I promise not to turn this into a cat blog, but I felt I had to mention that things feel slightly weird at home because we just got out first ever cat, Boris (below). He's very nervous and very big, and enjoys nipping the hand if he feels liberties have been taken. I think, when he stops being so scared and hiding underneath the sofa, he could end up developing a tremendous, Johnsonian personality.
But what of Johnson's cats? His most famous cat is Hodge (pictured above in statue-form at Johnson's House in Gough Square), whom I mentioned in an earlier post. And you'll no doubt recall Johnson's tactless remark to Boswell that he'd had 'cats whom I liked better than this', which was quickly qualified with: 'but he is a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed'. So who were Johnson's other cats? We don't know their names, but as Dr Graham Nicholls says in his excellent pamphlet, Dr Johnson's Cats: 'one of them makes its mark on Johnsonian biography when Johnson objected to his wife [Tetty] beating it because she was setting a bad example to the maids'!
He seems to have owned Hodge in the late 1760s. The name is a version of Roger and is a traditional name for a countryman, so Nicholls speculates that Johnson perhaps brought him back as a kitten from one of his many trips to the country. When the cat was close to death, such was Johnson's tenderness, he went out and found it valerian (a plant similar to catnip) to make his last hours as comfortable as possible
In case you wondered, our cat is named after another big personality: the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson.
So, I promised a post on Benjamin Franklin's house, and here it is. I was very excited about this house, situated in a narrow street close to Charing Cross Station, because, amazingly, it's the only surviving Franklin residence (he rented it, rather than owned it, but said he'd spent some of the happiest years of his life there). Between 1757 and 1775 he shared it with his widowed landlady, Margaret Stevenson, and her daughter Polly.
In 1913, there were red faces at the London Council Housing Division when they discovered they'd mounted Franklin's wall plaque on the wrong house in Craven Street; the correct one was two doors up from Craven Lane - now Craven Passage - and the plaque was moved from no.7 to no.36 (see above and below for pix of our approach).
In many ways this was the opposite of our experience at The Foundling Museum because there is really nothing left from the period except the house itself (built circa 1730 - and even then, the building was remodelled slightly in the Regency period). The guide told us it was the Empire Hotel in the 19th century, then became derelict, narrowly escaping destruction during World War II when a bomb fell into the back courtyard. Luckily it failed to explode.
As you can see, the interior has been beautifully restored (above is the central staircase on which Franklin was supposed to have done his daily exercises). Yet because there are no exhibits as such, the museum takes a 'living history' approach, inviting visitors to follow its Historical Experience (you've got to do this otherwise you'll only have access to the courtyard and the shop!)
It began down in the chilly basement: the location of the Craven Street bones (thought to be the remnants of an 18th-century anatomy school). Here we were shown a short film about Franklin's life, although Georgian gremlins meant that the sound cut out a few seconds in, and because the Experience runs on a tight schedule, we couldn't get in re-started. While we were debating with the other visitors what to do, a woman burst through the door in period costume, introduced herself as Polly, and led us through into the next room...
'Polly' works to a script which is cleverly interleaved with sound effects and recorded speech (it really felt like going back in time, following this woman down a dark corridor, a babble of voices coming from behind the door). The blank walls are used to project imagery and quotations from Franklin's works (Peter Coyote is the voice of Franklin while Imelda Staunton is Margaret Stevenson). It's very effective, though it goes at quite a pace. You can see Franklin's writing table in the picture above, and below is the balcony.
It seems that Franklin took 'air baths' in his room every day. He said: 'I rise early almost every morning and sit in my chamber, without any clothes whatever, half an hour or an hour, according to the season, either reading or writing.' He apparently sat naked in front of the open windows of his second-floor parlour (above). Imagine what the neighbours made of it! See below for a short tour of the room I was just talking about.
After the essential browse in the shop afterwards I picked up a curious book called Benjamin Franklin Book of Recipes by Hilaire Dubourcq which combines recipes of the day with dishes of Franklin's invention and quotes from his writings. There's some entertaining stuff about his vegetarianism, among other things. Describing his decision to eat fish again, he explained: 'but when this [fish] came hot out of the frying-pan, it smelt admirably well. I balan'd some time between Principle and Inclination; till I recollected, that when Fish were opened, I saw smaller Fish taken out of their Stomachs. Then thought I, if you eat one another, I don't see why we mayn't eat you. So I din't upon Cod very heartily... So convenient a thing it is to be a reasonable creature, since it enables one to find or make a Reason for every thing one has a Mind to do'.
I leave you with the recipe for Franklin's Hot Flannel:
1 large jigger of gin 1 pint of warmed ale 3oz of sugar 1 pinch of nutmeg
Add gin to the warmed ale. Stir in sugar and nutmeg. Serve.
One thing we didn't manage to catch on our visit to the capital was a screening of Barry Lyndon, currently showing at the BFI as part of a Stanley Kubrick season. His 1975 version of Thackeray's novel is considered to have been one of his finest achievements (he insisted on shooting it using authentic period lighting), and came after an abortive attempt to film a life of Napoleon. The good news is that it's available on DVD (I feel a purchase coming on...) The Guardian's review is here.
We had some tickets for the British premiere of Korngold's Die Tote Stadt at the Royal Opera House this weekend, which was hugely exciting, but while we were in London we also had time to take in a couple of 18th-century museums: The Foundling Museum and Benjamin Franklin's House. They were totally different from one another; I'll post on Franklin shortly, but first, let me show you some snaps of The Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury.
Above is a statue of founder Captain Thomas Coram (you might recognise it from the Hogarth painting) and below is the exterior, with a bust of Coram over the door. Coram was a philanthropic sea captain who campaigned to create a 'hospital for the maintenance and education of exposed and deserted young children'. Hogarth was an early governor (he designed the uniforms for the children and the charity's coat of arms) and later, Handel gave the proceeds of a performance of Messiah to the foundation, as well as leaving a fair copy of the score to the hospital in his will.
I'm not sure why the original building was demolished in 1926, but today's museum (above, which stands adjacent to the original site of the Hospital) has some really impressive artefacts. On the ground floor we saw a fantastic exhibition on the Hospital's history, including some of the little tokens that were pinned to the children's clothing by parents for identification purposes, and original petitions from the mothers, some of which were very moving (a typical one states: 'I am sorry to be thus unfortunate an particular as it is intirely out of my power to suport [the child] as the father is absent. To had to my misfortune I have been deprived of parents ever since I have been five years old and have not a friend to apply to and no not in wat manner to support the enfant an I have thus been so unfortunate an only been a servent sence I was fourteen').
One thing I didn't know about the Hospital was that, because of the huge demand for charity, if a petitioner were successful she had to return with her child the following Saturday and take part in a ballot (pictured above), whereby she was given a bag and drew either a white ball (success) or a black ball (rejection). Incredibly, this took place in the Hospital chapel, with spectators positioned in the gallery above - it's difficult to imagine how distressing this must have been!
Coram, despite his ordinary background, managed to elicit an extraordinary amount of support for The Foundling Hospital, and it became to all intents and purposes, Britain’s first public exhibition space. Unfortunately I couldn't photograph them, but the museum includes several galleries, painstakingly reconstructed from the originals, and studded with works by Hogarth, Reynolds, Gainsborough, Wilson, Hayman, Highmore, Roubiliac and Rysbrack. The picture above is of the staircase, but even here we have a famous painting of Handel's librettist, the outspoken Charles Jennens (far left).
We found a temporary exhibition called Handel the Philanthropist on the top floor, stuffed full of gems from the Museum's own Gerald Coke Handel Collection. In the glass case above was a portrait of Susannah Cibber, a china figure of Kitty Clive and various Handel scores, though perhaps one of the most fascinating exhibits was Handel's last will and testament on a special stand alongside; you could see evidence of the deterioration in his eyesight as he amended his will over a period of years, and his signature became shakier.
This is a must-see for anyone interested in the 18th century - the shop alone has enough to occupy Handel fans for quite some (not least a copy of Christopher Hogwood's 2007 Handel biography). As you can see from the picture below, we did buy the tea towel :)
O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathèd In ribbèd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes, For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and in his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.
I live in the English cathedral city of Lichfield, which, despite having a population of fewer than 5,000 during the Georgian period, was home to many important artists and intellectuals including Samuel Johnson, David Garrick and Erasmus Darwin. I generally blog about the short 18th century (1715-1789), feisty Georgian ladies and Lichfield's 18th-century heritage. If you have any comments, feel free to email me at woffington [at] gmail [dot] com.
Virtually forgotten today, Margaret Woffington (also known as Peg or Peggy) would rise from humble origins to become one of Georgian London’s most famous actresses, sharing the stage with the likes of David Garrick and excelling in so-called ‘breeches roles’. Born around the year 1720 in Dublin, her childhood years were marred by the death of her father, which plunged her family into poverty. Having reputedly sold watercress barefoot in the streets of the Irish capital, she was soon talent-spotted by a tumbler known as Violante, who staged populist entertainments in booths around the city. Violante had a troupe of child actors called the Liliputians, and before long Woffington was making her debut as Polly Peachum in their version of The Beggar’s Opera. Moving to London, she gained plaudits for both her outstanding beauty and her talent – particularly in comedy – appearing at both Covent Garden and Drury Lane. Known for her quick wit and no-nonsense attitude, she had high-profile affairs with Garrick, Lord Darnley and Charles Hanbury Williams; she was also a generous benefactor, supporting her elderly mother and may even have endowed some almshouses in Teddington, where she had settled at the height of her success. She died, unmarried, in 1760, having suffered a long wasting illness, and is buried in Teddington's parish church of St Mary’s.
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