice's blog, I'll Think of Something Later is a very engaging read, touching on subjects such as Georgian Dublin and Wotton House in Buckinghamshire. Nice's natural writing style and his lovely photographs make you feel as if you're strolling around some splendid grounds engaged in erudite conversation. Do have a look if you can.

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Georgian Leeds: Part Two

I can't help feeling sad for Leeds Assembly Rooms. In the late 18th century it was a glorious venue where balls and card parties were held for prosperous merchant families, now it's the site of restaurant chains and nightclubs and feels slightly down-at-heel. The railway - which was extended through the town in 1865 - really destroyed the original grandeur of the building, though attempts have been made to jazz up the area (known as the Exchange Quarter) as a destination for urban professionals.

The life of the "New" Assembly Rooms began in 1777, when Sir George Savile and Lady Effingham launched them above the third white cloth hall. Thanks to some sensitive restoration you can still see the front of this building (right, now occupied by Pizza Express). It was planned by wealthy Leeds merchants - spurred on by the opening of a rival cloth hall at Gomersal - and built on the Tenter Ground in the Calls. As the name suggests, the white cloth hall sold undyed cloth, whereas the mixed or coloured cloth-makers used the market in Briggate. It was constructed around a large central courtyard and it was two storeys high at the northern end (as mentioned, The Assembly Rooms were on the second floor). Big public events were sometimes staged in the courtyard, such as Mr Lunardi's balloon ascent in 1786.

The cupola you can see in my photograph, above, actually came from the second white cloth hall, and was installed in 1786, when that building was demolished. The third white cloth hall was restored in 1991, and it was at this time that a small bell was put into the cupola (it's struck by an internal electric clock hammer, though rarely sounds now).

With the coming of the railway in 1865, they actually had to build a fourth white cloth hall (though the North Eastern Railway company did foot the bill for it). You can see in my photograph below how the North Eastern Viaduct literally sliced the New Assembly Rooms in half. Ironically this fourth hall was never fully used, and was demolished in 1895, though the building that now stands in its place (a hotel) also sports the original cupola, carefully preserved for posterity.

Photographs © Memoirs of the Celebrated Mrs Woffington. 
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Georgian Homes Brought Back to Life

I noticed a stirring bit of news in an article in Saturday's Telegraph. Somersham Park House in the Cambridgeshire fens (left) and Eardisley Park in Herefordshire are just two lovingly-restored Georgian buildings which are now in the final of Country Life magazine's Restoration of the Century award. Somersham Park House, for example (which was built in 1802 on the site of the Bishops Palace of Ely) had virtually collapsed but in 2002 new owners began piecing it back together, even getting a local potter to reconstruct the four-foot-high chimney pots using remnants of the damaged originals. Check out Richard Johnson Restorations for some incredible before and after photographs.

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Word of the Week: Kittle Pitchering

A jocular method of hobbling or bothering a troublesome teller of long stories: this is done by contradicting some very immaterial circumstance at the beginning of the narration, the objections to which being settled, others are immediately started to some new particular of like consequence, thus impeding, or rather not suffering him to enter into, the main story. Kittle pitchering is often practised in confederacy, one relieving the other, by which the design is rendered less obvious.

From: Captain Grose's 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

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Georgian Leeds: Part One

Well, it's been some time since my Georgian Liverpool series and a trip, last weekend, to see Opera North in Leeds (left) proved to be the perfect opportunity to investigate another modern British city, looking for the traces of its 18th-century heritage.

Even though Leeds was a prosperous centre for woollen-cloth manufacture in the Georgian period, 18th-century traces were much harder to spot here than in Liverpool. Perhaps this is because we know Liverpool better, but also because Leeds - like Birmingham - is essentially a 19th-century city, packed with the grand buildings of Victorian commerce. Liverpool's Georgian glories are the genteel residents of the rising middle classes - the Regency terraces of Rodney Street and places like The Exchange where a tribute to that great Naval hero Lord Nelson can still be seen today.

In A Tour Through the Whole Island of Great Britain (1724), Daniel Defoe observed: 'Leeds is a large, wealthy and populous town, it stands on the north bank of the River Aire, or rather on both sides of the river, for there is a large suburb or part of the town on the south side of the river, and the whole is joined by a stately and prodigiously strong stone bridge, so large, and so wide, that formerly the cloth market was on the bridge itself. The increase in the manufacturers and of the trade, soon made the market too great to be confined to the bridge, and it is now kept in the high street [Briggate], beginning from the bridge, and running up north almost to the market house, where the ordinary market for provisions begin.

'The market is here twice a week. At seven the market bell rings (in the summer earlier, in the depth of winter a little later). It would surprise a stranger to see in how a few minutes, without hurry or noise, and not the least disorder, the whole market is filled; all the boards upon the tressels are covered with cloth, close to one another as the pieces can lie long ways by one another, and behind every piece of cloth, the clothier standing to sell it.

'Merchants in Leeds go all over England with droves of pack horses, and to all the fairs and market towns all over the whole island. Other buyers of cloth send it to London. They not only supply shopkeepers and wholesale men in London but for exportation to the English colonies in America and to merchants in Russia, Sweden, Holland and Germany.'

As I mentioned in my article on the Yorkshire coiners, it wasn't always plain sailing for 18th-century wool merchants in the north of England, but certainly the waterways (including the Leeds to Liverpool canal, built 1770-1816) were a major catalyst for the growth of Leeds as an industrial centre. As Defoe noted, it was the movement of the cloth market from the bridge into Briggate itself in 1684 that created the beginnings of the city of Leeds as we know it. Leeds soon became a prosperous centre, with the population (10,000 at the end of the 17th century) soaring to 30,000 by the end of the 18th. The Aire and the Calder rivers were made navigable, putting the Ouse, Humber and the sea in reach and propelling Leeds into the heart of the Industrial Revolution.

Walking beside the river, we found a couple of handy interpretive panels including the one above showing Samuel and Nathaniel Buck's South East Prospect of Leeds from 1745; the figures look out on fields full of tenter-frames on which the woollen cloth would have been dried and stretched. There was also a copy of the first map of Leeds by John Cossins in 1725 titled, A New and Exact Plan of the Town of Leedes. Perhaps the most interesting building in this area, though, is Fletland Mills: a collection of late 18th-and 19th-century mills that sprawl along the wharfside. Bought in 1887 by Wright Bros, the complex is now 42 The Calls (an upmarket hotel and restaurant). Just a glance at the back of the building (below) shows its antiquity.

That's all for now but don't go away because next week I'll be looking at Leeds Assembly Rooms in Georgian Leeds: Part Two.

Photographs © Memoirs of the Celebrated Mrs Woffington.
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Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat

I mentioned in my Horace Walpole post that I'd picked up a copy of Horace Walpole's Cat by Christopher Frayling, which has turned out to be a very elegantly written, very entertaining, read (see left). For those who don't know the story, some time in 1747, poor Selima the cat, who lived with Horace Walpole at his home in Arlington Street (this was before he moved to his gothic mansion, Strawberry Hill), got up on the rim of a large Chinese porcelain tub containing goldfish, fell in, and drowned.

Walpole was, understandably, upset and wrote to his close friend, the poet Thomas Gray, asking if he would compose some sort of epitaph for the unfortunate creature. Gray replied saying that he couldn't begin to grieve properly until he knew which cat Walpole was referring to (his other cat was called either Zara, after the heroine of Voltaire's The Tragedy of Zara or Zama, nobody seems sure which). Once the identity of the cat had been cleared up, Gray enclosed the first draft of the poem that would become Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat (see full text below). 'There's a poem for you,' said Gray, 'it is rather too long for an epitaph'.

Apart from Frayling's expert biographical slant on the poem and his analysis of it in terms of 18th-century culture, another joy of Horace Walpole's Catare the huge reproductions of Richard Bentley's quite wonderful engravings. There's a full reprint of Bentley's (pictured left) explanation of his Frontispiece which just as much of a mock-heroic masterpiece as the poem itself. Witness 'the cat standing on the brim of the tub... Two cariatides of a river god stopping his ears to her cries, and Destiny cutting the nine threads of life... At the bottom are mice enjoying themselves on the prospect of the cat's death; a lyre and a pallet.' Fantastic stuff.

Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat,

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.

I.

'TWAS on a lofty vase's side,

Where China's gayest art had dy'd

The azure flowers, that blow;

Demurest of the tabby kind,

The pensive Selima reclin'd,

Gaz'd on the lake below.

II.

Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;

The fair round face, the snowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,

Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,

She saw, and purr'd applause.

III.

Still had she gaz'd: but 'midst the tide

Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The Genii of the stream:

Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue

Thro' richest purple, to the view

Betray'd a golden gleam.

IV.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:

A whisker first, and then a claw,

With many an ardent wish,

She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize.

What female heart can gold despise?

What cat's averse to fish?

V.

Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent

Again she stretch'd, again she bent,

Nor knew the gulph between.

(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd)

The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd,

She tumbled headlong in.

VI.

Eight times emerging from the flood

She mew'd to ev'ry watery God,

Some speedy aid to send.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd:

Nor cruel Tom, or Susan heard.

A fav'rite has no friend!

VII.

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceiv'd,

Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd,

And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes

And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;

Nor all, that glisters, gold.

PS: Horace Walpole's Catalso explores Christopher Smart's For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry as well as Dr Johnson and his cats; follow the links above to see previous blog posts from me on these topics. And the cat in the frame, above, is my own cat, Boris.

Photographs © Memoirs of the Celebrated Mrs Woffington except the engraving of the Richard Bentley portrait, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
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