Sunday, August 3, 2014

The drama of London in WWI

‘[Sir Edward] Grey [Foreign Secretary] on rising got a prolonged cheer from both sides of the House, and he stood at the Table - tall and erect in his light summer suit - until the applause had subsided and the House settled down silently to listen. He spoke in a steady, even, passionless voice. It was a plain statement of the events that had led to the crisis, to which the tremendous issue - Peace or War? - imparted a solemn seriousness. Nor was he long in coming to the point. Great Britain was pledged to maintain the integrity of Belgium under the Treaty signed by the Powers in 1839. [. . .] If there was to be a war, he said, Great Britain would suffer terribly. But if we were to stand aside it would mean the loss of our self-respect, and at the end of the War, we should find ourselves powerless to prevent Europe falling under the domination of one Power, to our undoing.’

This is from the diary of Michael Macdonagh, at the time a reporter for The Times, writing in his diary on 3 August 1914, 100 years ago today, the day before Britain declared war on Germany. For me, Macdonagh’s diary is one of the most interesting of First World War diaries: not only is it charmingly written from beginning to end, but it is hugely informative too, since Macdonagh was reporting daily from the streets of London and was present at important political events. Here is the chapter on Michael Macdonagh from London in Diaries (see The Diary Review article for more about this unpublished book).

Michael Macdonagh reporting the drama of life

‘I think I can claim to have seen everything of importance bearing on the War for good or evil that happened in London during those eventual four and a half years, when the War was part of the texture of London’s life, domestic and public.’ This is Michael Macdonagh, an Irish-born journalist who worked on The Times for many years, introducing the published version of a diary he kept during the First World War. Not only is it charmingly written from beginning to end, but it is hugely informative too, since Macdonagh is present at important political events, in Parliament or at the Lord Mayor’s banquet, and out on the street reporting faithfully what he sees, hears and feels.

Macdonagh was born in Limerick, Ireland, in 1860. He became a reporter on a local paper before moving to Freeman’s Journal, Dublin, where he worked for eight years as a special correspondent in Ireland and in the Houses of Parliament. He married Mary in 1888, and they had one son. In 1894, he moved to London and joined the staff of The Times. He authored many books, about Ireland, the Houses of Parliament and topical history subjects (such as Irish Life and Character; The Reporters’ Gallery; and Daniel O’Connell and the story of Catholic emancipation). He died in 1946.

It was not until he had retired from active journalism, that Macdonagh published In London During the Great War: The diary of a journalist (Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1935). A newspaper reporter, he said, ‘is brought into hardly less varied and intimate degrees of relationship than physician or priest or magistrate with the World, the Flesh and the Devil - vocationally, of course.’ And, indeed, the published diary goes some way to justify this claim, for Macdonagh seems to have been everywhere, with the Prime Minister at the Lord Mayor’s Banquet, talking to commuters on trams, observing unofficial recruiters with their white feathers, helping three girls locked out of a tube station, or by Big Ben proclaiming the start and the end of war.

‘The theme of my book,’ Macdonagh wrote in his introduction, ‘is the drama of the life of the greatest civil community of the world in its direct relation to the Great War - London with its population of eight millions. It was the headquarters of the organising statesmanship and the executive military administration of the War on the British side, and on the American, when the United States joined the Allies. Accordingly things occurred in London during the Great War of a kind hitherto unknown in history. For the first time in warfare the civil population of a belligerent country were treated by the enemy as combatants, and - what was unthought of at the outbreak of hostilities - were bombed from the air by flying engines of war.’

Day of words, day of action
3 August 1914
[Sir Edward] Grey [Foreign Secretary] on rising got a prolonged cheer from both sides of the House, and he stood at the Table - tall and erect in his light summer suit - until the applause had subsided and the House settled down silently to listen. He spoke in a steady, even, passionless voice. It was a plain statement of the events that had led to the crisis, to which the tremendous issue - Peace or War? - imparted a solemn seriousness. Nor was he long in coming to the point. Great Britain was pledged to maintain the integrity of Belgium under the Treaty signed by the Powers in 1839. [. . .] If there was to be a war, he said, Great Britain would suffer terribly. But if we were to stand aside it would mean the loss of our self-respect, and at the end of the War, we should find ourselves powerless to prevent Europe falling under the domination of one Power, to our undoing.

4 August 1914
To-day is the day of days. It is a day of action, in contra-distinction to yesterday, which was a day of words. What counts with militaristic Germany is deeds not words. She has paid no attention to Sir Edward Grey’s speech. [. . .] [Prime Minister Herbert] Asquith stood at the Bar holding up another document. “A message from His Majesty signed by his own hand,” said he. At the words, all Members uncovered and the Speaker rose from his Chair. The Prime Minister then walked up the floor to the Table and handed the paper to the Speaker, who read the message to the House. It was a proclamation of the mobilisation of the entire Army. The Navy is already mobilised. This also was received in silence: a wonderful example of restraint and seriousness. Thus it can be said that the House of Commons declared war in no mood either of national vainglory or racial animosity. [. . .]

Men in straw hats, girls in calico dresses
It was in the streets after the House of Commons had adjourned that I found myself in an atmosphere of real passion. Parliament Street and Whitehall were thronged with people highly excited and rather boisterous. A brilliant sun shone in a cloudless sky. Young men in straw hats were in the majority. Girls in light calico dresses were numerous. All were already touched with the war fever. They regarded their country as a crusader - redressing all wrongs and bringing freedom to oppressed nations. Cries of “Down with Germany!” were raised. Germany was the aggressor. She must be made to ask humbly for peace. The singing of patriotic songs, such as “Rule Britannia,” “The Red White and Blue,” and also “The Marseillaise,” brought the crowds still closer together in national companionship. They saw England radiant through the centuries, valiant and invincible, and felt assured that so she shall appear for ever.

There were opponents, of course. Making my way through the crowds to Trafalgar Square, I found two rival demonstrations in progress under Nelson’s Pillar - on one side of the plinth for war, and on the other against! The rival crowds glared at each other. [. . .] I looked up at the effigy of Nelson - “sailing the sky with one arm and one eye” to see whether in imagination I could notice any change in his attittude. But no! He was still gazing steadily in a south-easterly direction - towards France, the enemy! - as he had been placed on his pillar some eighty years ago.

Suddenly, amidst the cheering and booing, a cry was raised, “The King! The King! On to Buckingham Palace!” [. . .] At Buckingham Palace the crowd sang “God Save the King” with tremendous fervour. His Majesty came out on to the balcony overlooking the forecourt, wearing the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet. [. . .] He had to appear on the balcony three separate times during the evening, because of the chanting of the crowd, slowly and with emphasis, betokening that they would have no refusal. [. . .]

From the Clock Tower of the Houses of Parliament came the light and gladsome chimes of the four quarters [. . .] then followed the slow and measured strokes of Big Ben proclaiming to London that it was eleven o’clock. We listened in silence.

5 August 1914
“Britain at War!” So London is informed this morning in bold black letters on the placard of The Times. In the House of Commons to-day, Asquith made officially the inevitable announcement. “Since eleven o’clock last night a state of war has existed between Germany and this country.”

Your King and Country need YOU

6 August 1914
The first appeal for recruits on the walls of London to-day. It is printed in national colours. Within a deep red border, in vivid blue letters on a white background, are the words, “Your King and Country need You” - “YOU” being heavily underscored. [. . .] Lord Kitchener, who has been appointed Secretary of State for War, is confident “that this appeal will be at once responded to by all those who have the safety of our Empire at heart.” [. . .] The recruiting headquarters is in Old Scotland Yard, off Whitehall. As I passed there this evening I saw a big throng of young men still in straw hats, waiting their turn to get and, in the old phrase, “take the King’s shilling.”

31 August 1914
There is to be seen almost every day at Victoria railway station the arrival of parties of Belgians who are pouring into England in tens of thousands, torn from their homes and flying before the devastating advance of the Germans: a spectacle unparalleled, perhaps, since the flight to this country of the French Huguenots [. . .].

11 September 1914
The lights of London were lowered last night for the first time. [. . .] Only a few of the street lamps were alight, and these had shades. Lights in shop windows were reduced. Blinds must be drawn before lights are lit in upper windows of all houses.

As I was going home from the Houses of Parliament last night I could not read my evening paper, so dim was the lighting of the Clapham train. The car was also specially fitted with blinds, and before we crossed Westminster Bridge these were drawn by the conductor for the purpose, he explained to us, of disguising the course of the river from hostile airmen, should they attempt a raid on London

Two workingmen in the car were very contemptuous of the Zeppelins. “They could never get here,” said one. “I hope they will come,” said the other. “We’ll stick pins in their bloody gas-bags.”

31 December 1914
As I write, there is a sudden uproar outside; bells are ringing; railway locomotives at Clapham Junction are shrieking and cock-crowing; from the river comes the wailing of sirens; factories are sounding their hooters. People are rushing from their houses into the streets and roads shouting and shaking hands. It is twelve o’clock - midnight: 1915 is being hailed as a deliverer.

The largest arsenal in the world

2 April 1915
I was tremendously impressed as I was being conducted through the Arsenal, covering three and a half miles long by one mile broad - the largest place of the kind, I was told, in the world - and saw those vast throngs of workers, men and women, absorbed in the making of all sorts of war materials. It is the first time the Arsenal in its long history as been open on Good Friday. Work never ceases now, night or day, Sunday or weekday. There are night and day shifts of ten and fourteen hours each. The workers are allowed the relief of just a Sunday off every fortnight.

13 April 1915
I went to the Horticultural Hall, Westminster, to-day to see the annual Daffodil Show.[. . .] [There was] a new specimen, called “Lord Kitchener” and described by the exhibitor as a “a bold, well-balanced flower, a tall grower.” It looked it - like the War Minister - every inch of it! [. . .]

But what is this? The mess of war is being introduced into that gem of our public parks, St James’s!  . . . The lake of the Park has been emptied since August. It was feared it might provide air-raiders with a landmark, or rather a “watermark,” at night [. . .].

13 May 1915
There is a scarcity of bread in parts of the East End of London where German bakers have been rooted out by the process of their shops being pillaged and wrecked. I am told that other premises were attacked by the mobs because of incorrect assumptions as to the nationality of the names over the doors. For instance, a publican named “Strachan” - an old Scottish name - was taken to be a German and had his windows smashed.

Women offer to make war materials

17 July 1915
For the first time since the outbreak of the War the streets of London were brightened to-day with colour and beauty. It was a dramatic and very moving procession of women through the West End offering Lloyd George, who has been appointed to the specially created office of Minister of Munitions in the National Government, the help of women in the making of war materials and other forms of national work. The organisers were Mrs Pankhurst and the other ladies who were prominent in the late Suffragette agitation - that militant movement for the franchise in which women displayed such amazing audacity, resourcefulness and exuberance.

2 October 1915
Explosions and counter-explosions of the agitation for and against conscription are being heard daily in London. [. . .] Meanwhile, nothing is being left undone to keep voluntary recruiting alive. To-day there was a “monster recruiting rally,” in which five columns of Regulars and Territorials, each twelve hundred strong, started from five different centres [. . .]. I accompanied one of the columns on its entire march through the City, along Holborn and Oxford Street, and up Tottenham Court Road to Camden Town. “Wake up, London!” was the motto of the rally. It certainly caused a great stir everywhere. In its widespread influence it was the most remarkable recruiting demonstration that London has ever seen.

6 October 1915
New but unofficial recruiters have appeared on the scene. These are the young women who have formed what they call the “Order of the White Feather,” which they publicly and forcibly confer upon any young man in “civies” whom they come upon anywhere, and whom they think should be in khaki. [. . .] Going home in a tramcar the other night I was a witness of the presentation of white feathers. The victims were two young men who were rudely disturbed form their reading of the evening paper by the attack of three young women. “Why don’t you fellows enlist? Your King and Country want you. We don’t.” One of the girls was a pretty wench. She dishonoured one of the young men, as she thought, by sticking a white feather in his buttonhole, and a look of contempt spoiled for a moment her lovely face.

Zeppelins, Zeppelins!

13 October 1915
I was in the Reporter’s Gallery, House of Commons, at half past nine o’clock this evening when the debate on the second reading of the Finance Bill was interrupted by the noise of explosions which came in through the open windows of the Chamber. A low cry of “Zeppelins! Zeppelins!” passed round, and immediately there was a rush of Members and journalists out into New Palace Yard, where they were joined by several Peers from the House of Lords. [. . .] In a southerly direction, over the Thames, I could see a long, black object so high up that it seemed to be moving among the stars. For a few minutes the airship, crossing the Thames in a north-easterly course and passing almost directly over New Palace Yard, was then played upon by two search-lights, and in their radiance she looked a thing of silvery beauty sailing serenely through the night, indifferent to the big gun roaring at her from the Green Park, whose shells seem to burst just below her. In a minute she disappeared from our view behind the houses, and immediately there broke upon our ears a frightful grinding roar, followed by what sounded like a disruptive explosion. Then another, and another, and another, in quick succession. The thing of beauty had transformed herself into a hellish monster, and was pouring fire and death upon the crowded streets.

14 October 1915
The official account of the raid in the papers this morning issued by the Press Bureau is very brief. It says a Zeppelin visited “a London district”; that thirty-eight persons were killed and eighty-seven injured, and that but little damage was done to property. [. . .] I went out to see for myself what had actually happened. [. . .] Had the bombs fallen on the Lyceum, the Strand and the Aldwych Theatres - and each was missed by only a few yards - frightful massacres would have occurred. [. . .] All the killed and wounded in the raid were people who had been taken unawares in the street. No public warning of the coming of the Zeppelin was given. The raider was determined to mark his flight across London with fire and carnage. He dropped about twenty explosive and incendiary bombs, all within five minutes and nearly all in central London. [. . .]

When I got home after my explorations my wife had a good story to tell me. She had been discussing the raid with our charwoman, Annie Bolster of Battersea. “Isn’t it an extraordinary thing, Annie,” said my wife, “that the Zeppelins, great ships like Atlantic liners, should be able to sail through the air from Germany to London and back?” “Don’t you believe it, ma’am,” Annie replied. “Don’t you believe it. We know in Battersea that these ’ere Zeppelins are hidden away in the back-yards of German bakers!”

Alexandra Palace internment camp

28 December 1915
To-day I visited Alexandra Palace, those extensive buildings and grounds in North London, where close on a thousand civilian prisoners of war, males of military age, are interned. They are German subjects who lived and carried on their avocations in London [. . .] waiters, barbers, cooks, bakers and tailors. There are also several who held responsible positions as hotel managers and commercial agents.

14 July 1916
The fine equestrian statue of Charles I at Charing Cross, close to Trafalgar Square stands on the very spot where some of the regicides responsible for the King’s death in 1649 were hanged after the Restoration of Charles II, and the King looks down Whitehall to the scene of his execution, from which, as it were, he has triumphantly arisen. But he has temporarily disappeared from view. The statue is regarded as one of the finest in London, which is not saying much, so indifferent are the others. What is better to say is that it is the most romantic memorial in London. Now it is covered with sandbags and enclosed within hoardings to protect it from injury in the air raids. On a recent visit to Westminster Abbey I saw that the tombs of the Kings and Queens are almost hidden behind protective sandbags. The same precautions have been taken in other churches, and also in some of the Inns of Court. Old stained glass has been removed from several windows.

The drabness of civilians

7 August 1916
It occurred to me to go for a long walk through the main thoroughfares, starting from Whitehall, to see in what respects the daily life of London has been altered by two years of war, so far, at least, as change is to be observed in the streets. [. . .]

The Strand, into which I turn from Whitehall, is still the busiest and most animated street in London, but its aspect is changed - its traffic and pedestrianism being so very different from what they were in the days of peace. The omnibus service is restricted; the use of private motor-cars is discouraged; horse-drawn vehicles are far more numerous. Among the walkers on the pavements khaki is predominant. Soldiers are everywhere. The military hustle and bustle to be seen in Whitehall is purposeful, being concentrated on War service and administration. In the Strand there is military relaxation, and some indiscipline. Obviously the men are from the training camps, spending a day off in London. They have not the seriousness which mark most soldiers back from the trenches on furlough. They have the idle vacancy of sheep wandering on the hill-side. [. . .] 

The drabness of civilians is very noticeable! What shabbiness in dress! A remarkable change in the point of view regarding clothes has set in. The cause is to be found on the walls and hoardings. Recruiting posters have been replaced by economy posters. “Spend Less; Save More.” “Buy only War Savings Certificates.” Accordingly it is the mode to assume a studied air of personal untidiness. [. . .] The fashion among men of all classes is to wear hat, coat and trousers long - as long as possible, in time. The only short wear is the feminine skirt. [. . .]

Women are to be seen at work everywhere. “Men must fight and women must work - and weep.” You see them at the wheel of motor-cars and motor-drays. You see them handling the reins of horse-drawn vehicles. They are ticket-collectors at Underground and tube stations. At hotels and offices the lift-boy has become a lift-girl. The hall-porter at some of the big hotels is an Amazon in blue or mauve coat, gold-braided peaked cap and high top-boots - a gorgeous figure that fascinates me. But my favourite is the young “conductorette” on trams and buses, in her smart jacket, short skirts to the knees and leather leggings. [. . .]

Gone are the hurdy-gurdy men

One familiar with London of pre-War days cannot fail to be struck with the absence of music from the streets. All the itinerant musicians have disappeared. The first to go were the “German bands” who came here during the summer touring London, the provincial towns and the holiday resorts. The cornet-player who blew in brazen blasts the popular airs of the day at public house doors is gone. Gone, too, is the more numerous “hurdy-gurdy men.” I am told there were hundreds of these barrel-organs in constant use in 1914 hired by Italians in “Little Italy” off Gray’s Inn Road, and that not one has been taken out this year.

Hyde Park has two anti-aircraft guns screened in extensive hutments and a searchlight over the gates at Hyde Park Corner - but no flowers. The beds that used to be bright with the colours in masses of the daffodil, the hyacinth, the narcissus, the tulip, the geranium, the dahlia - all processionally in their due seasons - are grass-grown. The Office of Works, which has charge of the Royal Parks, has suspended gardening for the duration of the war.

The bringing down of a Zeppelin in flames
2 October 1916
I saw last night what is probably the most appalling spectacle associated with the war which London is likely to provide - the bringing down in flames of a raiding Zeppelin.

I was late at the office, and leaving it just before midnight was crossing to Blackfriars Bridge to get a tramcar home, when my attention was attracted by frenzied cries of “Oh! Oh! She's hit!” from some wayfarers who were standing in the middle of the road gazing at the sky in a northern direction. Looking up the clear run of New Bridge Street and Farringdon Road I saw high in the sky a concentrated blaze of searchlights, and in its centre a ruddy glow which rapidly spread into the outline of a blazing airship. Then the searchlights were turned off and the Zeppelin drifted perpendicularly in the darkened sky, a gigantic pyramid of flames, red and orange, like a ruined star falling slowly to earth. Its glare lit up the streets and gave a ruddy tint even to the waters of the Thames.

The spectacle lasted two or three minutes. It was so horribly fascinating that I felt spellbound - almost suffocated with emotion, ready hysterically to laugh or cry. When at last the doomed airship vanished from sight there arose a shout the like of which I never heard in London before - a hoarse shout of mingled execration, triumph and joy; a swelling shout that appeared to be rising from all parts of the metropolis, ever increasing in force and intensity. It was London’s Te Deum for another crowning deliverance. Four Zeppelins destroyed in a month!

War shrines and the National Kitchen Movement
13 November 1916
“War Shrines” are not to be seen in the more residential and crowded areas of central London. Usually the shrine is a decorated wooden tablet surmounted by a cross, put up at a street corner, and containing the names of those from the street who are serving in the Army or Navy, or have been killed in action. There is a ledge for a vase or flowers.

28 November 1916
West London was bombed from the air this morning by an aeroplane, and I never heard of it, like thousands of others, until I opened the evening paper. It is the first day-light raid, and the first raid by an aeroplane. People in the vicinity of Victoria railway station and Buckingham Palace, close on midday, were suddenly startled and pulled up two or three explosions which followed each other in quick succession. [. . .] The aeroplane having thus made history was brought down by the French on its return journey to its base. There were two naval officers on board with a large-scale map of London.

21 May 1917
I was present at the inauguration by the Queen and her daughter, Princess Mary, of the National Kitchen Movement by the opening of an experimental kitchen in the Westminster Bridge Road. The purpose of this movement, organised by the Ministry of Food, is to instruct the poorer classes how food, by proper cooking, can be made to yield the most nutrition with the least waste. The food cooked in the Westminster Kitchen was distributed by the Queen and Princess Mary to the poorer residents of the neighbourhood, women, girls and small boys who came in large numbers with bowls, dishes and plates. 

What a lot of aeroplanes - take cover
7 July 1917
The most daring air attack which the Germans have yet made on London took place this morning. It was also the most thrilling. The raiders came in twenty big aeroplanes. The weather was sunny and warm, and so low were the planes that they were seen from all parts of the metropolis by millions of people. Killed, 57; injured 193.

I was due at The Times office at eleven o’clock and my tram from Clapham had begun to cross Blackfriars Bridge when a woman on the upper deck of the tram, where she and I were the only passengers, aroused me from the book I was reading by calling out, “What a lot of aeroplanes!” I looked up and saw the fleet approaching from a north-easterly direction, and noticed, at the same time, how they were being intently watched by numbers of people on the bridge’s footways. “Are they Germans?” the woman asked me, with a note of anxiety in her voice. “Oh, no,” I replied, reassuringly, without any hesitation. “If they were Germans we should hear our guns firing at them. I feel sure they are our own airmen carrying out manoeuvres.” [. . .] 

I alighted from the tram at the north side of Blackfriars Bridge and was walking towards The Times office when I was startled by the sound of a gun. It was the first I had heard. It sounded like the boom of a tremendous drum from afar off. [ . . .] Then I heard the weird swish of a bomb as it plunged downwards through the air and the roaring, rending explosion of its fall. Instantly the scene in the streets was wholly transformed. The policeman standing near the monument of Queen Victoria worked himself into a state of excitement, shouting “Take cover! Take cover!” and wildly waving his arms. Everybody ran hither and thither for shelter. I joined in the rush for Blackfriars station of the Underground. We tumbled down the stairs to the platform of the trains going west, and ran along it to its end, some distance under the roadway. A second terrific explosion had given added swiftness to our feet. The girls of the Lyons’s and ABC teashops at the station were in our wake, some of them being helped down, screaming hysterically. [. . .] For about five minutes more we could hear the uproar of bombs and guns. The silence fell, and, ten minutes later, gathering our scattered senses, we concluded that it was safe to emerge from the tunnel into the streets.

Prime Minister absent from the Mayor’s Banquet
10 November 1917
At the Lord Mayor’s Banquet last night, thinking of the many times I have attended it - every year since 1900, and off and on during the preceding ’nineties - and closely surveying the scene, it seemed to me that War which has changed so much has left this great civic, social and political event fundamentally unaffected and it remains what it has always been - a gathering of those eminent in Government, in diplomacy, in the fighting Services and in the Arts, set in the midst of a large company representative of the City’s municipal, commercial and financial life. [. . .]

For the first time in a hundred years and more the Prime Minister was absent from the Lord Mayor’s Banquet. Lloyd George, the quick-silvered, is in Italy, where it is reported the Germans have routed the Italian Army in the northern part of the country, taking thousands of prisoners and hundreds of guns. Bonar Law represented the Prime Minister at dinner. It did not concern the puritanical minded man whether the feast was bountiful or spare. To him a glass of water and a crust would have been enough, alone with himself. As I watched him in the Windsor uniform, seated to the right of the Lord Mayor, fingering nervously with the crumbs of bread on his plate, I thought how appropriately his face fitted the present dismal phase of the War - the pallid complexion, the sad eyes, the droop of the mouth.

Great Paul booming out for victory on the Western Front
23 November 1917
The joybells of the London churches to-day gave voice to the popular rejoicing at a great victory on the Western Front. It is the first time the peals have been rung since the outbreak of War. [. . .] I went up Ludgate Hill to hear St Paul’s carillon starting the City chimes at noon. This carillon is very rarely rung. It has not been heard since it celebrated the declaration of Peace after the South African War. There was a big crowd on the Cathedral steps and in the forecourt. After the clock had struck twelve, the big bell known as “Great Paul” - the bell that tolls for prayers - first boomed out, and was followed by the full peal of bells, twelve in number, which were a gift from the City Companies. The people cheered and cheered, exchanging greetings and smiles. The bells of the other churches, joining in with St Paul’s, helped to swell the wings of sound carrying the joyful news to offices, shops and warehouses.

16 December 1917
Such articles of food as tea, sugar, butter, margarine and bacon are now difficult to get. On an average fourteen vessels bringing food and raw materials are being sunk weekly by the enemy submarines. It is become a regular daily thing in all parts of London to see long lines of people outside provision shops waiting to be served and doubtful whether anything will be left when their turn comes. The Food Controller (Lord Rhondda) is still holding out against the growing demand for compulsory rationing.

We have to thank the Navy for that
24 December 1917
As I walked about the streets to-day I encountered a few military funerals of soldiers who died in London hospitals. The coffin is brought to the cemetery on a horsed gun-carriage, covered with the Union Jack. Marching behind it are a small party of soldiers with rifles to fire the parting salute to the dead, and with them a bugler to sound the “Last Post.”  Then comes a mourning-coach, conveying a few relatives. [. . .]

The abundance of meat and poultry this fourth Christmas of the war is amazing. Shops generally were hung with holly. Butchers had their carcasses of beef and mutton, and poulterers had their turkeys and geese decorated with coloured ribbons. And, oh the apples and oranges and nuts at the fruiterer’s and oh, oh, oh, the wine, the whisky, the brandy at the grocer’s! Everything was dear, of course. But the price did not matter. What mattered was supply to meet demand, and everything one could reasonably want in eating and drinking was there to be bought. And this - I repeat - is the fourth Christmas of the War! Marvellous! As Churchill would say, “We have to thank the Navy for that.” [. . .] The truth is that the Food Ministry, while appealing to us to be sparing in our observance of the “festive season,” took care that we should have plenty to keep it up on the old fashion!

9 January 1918
In the House of Lords to-day I reported Lord Curzon announcing the abandonment of the scheme of taking over the British Museum for the Air Ministry. [. . .] Curzon added that the government had come also to the conclusion that the Natural History Museum, South Kensington, was unsuitable for departmental War purposes. These are the only Museums - the British and Natural History - now open to the public.

Mass of humanity blocked the platforms
29 January 1918
The air raid which has been expected for some nights past came off last night. Continuing from eight-thirty pm to one am; it was the most prolonged to which we have so far been treated.[. . .] As I and others were looking out at the weird moonlight spectacle presented by the waters of the Thames and the background of St Thomas’s Hospital without a light showing in any of its many windows, two bombs fell in the river to our left between Westminster Bridge and Hungerford Bridge. A mighty disturbance of the waters followed, something like a tidal bore the waves of which, sweeping up the river under the arches of Westminster Bridge, rose so high that they poured on to the Terrace. [. . .] 

I decided to move homeward by tube. I said to myself that I would be under cover until I reached Clapham Common Station, where I could wait for the “All Clear,” if it had not already gone. [. . .] All the stations on my way were filled with people, but these gatherings were far outnumbered by the mass of humanity which packed and blocked the platforms, passages and staircases of the two tubes at the Elephant, the Bakerloo, and the City and South London. Whole families were there - mothers with babies and kiddies wrapped in blankets, sitting and lying everywhere, many of them happily asleep. Not a trace of fear did I notice - not the slightest sign of that nervous tension which is the common feeling of people sheltering in their own homes listening perforce to the guns. They were all made easy in mind by their assured sense of security. No sound of the guns pierced to these depths.

A few policemen and special constables moved about, suppressing good-humouredly any sign of fractiousness. The slot-machines had been emptied of what solace they could afford in cigarettes, chocolates and sweets. A railway porter told me that with a view to avoiding the crowding and discomfort of the stations during a raid it has become the practice of many people to take a tube train and remain in it, on its journey from one terminus to the other, until the “All Clear” is sounded. But they sometimes find themselves in trouble at the end; for the train might stop for the night at the wrong terminus for them, with the result that getting home often involved a long walk through deserted streets. [. . .] [After considerable difficulties, MacDonagh manages to catch a rare tram, the driver of which is taking advantage of a lull in the raid to try and run it home to the Clapham Garage.]

Raiders returning for their devilish moonlight revels
At Stockwell stopping point, which is about half-way, that silence was shattered by a sound that made us quake. It was a rocket signal that the raiders were returning to resume their devilish moonlight revels! It explained the long lull. Most of the passengers bolted for the Stockwell tube station. Only three girls - programme-sellers at a theatre - and myself were left in the car when it continued its journey. About five minutes later the guns began to roar. The conductor and driver decided to go on, and advised us to remain in the car until we got to Clapham Common, where we could take refuge in the tube station. [. . .] When we got [there] I rushed the girls to the tube station. There I was confronted by a situation so extraordinary that it astounded me.

The iron lattice-door of the station was closed, and through its chequered bars I could see that the booking-hall was packed with men, women and children. Its congestion afforded no proper shelter from the raid - the people would have been better off in their homes - and its state could only mean that the safer places, the platforms below and the stairs leading to them, were so crowded as to be inaccessible. Two policemen were inside the gates, and what really staggered me was that one of them, when the girls and I asked for admission, lifted up a large piece of cardboard, on which was printed in bold lettering: “Full up; no more room.” Two of the girls dropped to the pavement in hysterics. And no wonder, for the barrage was now terribly affrighting. There was not only a mobile field-gun blazing away on Clapham Common, close at hand, but from the neighbouring Wandsworth Common I could hear the roar of the great gun called “Big Bertha,” joining in the thunder of the other artillery of the London defences, near and far off. The policemen, moved by the pitiable condition of the two girls opened the gates and helped them into the booking-hall. I looked round for the other girl and saw her coolly walking away, homeward bound. In the circumstances there was nothing else for me to do but follow the girl’s example. [. . .]

[It still took MacDonagh some trouble to get home, but eventually he found his wife and her sister at the Johnsons’, next door, in a ‘state of elation’ and shouting in welcome at his safe arrival. But he has yet more to say about the night.]

During the raid, as my wife was going upstairs at the Johnsons’, a piece of shrapnel came through the skylight and fell at her feet. She had a narrow escape from a nasty wound on the head - not to think of the worst. It is known that some of those officially returned as killed and injured during a raid have been the victims of our own exploding shells.

Cabbages, parsnips round the Queen Victoria Memorial 
3 March 1918
During the past week compulsory rationing of certain foods introduced by Lord Rhondda, Food Controller, has been in operation in London and the Home Counties [. . .]. Each household has been provided with two cards - a “meat card” for butcher’s meat and bacon; and a “food card” for butter or margarine. [. . .] The weekly allowances for each person are - 15 oz of beef, mutton, lamb or pork; 5 oz of bacon; and 4 oz of butter or margarine. [. . .] We are all on equality under this system of rationing. The papers announce that the King and Queen  received their cards from the Westminster food committee, and that everyone in Buckingham Palace is on rations. 

1 April 1918
Easter Monday. “No flowers, by request.” This is the Order of the Day for Easter. It means, in the first place, that the very domesticated, stay-at-home Londoner, of whom there are hundreds of thousands, instead of devoting the holiday to planting bulbs in his back garden, as is traditional with him at Easter, should plant tubers; or, better still, extend his sphere of vegetable-growing by taking a plot or allotment in the nearest open space. An example has been set by the King. His Majesty has directed that the flower-beds surrounding the Queen Victoria Memorial at Buckingham Palace are not to present this year the customary blaze of scarlet geraniums, but what is more appropriate, in the national situation, the sight of potatoes, cabbages, parsnips and carrots all a-blooming.

There is extensive vegetable-growing also in the Royal Parks. In Kew Gardens, for instance, two hundred acres have been set aside for the purpose. [. . .] My heart filled with satisfaction on visiting the Commons in my own neighbourhood, Clapham, Tooting and Wandsworth, and also Battersea Park - all under the London County Council - where I saw hundreds of men and women cheerfully and healthily employed on their plots, making the potato and the cabbage grow where only the grass grew before in London’s open spaces.

The Land Army in Hyde Park
20 April 1918
To-day I was brought into contact with the most important of women’s War activities next to the munition-workers - the girls of the Land Army. They had a recruiting procession in London and a meeting in Hyde Park. Before the War there were not more than 90,000 women employed on the land; there are now 260,000. [. . .] The stretch of grass in Hyde Park where the meeting was held was like a farmyard there were so many pens with lambs, pigs, ducks and hens. 

11 May 1918
The Stars and Stripes were to be seen everywhere in London to-day. [. . .] A regiment of the United States Army are to be reviewed by the King at Buckingham Palace and march through London on their way to France.

Fireplaces suspended as if in mid-air
20 May 1918
When I got this morning to the place where bombs were dropped, close to the Bricklayer’s Arms, Old Kent Road, I saw an army officer in khaki, accompanied by a lady, standing amid the ruins of shattered homesteads talking to a group of women, children and men. They were the King and Queen on a round of visits to the bombarded districts. As their Majesties left in their motor-car the people raised no cheers. Surely cheers would have been out of place in the circumstances. The people clapped their hands, the more fitting way of expressing their feelings.

The scene was appalling in its frightful confusion. [. . .] A row of about twelve fairly good-class houses were reduced to hideous piles of wreckage. Brick walls were crumbled. Doors were wrenched from their hinges. Window-frames were torn from their settings. The wallpaper of upper bedrooms was flapping in the wind. Fireplaces were suspended as if in mid-air. The iron railings of the little front gardens were thrown down and smashed. Paving-stones were torn up. Furniture was shattered to bits, or tossed about the road in a tangled litter. Even the houses which escaped demolition had scarcely a window left intact. Here was to be seen the abomination of desolation! Six people were killed in the house that received directly the full destructive force of the bomb.

Monster petition two miles long
24 August 1918
A monster petition to the Government forthwith to intern every enemy alien without distinction of any kind, and take drastic steps to eradicate all German influence in Government circles and society, was adopted at a meeting in Hyde Park this afternoon, which I reported, and was brought to 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister’s house. The petition had 1,250,000 signatures. It was over two miles in length. Rolled up like a big drum it was carried from Hyde Park to Downing Street in a lorry decorated with the Union Jack, the Stars and Stripes, the French Tricolour and the flags of other allied nations. It was escorted by a procession with bands and banners almost as long as itself and of so diversified a composition as to be possible only in London in War-time.

London’s ingrained respect for order 
31 August 1918
The London police, Metropolitain and City, are on strike. About 14,000 constables “came out” last night! Not a single policeman is on beat duty, and only a few on point duty controlling traffic! This is the amazing news of the day. The incredible, the inconceivable, the fantastic, certainly the unparalleled, has happened. Yet London, on the whole, is taking it quietly, so thin has our sense of surprise and astonishment been worn by the shocks of four years of war. [. . .] The men have gone on strike for three things - higher pay to meet the increased cost of living; official recognition of their Union; reinstatement of a constable who has been dismissed for this activity as an organiser of the Union. [. . .]

Drivers were free to go as they pleased, [. . .] There was an occasional tangle of omnibuses, taxicabs, motor-cars, carts and drays, but it quickly unwound itself, so desirous did every driver appear to be to give way to his fellows rather than to push ahead himself.

The centre of interest was Downing Street, where, at No 10, Lloyd George, the Prime Minister, was closeted with the leaders of the strike, endeavouring to reach a settlement. Many thousands of constables, all in civilian clothes, were assembled in Parliament Street and Whitehall awaiting the result. They had marched four abreast form the different police divisions. The traffic held itself up to let them pass. [. . .] In the long wait for the result of the conference, the temper of the crowd, strikers and spectators alike, was rising in antagonism. Not even the singing of popular songs by a striker with a fine voice, who was perched on the garden wall of 10 Downing Street, and the selection of airs played by two pipers of the Police Union were altogether successful in soothing this bad temper. [. . .]

The strike lasted just twenty-fours hours [Lloyd George agreed an increase in pay, and the reinstatement of the constable]. A queer business altogether. But it should have a lasting place in the social annals of the country for one reason, if no other - the proof it afforded of London’s ingrained respect for order and decorum. An outbreak of lawlessness had been feared. Not even a single shop was pillaged.

Feed the guns with War Bonds 
16 October 1918
I ventured out to-day for the first time since my accident [six weeks earlier he had been run over by an omnibus and suffered serious injuries] to see the transformation of Trafalgar Square into a shell-shattered French village. The exhibition is intended to advertise what is called the Feed the Guns Campaign - “Feed the guns with War Bonds and War Saving Certificates and help to end the War.” That is its slogan.

The scene depicted in the Square meets the eye, it is said, everywhere at the Front. In the dry basin of the ornamental fountain to the east is a ruined farmhouse riddled with shell-holes, and its garden turned into a horrid mess. The Gordon statue in the centre of the Square is hidden in the ruined tower of the village church. Close by are the trunks of old trees, hollowed by age, which are being used as “look-outs” or posts for watching the enemy. Standing in the basin of the west fountain is a windmill with sails. The village is surrounded by trenches constructed of sandbags. The whole thing is very well done and is attracting tens of thousands of visitors who are liberally emptying their purses for the good cause. Guns are ranged along the north side of the Square below the National Gallery. Every War Bond purchased is stamped with a device fitted within each gun for the purpose. Hence “Feed the Guns.” This is the ninth and last day of the exhibition. The amount obtained is £31,461,969. But Nelson is uninterested.

Hark to those silvery bugle-blasts
11 November 1918
This morning at eleven o’clock I was startled by the booming of maroons, fired from police and fire-brigade stations, the loud reports of those near at hand being faintly re-echoed by others far off. [. . .] I rushed out and inquired what was the matter. “The Armistice!” they exclaimed. “The War is over!” [. . .]

Hardly anybody can have been the same after as they had been before the maroons heralded, not blasts from Hell, as hitherto, but airs from Heaven. London, in fact, lost all control of itself. I hastened to Westminster, feeling assured that the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace would this day, more than ever, be the centres of interesting happenings. The tramcar was packed, all the passengers obviously deeply moved, whether they were chattering and laughing or self-absorbed and silent. The children were let loose from all the schools. As we were passing an elementary school in Kennington Road near “The Horns” the boys and girls came rushing out, yelling and jumping like mad. There were also many signs that business was being suspended. Shops were being closed and shuttered as on Sundays. Who, indeed, could settle down to work on such a day.

Hark to those loud and silvery bugle-blasts! Boy scouts on bicycles dashed past us sounding the “All Clear,” as they had so often done after an air raid. We all laughed heartily. [. . .] At Westminster Bridge Underground Station I saw an evening newspaper bill. It was the first I had seen for years, their use having been prohibited owing to the shortage of paper; and therefore it was a heartening sign of London’s return to normal life. And what news it proclaimed! “Fighting has ceased on all Fronts!” Hurrah! [. . .]

I had heard Big Ben proclaim War; I was now to hear him welcoming Peace [after four years of silence]. [. . .] When the hands of the dial pointed to XII Big Ben struck the hour, booming it in his deep and solemn tones, so old and so familiar. It was a most dramatic moment. The crowd that had assembled in Parliament Square stood silent and still until the last stroke of the clock, when they burst into shouts and exultation.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Sunset of rosy juices

Gerard Manley Hopkins, a Jesuit priest remembered largely for his innovative approach to writing poetry, was born 170 years ago today. He sometimes kept note-books, which, later in his life, became more like diaries. His diary entries are often dull (a few of them simply contain the one word, ‘Dull’!), though his daily obsession with describing the sky and the weather does lead him to wax rather lyrical. One sunset he describes, for example, as ‘of rosy juices and creams and combs.’

Hopkins, the oldest of nine children, was born on 28 July 1844, at Stratford near London into a high Anglican family. He was educated at Balliol College, Oxford, during the time of the Oxford Movement, and chose to enter the Roman Catholic church in 1866. Two years later, he became a Jesuit priest, and, famously, destroyed all the poems he had written up to that point. He spent the next years training at various Jesuit houses. It was not until 1875 that he began writing poetry again, inspired by a German ship - with nuns aboard - that sank in a storm. The Wreck of the Deutschland would become one of his most famous poems.

After being ordained in 1877, Hopkins worked with the poor in Liverpool, Manchester and Glasgow, then studied some more in London, before teaching classics at Stonyhurst College, Lancashire. In 1884, he was elected fellow of the Royal University of Ireland, and lectured in Greek and Latin at University College, Dublin. He died, aged only 44, from typhoid fever in 1889, by which time he had not published any of his poems. It was only in 1918, that a first volume of Hopkins’s poems appeared, thanks to a friend, another poet, Robert Bridges. ‘His experimental explorations,’ Wikipedia summarises, ‘in prosody (especially sprung rhythm) and his use of imagery established him as a daring innovator in a period of largely traditional verse.’ Further information is also available from The Poetry Foundation, The Victorian Web, a New York Times book review, or The London Review of Books.

Hopkins’s papers were first edited by Humphrey House in 1937, and published by Oxford University Press in one volume - The Notebooks and Papers of Gerard Manley Hopkins. It contained a journal and selections from diaries and other writings. In 1947, three more journal note-books came to light; and, in 1952, after the death of Hopkins’s last surviving brother, further papers were found, all of which led Oxford University Press to consider a new and more comprehensive edition. Humphrey House was called on to put the new edition together, but then he died, and so the task of completing the book  - The Journals and Papers of Gerard Manley Hopkins - was given to Graham Storey. It was published in 1959, and contains one chapter of about 70 pages called ‘Early Diaries (1862-6)’, and another of about 130 pages called ‘Journal (1866-75)’. Other chapters contain Hopkins’s essays and lecture notes, as well as his drawings and music.

In the early note-books, Hopkins sketches out poems, shows a playful interest in words, and often describes the clouds and sky. Most of the entries are just notes, and few of them are dated. In the later years, his journal does become more diary-like, but his interest in the sky continues unabated with many a poetical turn of phrase about the weather.

2 August 1867
‘Dull and cold; before sunset the west opened in yellow from the earth-line upwards, with a sharp edge to the blanket of clouds; then bright sunlight scattered on the trees.’

17 August 1867
‘West wind, which I heard someone describe as ‘lumpy and rolling heavy’, with a little rain on it; otherwise fine; near sunset drifts of small graceful white-rose and scaly clouds.’

17 August 1868
‘Dark, soft, and wet.’

7 January 1868
‘Fine and freezing; snow at night.’

23 January 1868
‘Dull.’

23 December 1869
‘Yesterday morning I was dreaming I was with George Simcox and was considering how to get away in time to ring the bells here which as porter I had to ring (I was made porter on the 12th of the month, I think, and had the office for a little more than two months). I knew that I was dreaming and made this odd dilemma in my dream; either I am not really with Simcox and then it does not matter what I do, or if I am, waking will carry me off without my needing to do anything - and with this I was satisfied.’

24 September 1874
‘Very bright and clear. I was with Mr. Rickaby on the hill above the house. All the landscape had a beautiful liquid cast of blue. Many-coloured smokes in the valley, grey from the Denbigh lime-kiln, yellow and lurid from two kilns perhaps on the shoulders of a hill, blue from a bonfire, and so on.

Afterwards a lovely sunset of rosy juices and creams and combs; the combs I mean scattered floating bats or rafts or racks above, the creams, the strew and bed of the sunset, passing north and south or rather north only into grey marestail and brush along the horizon to the hills. Afterwards the rosy field of the sundown turned gold and the slips and creamings in it stood out like brands, with jots of purple. A sodden twilight over the valley and foreground all below, holding the corner-hung maroon-grey diamonds of ploughfields to one keeping but allowing a certain glare in the green of the near tufts of grass.’

The Diary Junction

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Whores and rogues

‘I think I have taken my farewell of New York [. . .] I wish to be at home and yet dread the thought of returning to my native Country a Beggar. The word sounds disagreeable in my ears, but yet it is more pleasing and creditable than the epithet of Rascal and Villain, even if a large and opulent fortune was annexed to them, though one of the latter sort is in general better received, than an indigent honest man.’ This is an entry from near the end of the diary of Nicholas Cresswell, a Deryshire farmer’s son, who died 210 years ago today. As a young man, he ran off to America to seek his fortune, but after many adventures and difficulties, not least being English when the colony was fighting for independence, he returned home with his tail between his legs. He is surely only remembered today because he kept a colourful diary of his three years in America, which, more than a century later, was found by a relative and then published.

Cresswell was born in 1750, the son of a sheep farmer in Edale, Derbyshire. It is likely that he was first educated at a school established by his father, and then at Wakefield grammar school. He worked with his father, until, in 1774, he sailed on the Molly for America, to seek a better life. He kept a diary during his three year adventure - the only real source of information about Cresswell - which tells of trade with native Americans, being caught up in the War of Independence (and often vilified for his patriotism towards Britain), various travels and exploits, and his many efforts to find work.

According to the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography entry (log in required), Cresswell felt ‘increasingly desperate and under constant suspicion for his outspoken views against the patriot cause’ and so resolved to escape. ‘His acute sense of personal failure is the dominant theme of this part of his narrative. He repeatedly referred to his idleness and ill health in northern Virginia, his loneliness, heavy drinking, and mounting debts. His various schemes for quitting the province - via Bermuda, through ‘Indian Country’ to Canada where he contemplated joining the British forces, and overland to New York - all proved abortive. ‘I am now in an enemy’s country’, he lamented in October 1776, ‘forbidden to depart’.’

In early May 1777, Cresswell finally secured a passage to British-occupied New York. On arriving back in England, Cresswell tried, but failed, to gain a commission from John Murray, fourth earl of Dunmore, Virginia’s ousted royal governor. He returned to Edale, where he took up farming again, and married Mary Mellor in Wirksworth. They had six children. He died on 26 July 1804.

The Journal of Nicholas Cresswell, 1774–1777, was first published in 1924 by Jonathan Cape in London and The Dial Press in New York. In a foreword, Samuel Thornely, explained the diary’s provenance: ‘The Diary came into my possession on the death of my father, Frederick Thornely of Helsby, Cheshire. Joseph Cresswell was the youngest brother of Nicholas Cresswell and his daughter Ann married my grandfather, Samuel Thornely of Liverpool. My father, Frederick Thornely, eventually came into part of the Edale property and also Southsitch, Idridgehay, which had formerly belonged to Nicholas Cresswell. My father also came into the Nicholas Cresswell diary and on my father’s death in 1918 it came to me.’

The journal manuscript is now held by the John D. Rockefeller, Jr. Library of the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. The full text is available through the American Memory website, while much of the book can also be previewed at Googlebooks. A commentary and extracts can be found in The Ohio Frontier: An Anthology of Early Writings, edited by Emily Foster, also available through Googlebooks. However, it is also worth noting that a new edition was published by Lexington Books in 2009 - A Man Apart: The Journal of Nicholas Cresswell, 1774 - 1781 - edited by Harold Gill and George M Curtis III. This edition contains Cresswell’s diary in an unabridged form, and reveals that Thornely had edited the text for the original publication without mentioning the fact. See an analysis of the unabridged text by Matthew C. Exline on the Liberty University website. The following extracts are from Thornely’s edition.

8 April 1774
‘Orders to be on Board to-morrow morning by Seven o’clock. Bought a Sea Bed; paid Captn. Parry my passage. Got my chest and things on Board. Understand we are to have three other passengers, but do not know who they are. Spent the afternoon on Mount Pleasant with Mr. Oaks of Sheffield. Wrote to Gustavus Bradford. Got everything ready for going so soon as the wind serves.’

9 April 1774
‘This morning got up very early and wrote to my Father. Got on Board about Nine o’clock. Set sail with a fair wind and tide in our favour; in the afternoon calm and pleasant; came to an Anchor off Ormshead. We are Four passengers, but don’t as yet know the others. All of us very merry at supper, tho’ I believe most of us Young Sailors are rather squeamish. At Eight in the evening, a Breeze sprung up; hove up the Anchor; about Ten saw the Skerry Lighthouse.’

10 April 1774
‘Last night in attempting to get into my Hammock the hook at the foot gave way and I had like to have broke my bones with the fall, to the no small diversion of my fellow passengers. The Hammock is a hard piece of canvas suspended up to the roof of the Cabin at each end with cords.’

16 September 1774
‘This Island is one of the most windward and eastward of the West India Islands [. . .] about 20 Miles long and 12 broad, contains about 20,000 White Inhabitants and 90,000 Blacks. Exports about 20,000 Hhds of Sugar and 6000 Hhds. of Rum annually. They are supplied with the greatest part of their provisions from the Colonies and all their slaves and lumber come from there, with Horses and Livestock of all kinds. In exchange for which they give Rum, Sugar and Cotton, but very little of the last article. It is a high rocky Island and reckoned the most healthy Island in the West Indies. I suppose there is one eighth part of the land too rocky for cultivation. The roads are very bad. It is nothing uncommon to see twelve yoke of oxen to draw one Hhd. of Sugar, but their cattle are very small. Their chief produce is Sugar, Indigo, Pimento and Cotton. The Pimento grows on large Trees like small berries, the Cotton on small bushes which they plant annually. The Indigo is planted in the same manner. [. . .]

This is the chief Town in the Island and was pretty large, but a great part of it burned down in the Year 1766 and is not yet rebuilt. Here is a Good Church dedicated to St. Michael, with an Organ. The Church yard is planted round with Coco Trees which makes a pretty appearance. The houses are built of stone, but no fireplaces in them only in the Kitchen. The heat of the climate renders that unnecessary, only for cooking. Indeed it would be insupportable was it not for the Sea breeze which blows all day, and from the Land at Night. All the S.E. Part of the Island is fortified with Batteries, the windward part of the Island is fortified by nature. No Garrison or Soldiers here, only the militia which are well disciplined to keep the Negroes in awe. The Planters are in general rich, but a set of dissipating, abandoned, and cruel people. Few even of the married ones, but keep a Mulatto or Black Girl in the house or at lodgings for certain purposes. The women are not killing beauties or very engaging in their conversation, but some of them have large fortunes, which covers a multitude of imperfections. The British nation famed for humanity suffers it to be tarnished by their Creolian Subjects - the Cruelty exercised upon the Negroes is at once shocking to humanity and a disgrace to human nature. For the most trifling faults, sometimes for mere whims of their Masters, these poor wretches are tied up and whipped most unmercifully. I have seen them tied up and flogged with a twisted piece of Cowskin till there was very little signs of Life, then get a dozen with an Ebony sprout which is like a Briar. This lacerates the skin and flesh, and lets out the bruised blood, or it would mortify and kill them. Some of them die under the severity of these barbarities, others whose spirits are too great to submit to the insults and abuses they receive put an end to their own lives. If a person kills a slave he only pays his value as a fine. It is not a hanging matter. Certainly these poor beings meet with some better place on the other side the Grave, for they have a hell on earth. It appears that they are sensible of this, if one may judge from their behaviour at their funerals. Instead of weeping and wailing, they dance and sing and appear to be the happiest mortals on earth.’

19 June 1775
‘Got under way early this morning. As we sat at dinner, saw two Buffalo Bulls crossing the River. When they were about half way over four of us got into a Canoe and attacked them in the River, the rest went along shore to shoot them, as soon as they came ashore. The River was wide and we had fine diversion fighting them in the water. The man in the head of the canoe seized one of them by the tail and he towed us about the River for half an hour. We shot him eight times, let him get ashore and he ran away. Our comrades ashore very angry with us and they have a great right to be so. Passed the mouth of the Little Miamme. In great fear of the Indians. Saw a Black Wolf pursuing a Faun into the River, the Faun we caught, but the Wolf got away. My company quarrels amongst themselves, but behave well to me. Camped late in the evening.’

18 July 1775.
‘At Mr. V. Crawford’s, Jacob Creek. These rascals have wore out all the clothes I left here, so that I am now reduced to three ragged shirts, two pair linen breeches in the same condition, a hunting shirt and jacket, with one pair of stockings.’

27 July 1775
‘Went shooting and knocked down a Young Turkey. Nothing but whores and rogues in this country.’

1 August 1776
‘Refining Nitre. I have made several experiments but have hit on one that answers well, by putting the crude Nitre into a pot and fluxing it till it has the appearance of milk, then let it cool and put to every pound of Nitre three pints of water, boil it a little and sit to shoot. It made a beautiful appearance like Icicles, white as Snow and transparent as glass. From 7½ pounds of crude Nitre I have got 4½ pound pure.

News that Lord Dunmore was driven from Gwinn’s Island and the Fleet had left the Bay. I am now at a loss again. Determined to go to New York and endeavour to get to the Army.’

23 January 1777
‘Curiosity and company induced me to spend the evening at a place of no great credit. The various scenes I saw may be of great service to me sometime or other.’

12 July 1777
‘I think I have taken my farewell of New York, tho’ I promised to pay one visit more, but never intend to perform. Cannot bear the abominable hypocrite. I wish to be at Sea but hear nothing of our sailing this week. I wish to be at home and yet dread the thought of returning to my native Country a Beggar. The word sounds disagreeable in my ears, but yet it is more pleasing and creditable than the epithet of Rascal and Villain, even if a large and opulent fortune was annexed to them, though one of the latter sort is in general better received, than an indigent honest man. I am poor as Job, but not quite so patient. Will hope for better days. If I am at present plagued with poverty, my conscience does not accuse me of any extravagance or neglect of sufficient magnitude to bring me into such indigent circumstances. However, I have credit, Health, Friends and good Spirits, which is some consolation in the midst of all my distresses. Better days may come.’

13 October 1777 [last entry in the published diary]
‘There is such a sameness in my life at present it is not worth while to keep a Journal.

I am afraid it is likely to continue longer than I could wish it, as no proposals have been yet made to me concerning my future way of life. I imagine my Father expects I shall stay at home in my present dependent situation. I cannot bear it. Though at present his behaviour is very kind and in some respects indulgent, but that moroseness he observes to some of the family is very disagreeable to me. I expect something of the same sort as soon as the first gust of paternal affection subsides, but I am determined to stay with seeming patience till April next, and behave in such a manner as not to give any just offence. I call this waiting the Chapter of Accidents, something fortunate may happen. (Mem. Never to have anything to do with my Relations, I know their dispositions only too well. Some of them begin to hint at my poverty already. I must be patient and if possible, Silent.)’

The Diary Junction

Monday, July 21, 2014

London in Diaries

Last year, encouraged by a literary agent, I compiled a book called London in Diaries. Unfortunately, the agent moved on, and my subsequent efforts to find a publisher for the book came to no avail. Rather than let the work lie dormant, I am going to include, here in The Diary Review, the full text of the introduction, and, over the next few weeks, several of the chapters as well. Anyone interested in publishing London in Diaries please do get in touch!

London in Diaries: Introduction
London! One of the greatest capital cities in the world, one of the most important, one of the most visited, and one of the most cosmopolitan and dynamic. It is also a place of major historical sights, from the Tower of London to Hampton Court along the ever-restless Thames, and from St Paul’s Cathedral in the ancient City of London to the Abbey in the ancient City of Westminster. World-class entertainment is everywhere, not least in the West End and South Bank theatres; while glorious open spaces abound, whether in Regent’s Park, Kew Gardens or Hampstead Heath. Today London is as famous for the buzz of its night life, as it is for its high class shopping in Kensington, by way of Oxford Street, and Covent Garden, or for the financial power in its Square Mile. 

Of all the literary resources available to understand and, perhaps peer into, this astonishing city, its past and the lives of its people, none are as fresh or vital as diaries. Unique among historical and cultural records, they give a more immediate - in the moment - description of the city and commentary on its happenings than an autobiography or memoir. 

Diaries cannot, of course, be compared with histories which provide facts and figures in a coherent and comprehensive way, but they can highlight aspects of past times and ways, sometimes even shining a spotlight on lost charms or customs - Vauxhall Gardens, for example, or the spectacle of executions. This is especially true of the earliest diary extracts in this collection, for which some historical context is useful. The diarists - each chapter is focused on one - are arranged in a roughly chronological order, beginning with Edward VI in the mid 16th century.

It is a salient fact that those who live or have lived in the city, and thus could be expected to know it best, tend to be blind to its treasures when putting pen to their diary papers. Many of the 20th century writers considered to be great diarists have almost nothing to say about London - what seems to mark them out as good diarists is the political or social content, rather than any personal observations or descriptions about the place in which they live and work. 

Thus, throughout the five hundred years in which men and women have written diaries in London, those with the most detail of its famous and interesting sights are those written by visitors. So it is no surprise that their diaries make up a fair proportion of this book. Some of these are from elsewhere in Britain, but most are foreigners - early Continental travellers (such as Frederick of Mömpelgard and Lodewijck Huygens), diplomats (like the Persian Abul Hassan), and, more recently, North Americans (Herman Melville and Elizabeth Smart) - who are interested in, and often fascinated by, what they see and experience around them.

That said, it does fall to those living in London (such as the funeral provisioner Henry Machyn, Samuel Pepys, the painter Benjamin Haydon, or the teenager Ellen Buxton) to reveal much of interest about their city, and life therein, almost often in passing, by reporting daily routines, or noticing a special event or some change in the environment or society around them. The 20th century’s two world wars are an exception in that circumstances were so extraordinary that Londoners themselves (like the two journalists Malcolm Macdonagh and Charles Graves) did write far more expansively in diaries about the city itself and what was happening to it.

Another difference between diaries and other textual resources is that, though literary types are more likely to have kept diaries, literary talent has never been a fixed prerequisite for diary writing, nor either for preservation of diaries. The extracts herein not only evoke a kaleidoscopic view of the city across time and space, but do so from many different viewpoints - with contributions from royalty and commoners, rich and poor, merchants and artists, young and old. Indeed, though London is the focus, the raison d’être of this book, it is also about the people who have found themselves in the city, for one reason or another, and have bothered, again for whatever reason, to write about it, there and then. For this reason, each chapter opens with a short and pertinent biography for each diarist, helping to provide some context for the selection of extracts that follows. (Full details of their sources, as well as other published and online references, can be found at the back of the book.)

Historical background
London is around 2,000 years old, having originally been peopled by the Romans who called it Londinium, for no reason we can be sure of today. It became the capital of their British territory with a population rising to over 50,000, but was abandoned when they left. The Anglo-Saxons tentatively began settling in the area, adapting its name variously, to Lundenwic or Lundenburgh at different times. They built the first St Paul’s Cathedral, and, under repeated attack from Vikings, repaired the Roman walls for defence.

The Normans famously brought with them fortress know-how. On arriving in London, William the Conquerer immediately set about building a stronghold of wood. It was soon replaced by a much stronger structure, the White Tower or Tower of London. For centuries it protected the city, and for more centuries it became a foreboding symbol of power and punishment, though, surprisingly, it also housed exotic animals. Today, it’s for tourists who come to see the Beefeaters and the Crown Jewels.

Two miles west as the crow flies, or nearer three along the river, lies Westminster Abbey. Although the Anglo-Saxons had a place of worship on the site, as well as a palace close by, both were much rebuilt by the Normans. William the Conqueror was, according to documentation, the first King to be crowned in the Abbey, since when there have been 37 more coronations. For the next few hundred years, London and Westminster co-existed, uneasily at times, the former more of a centre of commerce with its evolving trade guilds and livery companies, and the latter the nation’s royal, religious and political centre. Although connected by a road called The Strand, traffic between the two cities was common via the Thames. William Caxton, it is worth a note in passing, set up his first printing press in Westminster, in 1476, before moving to London.

Henry VIII looms large in English history, and the impact of his break with Rome and Catholicism had a profound effect on London. Until the break, London life was dominated by religion, its churches, monasteries and religious houses. After the dissolution, though, in the 1530s, when much property changed hands, trade started to boom, not least through the business of new companies established by Royal Charters, like those wishing to trade with the Levant, and Muscovy.

The earliest diaries 
It is from this period - the 16th century - that we have today the first surviving diaries written in England. Japanese culture, though, produced the oldest texts generally classified as diaries, from the 9th century; and European - Italian mostly - diaries emerge in the 15th century. Perhaps the oldest English diary is that by Sir Richard Torkington, published in the 1880s as Ye Oldest Diarie of Englysshe Travell: being the narrative of the pilgrimage by Torkington to Jerusalem in 1517. The earliest bona fide diary that tells us anything about London was written a few decades later, and, astonishingly, it was kept by a teenager, none other than Henry VIII’s successor as King, Edward VI - sometimes dubbed the Boy King.

Having been crowned at the age of nine, Edward VI’s reign lasted only six years before he died, probably of TB. Historians believe the period of regency rule, led initially by Edward’s uncle, Edward Seymour, saw important developments in the English Reformation, though subsequently under Edward’s successor, the Catholic Mary, Protestant changes were stalled. Edward’s diary entries - written at the suggestion of a tutor - are usually succinct and often newsy. He writes about the coming of ‘the sweat’ into London, of visiting ambassadors being taken to watch the baiting of bears and bulls, and about the trial of his uncle. He also records a large protest against the ‘unreasonable prices of thinges’ in London, and that, unless the craftsmen mend their ways, he will ‘call in their liberties’ and appoint officers to look into the situation.

While Edward VI was still on the throne, a far humbler man - an undertaker and supplier of funeral trappings - was also starting to keep a diary, one that would, in time, ensure he was remembered (where otherwise he might not have been), and would, in fact, mark him out as one of the great early British diarists. Henry Machyn began his diary in 1550, describing - very colourfully - the rich funerals and processions of his business. Of Edward VI’s funeral he wrote: ‘And at his burying was the greatest moan made for him of his death as ever was heard or seen.’

But Machyn lived in turbulent and changing times, and before long, he found himself writing also about extraordinary public events - royal pageants, trials, and hangings (such as Seymour’s). He is the earliest writer to leave a description of the Lord Mayor’s show; and he also details several coronations and subsequent celebrations: ‘all the churches in London did ring, and at night did make bonfires and set tables in the street and did eat and drink and made merry for the new Queen Elizabeth.’

The first of the foreign diaries in this collection is by a young man, Frederick, soon to become the Duke of Württemberg, who visited London in 1592. His passion to become a Garter Knight is intriguing, as is the knowledge that he is an ancestor of the current Mayor of London, Boris Johnson. Also, Shakespeare satirised him specifically and Germans in general in his play The Merry Wives of Windsor. Frederick’s diary has much to say about London - ‘a very populous city, so that one can scarcely pass along the streets, on account of the throng’ - and its women, who wear velvet even though they’ve no bread at home. And it is thanks to him - rather than Edward VI for example - that we have a first hand, at-the-time, description of the baiting of bulls and bears.

Revolution and restoration
More than half a century later, the Elizabethan period is long over, as are Guy Fawkes’ plot, the sailing of the Pilgrim Fathers for America, and the reign of James I. Charles I’s reign has brought religious strife and civil war, leading to his beheading and the defeat of his son in battle by Oliver Cromwell. It is 1652, when Lodewijck Huygens, a young Dutchman travels to London. Cromwell has not yet been named 1st Lord Protector of the Land, but the city is clearly a changed place. Huygens tells his diary about how he followed the route taken by Charles I from his home to his execution, and how St James’s Park was now full of Cromwell’s bucks and roes. While noting signs of decay in the city, he also mentions nearby villages, Clapham, Islington (famous for the good cakes) and Chelsea (a pleasant little village where the gentle class retire in summer).

Two diarists that today are considered among the best and most important that ever lived were both 17th century Londoners - Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn. They themselves were of very different characters, as shown in their diaries, but they were friends, and Evelyn was particularly attentive to Pepys when he fell out of favour for a short while and was imprisoned in the Tower.

‘A wonder what will be the fashion after the plague is done, as to periwiggs, for nobody will dare to buy any haire, for fear of the infection.’ This is Samuel Pepys who, as a young man, was appointed to the Navy Board, and soon showed precocious talent, eventually rising to become Chief Secretary to the Admiralty. He met and conversed with Charles II on the vessel that brought him back from exile in May 1660. Earlier that same year, Pepys had begun to write a diary. For ten years, he wrote with great detail, intelligence and flair about his life, and in doing so could not help but paint a portrait of the city in which he lived and in which he was such an important personage, and provide an extraordinary record of the Restoration period. His diary is also hugely important for its descriptions of how the plague and the Great Fire devastated London, and these entries make up the bulk of his contribution here. The diary, though, is full to bursting with his myriad daily movements, whether concerned with family, politicking, theatre or philandering, and with a wide interest in everything going on around him.

John Evelyn’s diary is a more sober, largely less personal, work. His entries are often brief and factual, though when his son Richard dies aged 5, he writes for several pages about the precocious boy’s achievements and concludes with ‘Here ends the joy of my life, and for which I go even mourning to the grave.’ But what Evelyn generally lacks in colour and depth, he makes up for with perseverance: his diary, starting in 1641, goes on for over 60 years, encompassing more than half a century of London’s history. He was involved in the planning and rebuilding of London after the Great Fire, and his diary shows an interest in development of new squares, houses and gardens: ‘Dined at my Lord Treasurer’s, the Earl of Southampton, in Bloomsbury, where he was building a noble square or piazza, a little town.’

Dudley Ryder, by contrast to Evelyn and Pepys, is far less well known. He was the son of a Hackney draper, but studied law, entered politics, and ended up Attorney General. His diary, 1715-1716, gives a lively account of London’s coffee houses and spas, as well as its executions. His florid description of a frozen Thames seems reminiscent of much more recent literature.

The 18th century - most of it under the rule of one King George or another, the so-called Georgian Period - was a time of unprecedented growth for London, with its population more or less doubling. In 1700, Hugh Clout’s History of London suggests, an observer in the dome gallery of St Paul’s could have seen London in its entirety, with fields, farms and hill-top villages (Hampstead and Highgate) in the distance. By the early 1800s the edges of London would have been far more difficult to discern, since the built-up area was twice as large, ribbons of development had sprung up along transport routes, and many a remaining field was marked out for building. Smog from coal burning was also starting to be a major problem affecting visibility, and, presumably, health. Despite a fast growing and affluent middle class, this London was still a fairly dark, primitive and unsanitary place, without main drains, water supply, lighting, or public transport, fire or police services. Crime and prostitution were rife. Given the ongoing high death rate, the city’s rapid expansion was driven largely by immigration from elsewhere in Britain.

Indeed, around the middle of the century, in 1762, one young Scottish man, as precocious as Pepys and as literate, arrived in the city. Shortly after settling down, he writes in his diary, ‘It is very curious to think that I have now been in London several weeks without ever enjoying the delightful sex, although I am surrounded with numbers of free-hearted ladies of all kinds.’ This is James Boswell who would go on to write one of the world’s most admired biographies, that of his friend Samuel Johnson. The biography came after Boswell had published an earlier book about Johnson, a diary of their travels together in the Hebrides, which was a commercial success. Intriguingly, all of Boswell’s diaries, with the exception of the Hebrides journal, remained lost, and were only discovered in the 1920s in a Dublin castle. Yale University published a first volume of these in 1950 - Boswell’s London Journal - and since then has brought out a dozen or so more.

What visitors saw
Until the 19th century, women writers (that we know of today) are a rarity - that said, The Book of Margery Kempe written in the early 15th century is considered to be the first autobiography in the English language. There are very few surviving diaries written by women prior to the 1800s. The earliest of these - by Margaret Hoby, Anne Clifford and Elizabeth Freke - are important, but have little to offer in the context of a book about London. Thus it falls to a German visitor, Sophie von La Roche, a novelist, to give the earliest female perspective on London in this collection. With a curious mind and an observant eye, she writes about everything she sees and experiences - not least, a pastry-cook’s shop, a Moorish funeral, the ‘hateful’ Tower, outdoor dancing at Sadler’s Wells, the inside of a master saddlers’ workshop, and the need to eat oysters because she is in London.

Abul Hassan came to London in 1809, and was the first Persian envoy to do so in 200 years. He was tall, dark and handsome, wore rich silken robes, and had a very large beard. During his eight months stay he became something of a society celebrity - even the royal family gave parties in his honour. His diary, though somewhat formal, is rich in detail about the city. It also has an intriguing naive quality in that much of what he saw was very different from his familiar Persian world, as in this extract written after he’d seen some rioting in the streets: ‘I was utterly amazed! If such a situation had lasted for several days in one of Iran’s cities, 2,000 or more people would have been executed by now.’

Early 19th century London certainly made a deep impression on another visitor, this time a young man from Sheffield who, at the end of his visit, waxed lyrical: ‘And now, London, I must bid thee “Farewell.” Thou art the centre of Good and Evil, of Virtue and Vice! How many and how various are the characters which inhabit thy walls! How magnificent thy palaces! How mean thy cottages! How miserable some, how happy others!’ Thomas Asline Ward might have been completely forgotten today, but for the fact that his diary was published in a local paper in instalments, and then in book form. His visit to London only takes up a small part of the published diary, but his youthful descriptions, especially of the once-famous Vauxhall Gardens, are alight with city excitement.

Anne Chalmers was a little younger than Ward on her visit to London, three decades later, but her enthusiasm for the city has a more serious edge. She visits ‘the ventilator’, in the House of Commons, where ladies can hear the speakers, and attends an anti-slavery rally. Her diary, like Ward’s, reminds us of places now long forgotten, such as the Colosseum, near Regent’s Park, built to house the world’s largest painting, and also, incidentally, gives advice to those asking for beer in London.

Benjamin Haydon, like Boswell before him, was a man who needed female company, and saw London as a city of opportunities: ‘I felt this morning an almost irresistible inclination to go down to Greenwich and have [a] delicious tumble with the Girls over the hills.’ He was a painter with a significant talent, but his allegiance to 18th century trends, especially historical subjects, meant he was swimming against the Romantic tide, one which would make household names of William Blake and J. M. W. Turner. Chronic financial difficulties compounded his artistic frustrations, and he rarely managed to live within his means, especially after he had married and had children. His story is a sad one, but his characterful diary - initially published in five volumes - is superb because it not only tells us much about the man, but also gives picturesque insights into city life, whether the art and literary scene, or the trials of a day out with his family.

Riches and poverty
Whereas London had already seen rapid expansion for centuries, the 1800s saw explosive growth, with the city’s population increasing from, very approximately, one million at the start of the century to more than six times that at the end. By the 1830s, it was considered to be the largest city in the world in terms of population (a ranking it retained until the 1920s), and was the centre of a global empire, the world’s foremost trading and financial powerhouse. The wealth financed all kinds of changes, the building of suburbs, the construction of railways, sewers, water systems, schools. But it was also a magnet for immigration not only from other parts of Britain, but from the Empire; and this immigration only served to enhance the rich-poor divide, and the presence of slums - as so well depicted in the novels of Charles Dickens.

Any hint of London slums or the poverty therein is not to be found in Queen Victoria’s diaries. She ascended the throne aged only 18, and remained sovereign for over 60 years. For much of this time, she kept a diary, contained in over 100 manuscript volumes, extracts of which have been published. In reference to London, her diary is at its best when she writes about big occasions - her coronation, the Great Exhibition and jubilee celebrations. Although formal in style, it is splendid to have such a person, such a celebrity at the centre of the nation’s attention, telling us what her day has been like.

Herman Melville visited London in 1849 to try and find a publisher for his new book White-Jacket, about the American naval service and, in particular, the ills of flogging. Although his most famous novel, Moby Dick, would follow in 1852, he was already a well-known author. Melville spent a lot of time in and around The Strand, where he loved exploring the second-hand bookshops. Not one to mince his words he wrote in his diary that the Lord Mayor’s Show was a ‘most bloated pomp’, and described a coffee he bought in a Temple bar as ‘villainous’. He was, though, excited by the public execution of the husband and wife murderers, the Mannings, an event that Dickens also attended.

A simpler, more charming view of Victorian London comes from the teenager, Ellen Buxton, brought up in Leytonstone, by Wanstead Flats, just south of Epping Forest. Her father worked at the family brewery in Spitalfields; but both her grandfathers were important Quaker characters, one a noted anti-slavery campaigner, and the other brother to the prison reformer, Elizabeth Fry. Ellen’s teenage diary is unaffected, and illustrated throughout with delightful sketches of people and places. Though short on emotion, the writing comes alive when she’s outdoors, watching Prince Albert lay a foundation stone, fishing with her father in Carshalton, or visiting an institution such as the Mint or the ‘Christal Palace’ rose exhibition.

The beautiful Thames
The feature of London most often mentioned in these diaries - in all but a handful - is the Thames. Throughout the city’s history, of course, it was far more important, far more busy than it is today. Apart from Ryder’s florid description of the frozen river, another diarist describes a frost market, the kind that regularly appeared when the water froze. Others mention a watermill that supplied water, a pub landlady drowning herself, the burning of a bankside warehouse, and the mighty disturbance of the water after the falling of bombs.

Of all the writers in this collection, though, it is Thomas Cobden-Sanderson whose diary shows the most romantic relationship with the river. ‘How superbly beautiful the river is at this moment! There is a high wind blowing the surface into innumerable ripples, each of which catches instantly and reflects a dazzling gleam from the sun.’ A book-binder, printer, and close associate of William Morris, he operated his business close by the Thames in Hammersmith. Towards the end of his life, he was so troubled by the idea that, after his death, his partner would misuse a special typeface they had together employed for years - Doves Type - that he secretly went night after night to a river bridge to drop and drown every last block of the type. He confesses all to his exquisitely written diary.

Cobden-Sanderson was very much a socialist, in keeping with the ideology of Morris’s Arts and Crafts Movement. Indeed, his wife was imprisoned as a suffragette at one time. Yet his diary, perhaps, reveals him as more of a spiritual than a political man. Not so another socialist, the Northern writer Arnold Bennett. Both Cobden-Sanderson and Bennett take us into the 20th century, but Bennett’s diary is far punchier, richer in detail about what’s happening in the streets of London. ‘Never since I first came to London,’ he writes in 1897, ‘has the West End been so crowded with sightseers, so congested by the business of pleasure.’ Though his novels, full of gritty realism, had gone out of fashion by the 1920s his literary journalism was much sought after, and his diaries by that time were full of famous London names.

The 20th century and wars
‘I want to see the Docks and Dockland, to enter East End public-houses and opium-dens, to speak to Chinamen and Lascars: I want a first-rate, first-hand knowledge of London, of London men, London women. I was tingling with anticipation yesterday and then I grew tired and fretful and morose, crawled back like a weevil into my nut.’ This is Bruce Frederick Cummings, better known as Barbellion and only remembered today because of his unique diary - published as The Journal of a Disappointed Man. He worked in the British Museum’s department of Natural History, but died very young of multiple sclerosis. His diary displays an extraordinary mind, sharp yet often frustrated with himself or the world around him. It is also funny, as when he describes a morning at Petticoat Lane market.

The First World War affected the life of everyone in London, not least Cobden-Sanderson, Bennett and Barbellion, though often their diary references to it are in passing. Michael Macdonagh, by contrast, kept a diary that was almost entirely about the war and the affect it was having on London and its people. Macdonagh was a journalist with The Times, and thus writing publicly about London news, yet his diary is a far more personal testimony to, what he called, ‘the drama of the life of the greatest civil community of the world in its direct relation to the Great War’. Not only is Macdonagh present for important political events, in Parliament or at the Lord Mayor’s banquet for example, but he is out tramping the street every day reporting faithfully in his diary what he sees, hears and feels. At the war’s end, he is in Parliament Square: ‘I had heard Big Ben proclaim War’ and after four years of silence, ‘I was now to hear him welcoming Peace.’

The Canadian writer Elizabeth Smart is best remembered for her novel of poetic prose - considered a classic of the genre - By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. The book draws heavily on the passionate affair she had with the British poet George Barker. In 1943, by when she already had two children by Barker, she moved to live in London; there she had two more children fathered by him, but brought them all up alone, as a single mother. Two volumes of her diaries were published shortly after her death in the 1980s, and these reveal how her style deteriorated over the decades: from bright, cheerful, extravagant writing, full of external observations, to brief notes focused on her internal preoccupations. Thus, though, she was living in London, there is very little about the city in her later diaries. However, her early ones, when she was still travelling and passed through London, contain lovely, evocative passages about the city, such as one about Hyde Park which begins as follows: ‘I did the only right and inevitable thing to do when the sky is singingly blue and the sun is showing up the nakedness of London and everything is sunshining and smelling of new-forgotten damp earth and crocuses - I went out.’

All too soon after the terrible first war, came another, and with it Britain’s militarisation to defend against German aggression. The country - but especially its capital - suffered more years of bombing, rationing and general hardship. There are many published diaries specifically about the Second World War, and even today, more than 65 years later, newly found or edited war diaries are popular publishing ventures. Only a small proportion of WW2 diaries, though, have much to say about London itself. In addition, there are many unpublished diaries, not least those held by Mass Observation, and those archived by the BBC for its WW2 People’s War website.

Two Second World War diaries are included in this collection, one published, though not very well known, and one unpublished, from the Mass Observation archive. Charles Graves, like Michael Macdonagh, was a journalist, more of a columnist than a reporter, and he moved in higher social circles than Macdonagh, but he too decided to keep a personal diary, with publication in mind, of the war years. An early entry reads: ‘As I lay in bed it occurred to me that the Londoner’s ears are now accustomed to distinguish immediately sixteen different noises caused by the blitz;’ and then he lists them. Against official orders, which expressively prohibited Home Guard personnel from keeping diaries, he wrote often about his own Home Guard activities - ‘My mob were supposed to be German parachutists landing in Regent’s Park’. And, Graves didn’t let his work or volunteering stop him from flitting to The Ritz or a cricket match at Lords.

Responding to Mass Observation’s call for volunteers to provide diaries and other written material about the war, Marielle Bennett submitted a series of manuscripts covering various months of 1939, 1941 and 1942. These typed diaries reveal a more mundane life, perhaps, than that lived by Graves, but no less interesting for that. On reading her diary, one feels very close to Bennett, as though one is there with her making curtains out of black satin, hearing Chamberlain’s speech through a window on a neighbour’s wireless, noticing how little meat one gets with a 1/6 luncheon at Maison Lyons, having great trouble finding an air-raid suit she likes, and being frustrated that she no longer wants to go to the cinema because all the films are ‘only slightly covered propaganda’.

The 1960s and modern nature
Noel Coward, born in the last years of Queen Victoria’s reign in Teddington, was one of the greatest show business personalities of the 20th century. His playwriting and performing fame grew steadily in London during and after the First World War, and before long he was as popular in New York as in London. His published diaries only begin in the 1940s, and cover all the years to his death in 1973. Though his popularity in London waxed and waned, by the post-war years he was still putting on highly successful West End hits, and starring in films such as Around the World in 80 Days and Our Man in Havana. His diaries reveal a constantly hectic schedule with London home only for a few weeks or so once or twice a year. Nevertheless, a few extracts give a grand sense of the London theatre world, such as when he is describing a night at the Palladium, or hobnobbing with royalty.

It is the start of the 1960s, and Kate Paul is just out of her teens and excited about life and art and going to live in London. ‘In Chelsea,’ she writes, ‘it’s the vogue to wear dark glasses at the dead of night and to shave the head bald.’ She loves the city’s galleries, and spends a lot of time at the Troubadour cafe in Earls Court, a London institution for decades (though not of Palladium grandeur). But reality doesn’t take long to set in, and her self-published diary soon reveals dissatisfaction and depression, often caused by her work, flat-mates or boyfriends. She feeds her depression by reading Barbellion’s diary, and goes so far as to seek out some presence of him at the Natural History Museum.

‘Sunlit cool autumnal day. Writing this diary on my way to St Mary’s in a taxi that cruises down Oxford Street alongside a lovely lad on a bike. Today London is a joy.’ This is the extraordinary film-maker Derek Jarman who, having been diagnosed with HIV in the mid-1980s, moved to live on shingle flats near the coast in Kent, and also began keeping a diary of his daily life. A first volume - Modern Nature - was published while he was still alive, and is very readable, full of wistful recollections about his youth and 60s London. Though still drawn back to the city often enough, at this time, for work or pleasure (the above quote is the last extract in Modern Nature), he is disillusioned with the film world, and is finding more fulfilment in his garden and the natural world around him in Kent.

Finally, as a way of bookending this journey through London in Diaries, I am including extracts from my own diary, all chosen for giving at least a flavour of the London in which I was growing up and maturing as an adult. Although I no longer live in the city, it has been home for at least half my life; and I was born in the long-since closed New End Hospital, Hampstead. My diary-writing habit, of nearly 50 years, began with a five-year diary given me for Christmas in 1962. I was ten, and living in a flat on Fitzjohns Avenue (mentioned by Marielle Bennett in her diary). The following summer, my parents moved out of London, and I didn’t return as a resident until I’d finished university. Chance found me renting a room in Earl’s Court, drinking coffee in the Troubadour (like Kate Paul), and, after much travelling, returning to live in Kilburn, near enough Hampstead to explore and enjoy the Heath (though in very different ways from Derek Jarman). Also in my diaries are London markets, theatres, squats, carnivals, bingo halls, and stories of clowning antics. The last diary extract of all describes Millennium New Year’s Eve and Day when my 12 year old son, Adam, and I endeavoured to walk the streets of central London and shake hands with a thousand people - we called it ‘The Day of the Thousand Handshakes’.

Thus, this collage or kaleidoscope of London through time and space, is uniquely patterned and coloured by the internal voices of those living in, or just passing through, its fascinating history and culture.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Thanks to my Diego

Frida Kahlo, one of the most fascinating and colourful artists of the 20th century, died 60 years ago today. Physically afflicted from an early age, she suffered much in the years before her death, often illustrating her pain and distress in a notebook, with colourful artworks and poetical texts. There is also much in the book about her love for the famous Mexican muralist, Diego Rivera. However, even though there are very few dated entries, nor are there any facts about her day-to-day life, the notebook was very successful published - an exact copy, with notes and translations - as The Diary of Frida Kahlo.

Kahlo was born on the outskirts of Mexico City in 1907. Her father was a painter/photographer of German background whose family had originated in Romania. Aged six, Frida was struck down with polio, which permanently disfigured one leg. She studied at a National Preparatory School, which is where she first came in contact with the artist, Diego Rivera, who had been commissioned to paint a mural in the school’s auditorium.

In 1925, Frida Kahlo was involved in a serious bus accident, which left her further physically troubled for the rest of her life, but it was while recovering from this that she began to paint. A friend introduced her to Mexico City’s artistic set; and in 1929 she married Diego River, by then an internationally famous muralist. Their relationship was difficult, each one having numerous affairs, although they were always very supportive of each other as artists.

Diego and Kahlo, both active Communists, befriended Leon Trotsky after he fled to Mexico, having been sentenced to death by Joseph Stalin. Kahlo, famously, also had an affair with him. Kahlo and Diego were divorced in 1939, but a year later they remarried, their relationship continuing in the same troubled way. They both broke with Trotsky, who was assassinated in 1940, to become supporters of Stalin.

Kahlo spent the last years of her life suffering from various ailments, not least gangrene which led to her having a leg amputated at the knee. She died on 13 July 1954, aged only 47. The official cause of death was cited as a pulmonary embolism, though some have suspected she might have died of an accidental or deliberate drug overdose. Further information is readily available online from Wikipedia, Washington Monthly, or the Frida Kahlo official website.

Although the Louvre bought one of her canvases in 1939, for many years Kahlo was mostly remembered as Riviera’s wife. Only towards the end of the 1970s and in the early 1980s, with the flourishing of a new artistic style in Mexico known as Neomexicanismo, did her reputation develop internationally; and with it came much widespread public interest in her art and her life. Today, Kahlo is considered one of the 20th century’s most important female artists. She only produced about 200 canvases, largely still lifes and portraits of herself, family and friends, all of which can be viewed online.

From 1944 until her death, Khalo kept a journal of sorts, a notebook rich in illustrations and poetry, but with very few actual dated written entries. It was locked away for more than 40 years, but in 1995, Bloomsbury published The Diary of Frida Kahlo - An Intimate Self-Portrait which included an exact copy of all 170 pages, an introduction by the world famous author, Carlos Fuentes, transcriptions into English, and a commentary on the pages by art historian Sarah M. Lowe. At the time, the book was expensive, selling for £25, but second hand copies of the original book and new copies of a recent re-print can be bought for half the price today. The full text and pictures are freely available online, for the time being, thanks to the American Buddha Online Library. Extracts are also available at the Silencing the Bell blog.

In his 1995 introduction to The Diary, Fuentes says: ‘. . . [Kahlo’s] Diary now shows us: her joy, her fun, her fantastic imagination. The Diary is her lifeline to the world. When she saw herself, she painted and she painted because she was alone and she was the subject she knew best. But when she saw the world, she wrote, paradoxically, her Diary, a painted Diary which makes us realize that no matter how interior her work was, it was always uncannily close to the proximate, material world of animals, fruits, plants, earths, skies.’

And he ends: ‘In the measure that her hope was her art and her art was her heaven, the Diary is Kahlo’s greatest attempt to bridge the pain of their body with the glory, humor, fertility, and outwardness of the world. She painted her interior being, her solitude, as few artists have done. The Diary connects her to the world through a magnificent and mysterious consciousness that “we direct ourselves towards ourselves through millions of beings - stones - bird creatures - star beings - microbe beings - sources of ourselves.”

She will never close her eyes. For as she says here, to each and everyone of us, “I am writing to you with my eyes.” ’

Whereas Fuentes’s introduction provides a literary eulogy for Kahlo’s diary, Lowe’s essay provides a more down-to-earth, comparative analysis, and starts by defining it as a ‘journal intime’: ‘Reading through Frida Kahlo’s diary is unquestionably an act of transgression, an undertaking inevitably charged with an element of voyeurism. Her journal is a deeply private expression of her feelings, and was never intended to be viewed publicly. As such, Kahlo’s diary belongs to the genre of the journal intime, a private record written by a woman for herself.

The impulses and purposes of a diary are perplexing and sometimes paradoxical. Is it really an autobiography or is the text transformed when it comes to light? Does it retain its integrity when read by another or published? How should a woman’s private journal be read, and by extension, what can be learned about Kahlo by reading her diary?

Throughout history, diarists, both men and women, have chronicled their lives framed by their times or by particular historical events. In contrast, the predominant subject of the journal intime, and Kahlo’s own diary specifically, is the self.  Kahlo’s motivation has less to do with communication than with negotiating her relationship to her self, and thus the conundrum - why write if no one else will see the text? - is in part answered.’

Lowe also analyses how the diary shows Kahlo recording her physical deterioration: ‘Kahlo kept this diary for the last ten years of her life, and it documents her physical decline. Dated pages are sporadic, and thus it is difficult to discern the chronology. But an awful progression - regression - is unmistakable, as Kahlo faces the loneliness and terror of her illnesses. [. . .] Kahlo’s chronic pain, however, and her encasement in orthopedic corsets and plaster casts for months at a time, the trophic ulcers she suffered on her right foot (which led to its amputation shortly before her death), and the roughly thirty-five operations she is said to have undergone may have been caused by a congenital malformation of her spine, a condition called spina bifida. Her diary chronicles her quest for cures, her resigning herself to the dictates of her medical advisers, and her often stoic response to their failures.

Part of Kahlo’s preoccupation with the details of her infirmities springs from her youthful interest in physiology and biology. Before her fateful accident, Kahlo was taking science courses as prerequisites for becoming a doctor; even as she convalesced, the thought of combining her interest in art and science by becoming a scientific illustrator came to her. Indeed, these studies provided Kahlo with potent visual analogies and metaphors, which she marshaled in her paintings and used throughout her diary: internal organs and processes were often seen outside her body, while she used x-ray vision to picture her broken bones and spine. Of all her biological and botanical metaphors, Kahlo made the most effective use of roots and veins, tendrils and nerves, all routes for transmitting nourishment or pain.

Despite the pain and anguish Kahlo freely and openly expressed in her diary, her unquenchable thirst for life reveals itself. Her wit and alegria, her sense of irony and black humor all emerge here. [. . .] The self-portrait we find in the diary makes more human “la gran ocultadora” of her paintings, and replaces the implacable mask with intimate - at times horrifying details of affliction and despair. But Kahlo also shows her great strength, the resolve only intense suffering confers. “Anguish and pain,” she writes, “pleasure and death are no more than a process”. Kahlo’s diary dramatically and explicitly conveys this process, and is a testimony to her vigilant recording, in words and pictures, of her inexorable path toward death.’

Here are two extracts (the translation reproduces faithfully the line structure of the original even though the original line breaks often come at the edge of the page).

‘Today Wednesday 22 of January 1947
You rain on me - I sky you
You’re the fineness, childhood,
life - my love - little boy - old man
mother and center - blue - tender-
ness - I hand you my
universe and you live me
It is you whom I love today.
= I love you with all my loves
I'll give you the forest
with a little house in it
with all the good things there are in
my construction, you'll live
joyfully - I want
you to live joyfully. Although
I always give you my
absurd solitude and the monot-
ony of a whole
diversity of loves -
Will you? Today I'm loving
the beginnings and you love
your mother.’


‘Yesterday, the seventh of May
1953 as I fell
on the flagstones
I got a needle stuck in
my ass (dog’s arse).
They brought me
immediately to the hospital
in an ambulance.
suffering awful pains
and screaming all the
way from home to the British
Hospital - they took
an X ray - several
and located the needle and
they are going to take it out one
of these days with a magnet.
Thanks to my Diego
the love of my life
thanks to the Doctors’


The Diary Junction

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Diary briefs


To Fight Alongside Friends - HarperCollins, Amazon, Andrew Lownie

Notes from a Colored Girl - University of South Carolina Press, Baltimore Sun

Diary evidence in Australian murder trial - The Courier Mail

Wife documents unending misery of dying husband - Mlive

Diaries of playwright Priscilla Dewey Houghton - Radcliffe Institute

Diaries of Kiwi photographer Guy Mannering - The Press

Sketchbook diary of a 9 year old girl - Winnipeg Free Press

Unpublished diary of Gallipoli battle - Chichester Observer

Diary of an unmarried Williston woman - Burlington Free Press

Life Interrupted: Personal Diaries from World War I State Library of New South WalesThe Sydney Morning Herald

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Only Tanya is left

The diary of the teenager Tanya Savicheva has to be one of the most poignant documents left behind by the Second World War, no matter that it is also, probably, the shortest diary of any significance on record. Tanya, who died 70 years ago today, lived through part of the Siege of Leningrad and watched her family members die one by one around her, recording each death on a page of her notebook.

Tanya was born in Gdov, Russia, near the border with Estonia, in January 1930, the youngest child of a baker and seamstress. Her father died when Tanya was six, leaving her mother with five children. The family planned to spend the summer of 1941 in the countryside, but the Axis invasion of the Soviet Union in June disrupted their plans, so most of them decided to stay in Leningrad.

As a former capital of Russia, and militarily important as a main base for the Soviet Baltic fleet, Leningrad was a prime target for the German army. A siege of the city started on 8 September 1941, when the last road to the city was severed, and it was not lifted fully until 27 January 1944 - making it one of the longest and most destructive sieges in history.

All of Tanya’s family worked to support the Soviet army, even Tanya, then only 11, dug trenches and put out firebombs. One of Tanya’s sisters, Nina, went to work, and never returned leaving the family thinking she was dead. Tanya was given a small notebook in memory of Nina, and, after a while, she used it sparingly to record the deaths of her family members, including one sister (Jenya) and one brother (Leka).

By March 1942, Tanya was the only one of the family left. She was discovered, barely alive, by special nursing missions who went through the streets of Leningrad. Along with more than 100 other children, in a similar state, she was transported to Shatki, a village in the Gorkovskaya region. There the villagers tried to look after the children; though most survived, Tanya eventually succombed to tuberculosis, and died on 1 July 1944.

Tanya never learned that some of her family survived. Nina, in fact, had been saved and transported away from the front line. She returned, with the siege over, in 1945, to her house, where she found, amidst bare walls and complete ruin, Tanya’s notebook. Tanya’s brother Misha also survived having suffered severe injuries at the war.

See Wikipedia, the Russian Orthodox Church website, the History in an Hour website, or Russiapedia, for more information.

Today, Tanya’s diary is in the Museum of the History of St Petersburg, and a copy is at the Piskaryovskoye Memorial Cemetery (where around half a million people, who died during the siege, are buried in mass graves). There is some suggestion that the diary might have been presented by Allied prosecutors at the Nuremberg Trials, though there appears to be no proof of this. It contains just a few pages, with a few words on each page, as follows (translation according to Wikipedia).

‘Jenya died on 28th Dec. at 12.00 PM 1941’

‘Grandma died on 25th Jan., 3 PM 1942’

‘Leka died on 17th March at 5 AM 1942’

‘Uncle Vasya died on 13th Apr. at 2 o’clock after midnight 1942’

‘Uncle Lesha on 10th May at 4 PM 1942’

‘Mom on 13th May at 7.30 AM 1942’

‘Savichevs died.’

‘Everyone died.’

‘Only Tanya is left.’