Friday, January 24, 2020

The Banqueting House

By Cryssa Bazos

January 30 is the anniversary of the execution of King Charles I in 1649, and I am reminded of the place where this drama played out--the Banqueting House at Whitehall.

The Banqueting House- Wikimedia Commons

Completed in 1622, the Banqueting House is the only remaining structure of Whitehall Palace and is situated across from Horse Guards Parade. During the Tudor age, the original Banqueting House was little better than a temporary venue. When King James I of England (VI of Scotland) succeeded Elizabeth on the throne in 1603 and ushered in the Stuart Age in England, he got down to work building a proper Banqueting House. His queen, Anne of Denmark, had been fond of masques and was a patroness of the arts.

The famous 17th century architect, Inigo Jones, was commissioned to design the building. What you have is a beautiful example of Palladian architecture with stately pillars and expansive high ceilings. Galleries line the upper hall. But what is truly a marvel in the Hall did not exist until King Charles I succeeded his father to the throne.

Interior Hall: Photo by C. Bazos

Charles commissioned the great Flemish artist, Peter Paul Rubens, to create a series of paintings to grace the ceiling. The panels were completed in Ruben's workshop before being shipped to England for installation.

The paintings were a delight of classical gods and motifs, the most noteworthy being the centre panel titled The Apotheosis of James I. The scene glorifies his late father, James I as though he were being crowned by the heavens. It is meant to reinforce the concept of the king being God's representative on earth and his divine right to rule.

Detail of ceiling:Wikimedia Commons

These paintings remain the only work of Rubens on display outside of a museum. Fortunately for the preservation of the paintings, masques ceased to be performed following their installation. The smoke from the candles would have damaged them over time.

Below the Banqueting Hall is an area known as the Undercroft. During King James's time, it was used as the royal party den, but in later years, they held other amusements such as lotteries. It's curved ceilings gives the impression of a cosy cave. One can imagine how it once looked, crowded with men drinking and gambling while lit with golden torchlight.

The Undercroft: Photo by C. Bazos

Ironically, the Banqueting House, which evolved as a testament to the divinity of kings, would stand as a confirmation of their mortality.

On a cold winter day, on 30 January, 1649, a scaffold was erected outside the Banqueting House, accessed from a second story landing. King Charles I stepped out on the scaffold, clad only in two shirts and a cap. Facing his subjects, he left them with his famous parting words, "I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown." Here ended his reign.

There is so much art and history wrapped up in the Banqueting House. The next time you are visiting London, I encourage you to visit this marvellous building. You may even be greeted by a Parliamentary soldier.

Parliamentary guard: Photo by C. Bazos

Wikimedia Commons attribution:
The Banqueting House: "Banqueting House London" by en:User:ChrisO - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons -

Apotheosis of James I: "Banqueting House 03" by The wub - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons -

This post is an Editor's Choice from the #EHFA archives, originally published February 2, 2016.
Cryssa Bazos is an award-winning historical fiction author and 17th-century enthusiast with a particular interest in the English Civil War. Her debut novel, Traitor's Knot is the Medalist winner of the 2017 New Apple Award (historical fiction), a finalist for the 2018 EPIC eBook Awards (historical romance) and a finalist for RNA Joan Hessayon Award. Her second novel, Severed Knot, is a B.R.A.G Medallion Honoree and has been shortlisted for the 2019 Chaucer Award. For more information, visit her website

Severed Knot is available through all online retailers:

Wednesday, January 22, 2020

The Passionate Tudor Siblings

by Geraldine Evans

King Louis XII of France
‘No, I won’t marry that feeble, pocky old man.’

These are the words reputed to be those of Mary Rose Tudor when she declined the proposition of her twenty-three-year-old elder brother, King Henry VIII, that she marry the decrepit King Louis XII of France.

Mary Rose was eighteen and in love, a passionate first love with Charles Brandon, her brother’s bosom friend.

It was these reputed words of Mary Rose that immediately attracted me to the idea of writing about her. It was, of course, a time when women were often subjugated by their supposed male betters. And royal princesses were expected to marry the man selected for them by their family. But, sometimes, love got in the way. Any author keen to write a biographical historical novel would be delighted to find such a strongly-etched character. To oppose Henry VIII’s desires, even when he was a young king, required courage.

Mary Rose Tudor
Yes, Mary Rose was forced to capitulate in the end; perhaps as she might have known she would be, but her capitulation gave her a result of sorts—her brother’s promise that she could please herself when it came time to take a second husband.

All the three Tudor siblings, Margaret, Henry and Mary, seem to have been the victims of a fiercely-struck Cupid’s Dart. The Tudors were an unusual family for their times—the 16th Century wasn’t, as we know, a period when English royals and aristocrats were free to choose their own life partners. But these Tudors pursued their passionate marital desires until they achieved them. Margaret, the widow of James IV of Scotland, had submitted to the match with the Scottish king when she was no more than thirteen, and by the time she was widowed, (by her brother, Henry’s forces at Flodden) ten years later, she was determined to marry Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a young man of her own age, which she did in August 1514 – the same year her younger sister Mary Rose unwillingly married King Louis XII – and less than a year after the death of her first husband James IV.

But Margaret’s marriage to Angus of the powerful Douglas family aroused the enmity and jealousy of the other Scottish lords, and the Scottish Parliament decided that, by her marriage to Archibald Douglas, she had forfeited her right to be Regent for her son by the king. After being besieged in Stirling Castle by the Scottish lords, Margaret managed to escape to England, though she was forced to leave behind her two young sons by King James. Margaret returned to Scotland in 1517, but by the mid-1520s, her second marriage was a battleground. Margaret, while estranged and not yet divorced from Archibald Douglas, became a scandal for the second time when she began a liaison with the handsome young courtier, Henry Stewart, whom she later married as her third husband; Henry VIII wasn’t the only Tudor who went in for multiple marriages—Margaret ran him a close second and was rather more successful at achieving her aims than Henry.

Mary Rose must have studied her sister and her marital manoeuvres to choose her second husband because she, too, managed to do what her kingly brother had promised she might, and she secretly married Charles Brandon, the love of her life, a scant few weeks after the death of King Louis her first husbanda scandalous action for a widowed queen. She spurned the lusts and promises of marriage of the already married new King of France, Francis I, her late husband’s cousin and son-in-law, and the not unlikely possibility that he would divorce the saintly but unattractively overweight Queen Claude in order to possess her.

Mary Rose could, quite possibly, have been Queen of France twice over if she had chosen to play Francis as later, Anne Boleyn played King Henry. But Mary Rose, like her brother and sister, held passion and love higher than crowns and kingdoms. She spurned that second chance at queen-ship. Margaret threw hers away when she chose to marry Archibald Douglas, and the Council offered the Regency to the French-raised Albany.

Henry, too, threw his throne and his country into the ring for the sake of the love of Anne Boleyn. The world knows that Henry’s passion for Anne consumed him to the extent that he risked his own destruction by the Pope and the Catholic rulers on the continent after he threw off the yoke of the Pope and the mighty Catholic Church. He dared the threat of Excommunication, robbed the Church of its riches and destroyed many beautiful religious buildings in England—we can still see their stark ruins in many a country landscape—not just because of his need for a son, but also for his burning desire for Anne. Of course, he then went on to have a long history of marrying and discarding the loves of his life. He also knew Catherine of Aragon, his brother Arthur’s widow, well before he married her and was, at the least, presumably sufficiently attracted to her to wed her.

Love – the love that the court poets wrote about and that troubadours sang about – was a pretty unusual experience in marriage for those at the top end of society. Yet all three of the surviving Tudor siblings accomplished marriage for love.

Perhaps Henry and his sisters inherited from their maternal Yorkist grandfather, Edward IV, the knowledge that betrothal or marriage needn’t be something that had to last for a lifetime. Because Edward IV entered into a secret marriage with a widow, Lady Elizabeth Grey. Worse, she was a widow from the Lancastrian side during the desperate years of the fight for the English throne known as the Wars of the Roses. And Edward, in his lust, chose to ignore the fact that he was already promised to Eleanor Talbot. This at a time when betrothals were supposedly regarded as seriously as marriage.

Two of the tragic children of Edward’s ‘marriage’ to Elizabeth Grey, were the ‘Princes in the Tower’, killed, as the history books and Shakespeare have it, by Edward’s ‘wicked’ brother so he could take the throne as Richard III. But, if it is true that Edward IV’s children were bastards because of his pre-contract with Eleanor Talbot, the ‘wicked’ Richard was doing no more than take his rights, which, as the next surviving son of Richard Duke of York, he was fully entitled to do (historians still dispute who was really responsible for the death of the young princes), especially as the young son of his executed elder brother George of Clarence lost his right to inherit the throne owing to his father’s traitorous behaviour.

Or perhaps Henry and Margaret learned about the disposability of betrothal and marriage by studying the marital adventures of Henry’s friend, Charles Brandon. Brandon’s behaviour was notorious even for those cavalier times. He had three weddings/betrothals in the space of three-four years; the first in 1505 to Anne Brown, when he was twenty-one. He repudiated Anne Brown after their first betrothal – easy to do as they made their vows ‘Per verba de praesenti’; that is with no ceremony or witnesses although this form of betrothal was considered a binding contract under Canon Law. He left Anne in order to marry her wealthy aunt, Margaret Mortimer. He then proceeded to divorce Margaret Mortimer, help himself to her fortune and, in 1508, re-marry Anne Brown, who must have been a forgiving kind of woman. She must also, by then, have had a far greater understanding of Brandon’s character, because on the second occasion they said their vows at a well-attended public ceremony. Anne died four years later.

Brandon’s next marital ambition was Elizabeth Grey. Elizabeth was a child of eight and he was twenty-nine. She was an orphan, an heiress and Brandon’s ward. Henry VIII had given him the wardship for the explicit purpose of allowing his friend to become Viscount Lisle by right of his young betrothed. Brandon at this time was an untitled country gentleman. Elizabeth later repudiated him.

Notwithstanding his betrothal to little Elizabeth, in 1513, Brandon, who had accompanied King Henry to France, sought, with Henry’s complicit assistance, to persuade Margaret the Regent of the Netherlands to marry him. The pair went so far as to exchange rings. But Margaret’s good sense rescued her, and she demanded the return of her ring.

And this was the man that Mary Rose Tudor desperately desired to marry. But she was only eighteen, an emotional, headstrong girl and can perhaps be forgiven for refusing to heed the advice of older and wiser heads. Love’s Dart had claimed her and Mary Rose, always more of a woman than a princess, wanted to follow her heart.

Mary Rose and Charles Brandon
And Brandon, whatever his protests, when on a diplomatic mission to the French court, allowed himself to be persuaded to go through with this secret marriage by the besotted Mary Rose, the ‘Nymph from Heaven’, who was widely regarded as one of the most attractive young women in Europe. Mary, newly-widowed and desperate to marry him, won the day by virtue of her tears and hysteria.

They went through with their secret marriage, consumated it, and then awaited the reaction of King Henry, who, needless to say, was furious. Or at least he pretended to be so because he allowed his agreement to be bought at the expense of most of Mary’s lavish French dower and the many splendid jewels the besotted old King Louis had showered upon her. I wonder if, knowing his sister (and by sending Brandon, in particular to the French court at this time), this secret marriage to Brandon was something Henry had hoped would happen so he could enrich himself at Mary Rose’s expense. Sometimes, the story of the Tudors reads like a television soap opera!

Yes, they were a passionate lot, those Tudor siblings. They dared all for love and confounded the world. But perhaps they would have been better off if they had married solely for duty. Because their passionate desires for the ‘wrong’ partners and stubborn insistence on following their hearts, brought none of them lasting happiness.

A little love can be a dangerous thing for a royal.

[This archive post is an Editor's Choice, originally published on the EHFA blog on 31st July 2104]


Geraldine Evans is the author of Reluctant Queen: The Story of Mary Rose Tudor, the Defiant Little Sister of Infamous English King, Henry VIII, her first biographical historical novel (Geraldine is also the author the two mystery series as well as other work).

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Monday, January 20, 2020

A Vicar Saves His Flock

By Dr John Little

Dearham in Cumbria (formerly Cumberland) was a mining village in the north west of England and at Easter 1894 that village received a profound shock. The world price of coal had fallen and the owner of Dearham Colliery, Mr Ormiston, could not sustain the costs of keeping the mine open. Over 260 men and boys were thrown out of work with immediate effect. They had never envisaged such a thing because there had been two generations of stable and reasonably lucrative employment; the local steam coal was the best in the world and was in demand by the navy, ocean liners and anywhere that steam engines were in use.  It was also hard to win, the seams being thin and fractured, the mines liable to flooding, and so the end product was expensive; the miners were used to earning among the highest wages in the whole of the UK and were the ‘aristocrats’ of their profession. Certainly there were other collieries in the area but at some distance; unless something happened to employ the miners thrown out of work then their village would empty, the community break up and hundreds would move away; the knock-on effects on local businesses would be calamitous.

Dearham Colliery Brick

The Lord helps often those who help themselves, but the impetus to do something about the plight of the village came from an unlikely source.

The Reverend Thomas Melrose might be seen as an excellent example of late Victorian muscular Christianity. His main claim to fame before 1894 was as an enthusiastic cyclist and he with his entire family were often to be seen bowling along the country lanes for miles around on an assortment of bicycles. He initiated the annual service for the Cumbrian Cycling Association to be held at his own church, St Mungo’s and made of it a local spectacle to which hundreds of people flocked to see what was happening. Dozens of cyclists from all over the county would gather on the outskirts of the village and then would process through the main street led by the Dearham Brass Band all the way to the church. Afterwards Reverend Melrose would bless the machines; on a good day it was a grand fete for people from miles around.

St Mungo's

Shortly after the miners lost their jobs word went round that the vicar had called a meeting in Sinkle Lonning and asked that the men who had lost their jobs would attend. They did so and Melrose announced that he was going to lead an attempt to reopen the mine as a cooperative, owned by the men who worked in it. Cooperatives were not a new idea of course, but the notion of a cooperative coal mine was rather revolutionary. It was favourably received and Melrose gave the men time to think about it by asking that any who were interested could meet in a few days at the local school. There he revealed that he had failed in persuading the colliery owner to keep the pit open, and that opinion among mine engineers was that it could not be done economically. He then offered the bright spark of Hope by revealing that he had asked a mine engineer, a Mr Heslop, to have a look at an old coalmine, the Crosshow Colliery, to see if it was a viable business proposition. On the outskirts of the village this mine had closed years before, but Heslop reported that it was not exhausted; it had closed for economic reasons. Melrose proposed the setting up of a cooperative to reopen this colliery and put forward a scheme for raising £1000 by subscription  for that purpose. The idea was supported enthusiastically. 

Unfortunately within a week or so it became apparent that the money could not be raised among the miners in the village. They did manage to subscribe over £250, a considerable sum, but it was not enough. Melrose was not finished though. The Maryport Cooperative Industrial Society was a large concern in the local area with several large stores in West Cumberland. One of these was in Dearham where it had opened in 1889; profits over a five year period had been in excess of £43,000 which was a considerable return. Reverend Melrose was acquainted to Mr Fawcett, the president of the society and put it to him that it was very much in his interests to maintain his profits. If his customers stayed unemployed then the Cooperative stores would lose customers. On the other hand if the miners stayed employed then the store would stay profitable. It would make sense for the Cooperative society to open a colliery and run it so that there would be wages to be spent. Mr Fawcett saw the point and put it to the members of his committee, who in turn were quite enthusiastic about the idea. It was agreed that the idea was good but the membership of the society would have to be balloted to see if they agreed to the venture.

The word ‘Socialism’ was well known and although this idea predated the establishment of a British Labour Party, there were plenty of people around who would not agree with a move so politically charged as Co-operativism. However because the idea came from a Church of England vicar it was much easier to regard the scheme as an act of Christian fellowship, with members of a community helping each other out in time of need.

At an open meeting of the Cooperative society it was proposed that the mine be run by a manager appointed by the 'Coop' (pronounced coh-op). Shares would be sold in a limited liability company with the aim of raising £8,000 of capital. £1000 of this would come from the Coop itself, £200 in shares and the rest as a loan. The colliery would aim to produce 75,000 tons of coal a year and would also supply coal to an associated brickworks which would yield a profit of £400 a year. The return to shareholders would be set at 6% per annum. The motion for a ballot was carried by the members and 2900 ballot papers were sent out; votes were to be placed in sealed boxes in each of the Cooperative’s five shops. Two weeks later 1,071 people had voted; 398 against the proposal and 673 in favour.

Within a very short time a management board was appointed and Mr Robert Steel, the duly appointed manager descended onto the site of the old Crosshow colliery. By late August, just four months after they had fallen unemployed, the first miners went down the shaft and began to cut coal. It quickly became apparent that the old shaft was not big enough for modern equipment so a new one would need to be sunk. New and powerful pumps were installed at a cost of £450 to cope with a persistent water problem and on Tuesday 15 January 1895 Reverend Melrose came to the colliery with his wife and a ceremonial spade. The Vicar’s wife had been invited to cut the first turf where the new shaft was to be sunk.

It was not expected that the new mine would make a profit in its first few years and it did not, a fact which caused some trepidation in the Cooperative Committee. However it had to be admitted that profits from the Dearham store had held up, so the nerve of investors held. The mine was never far short of making a profit in its first years, but never quite got there. It did however employ 111 men and Dearham village kept its heart. The only moment of real drama came in 1897 when the hewers were digging along a seam close to the surface and breached the bed of the Barley Beck, a sizable stream near the village. A considerable amount of water entered the workings causing the miners to evacuate extremely quickly, some of them almost naked. Outside it was March and a cold day; looking like a platoon of imps newly released from Hell the shivering of the miners was alleviated quickly by the shawls of their anxious wives who had heard that there had been an incident at the mine and hurried up to find out what was going on. Mr Steel the manager, a man of great pluck, descended the mine shaft on a rope to find that the bottom was dry and that the stream water was flowing down to the bottom of the works from where the pumps were expelling it. Full production was resumed within a couple of days and no one was hurt.

Dearham Coop

By 1902 the Crosshow Colliery made a handsome profit, the first year it had done so and its future looked secure. Unfortunately globalism is no new phenomenon, and mining, like all industries, is subject to the vagaries of the world market. Mines in the USA, German and Poland were flooding the stock exchanges with cheap coal produce by modern methods and machinery. However good the Dearham coal was, it was hand hewn and expensive. The world price of coal slumped at the beginning of 1903 and it became evident that Crosshow Colliery was going to swallow far more money that year than it could produce. Members of the Cooperative Society began to agitate in favour of pulling out and cutting their losses.

Reverend Melrose was no longer living in Dearham. In 1896 his ten year old son had been on the way home from school and attempted to board a moving train at the station in Maryport. He had been dragged along between train and platform and had died very quickly. Such a thing can only bring grief and sadness. Whatever the reason for his decision Melrose had moved away and was now Vicar of Westward, not far from Wigton. There was no eloquent advocate to plead the case for Crosshow Colliery. The manager did his best. Over eight years they had produced a million and a half tons of top quality steam coal. All debts had been paid off and wages of over £40,000 had kept a community alive. There was a strong case to be made for tiding the business over until the price of coal improved. There was no ballot of Coop members on the decision; this time it was voted on solely by the committee. By 39 votes to 29 the society decided to pull out; 150 men were thrown out of work again and the mine closed.


Dr John Little spent almost forty years teaching in various schools in London and the South East. He was head of History at Meopham School and Rochester Independent College. He gained the first History PhD  awarded in the University of Westminster.
He has written nine books, mostly novels, and has settled into historical fiction as his favoured genre. His work is based on real evidence, people and events contained in plausible narratives. He also gives talks and presentations on the topics about which he writes. His great grandfather was a Dearham miner and John wove his tale into that of Thomas Melrose and wrote an historical novel, The Collier's Daughter, about the extraordinary venture of a Church of England vicar in the 1890s. 

Friday, January 17, 2020

Romancing the Tower of London: William Harrison Ainsworth

By Nancy Bilyeau

On a December night in 1840, a sizable group of writers, editors, publishers, printers and illustrators gathered at the Sussex Hotel, in the fashionable town of Royal Tunbridge Wells, for a dinner party. It is possible that Charles Dickens, the young author of Oliver Twist and The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, was invited to the party. Most definitely in attendance was George Cruikshank, the talented illustrator of Oliver Twist.

The host of this lavish affair was the famed 35-year-old novelist William Harrison Ainsworth. The occasion: the successful serialization over the last year of his fifth novel, The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, which told the story of the tragic Lady Jane Grey, beginning with her arrival by barge at the Tower to launch her nine-day-reign and ending with her decapitation on Tower Green on July 10, 1553.

William Harrison Ainsworth

The novelist was sure to have cut quite the dash at his own party: He was tall, slim and dark, with a fondness for stylish clothes that earned him the description dandy. From the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography: "Lady Blessington, whose salon he attended, said he and Count D'Orsay were the two handsomest men in London."

In a passage accepted as autobiographical, a character in one of Ainsworth's novels says, "Some people told me I was handsome, and my tailor (excellent authority, it must be admitted) extolled the symmetry of my figure, and urged me to go into the Life Guards."

Ainsworth was at perhaps the zenith of his career in 1840. He was a friendly rival to Dickens; in fact, his 1839 novel Jack Shepard outsold Oliver Twist in early editions, and Ainsworth had recently replaced Dickens as editor of Bentley's Miscellany, the predominant fiction magazine.

The rivalry with Dickens would not last; nor would the friendship. Dickens would become a colossus as Ainsworth slowly sank into oblivion. His 39 historical novels, all of them romances and adventures, were astoundingly popular with the reading public of Victorian England, but not with the critics. Although Ainsworth was himself a genial and generous man, he was often on the receiving end of literary volleys almost hysterical in their dislike. When his books no longer sold as well, he had no circle of supporters to buoy him. Quite the opposite. One writer said of him in 1870: "Let us start with an opinion fearlessly expressed as it is earnestly felt, that the existence of this writer is an event to be deplored." Ainsworth was still alive when this sentiment was published, and in reduced circumstances.

That dazzling night at Royal Tunbridge Wells, Ainsworth, mercifully, could not know that his books would go out of print, that fellow writers such as Edgar Allan Poe would describe his prose as "turgid pretension."

Yet he is not without a legacy. The book celebrated that night, The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, triggered a new kind of interest in William the Conqueror's castle keep. It was an interest that deepened through the Victorian age, and is part of the reason visitors pour into the Tower, to the tune of 2 million a year.

Ainsworth was born on February 4, 1805, in Manchester, as the city became the center of the industrial movement. Thomas Ainsworth was a prominent lawyer and pressured his oldest son to follow him in that profession, which he did for a time, but without much enthusiasm. There was a younger son, Thomas Gilbert Ainsworth, who at university suffered a "brain fever" and was incapicitated by mental illness his entire life.

Two years after the father died, Ainsworth, newly married, published his first novel, the romance Sir John Chiverton. It brought him to the attention of Walter Scott, who befriended Ainsworth but privately referred to him as an "imitator." His next two books, the historical novels Rockwood and Jack Schepard, both featuring famous outlaws, were tremendous successes. Yet some criticized the romanticizing of criminals, a complaint Dickens was also hearing with Oliver Twist.

It was time to try something different.

When Ainsworth, along with his illustrator, George Cruikshank, researched the Tower of London, it was far from the smoothly operating tourism operation of today. It had been two centuries since the last monarch, Charles II, resided there. Dickens wrote: "Once a fortress, a royal residence, a court of justice and a prison, {the Tower} is now a government storehouse and armory." An outbreak of disease caused by poor water supply (and blamed on the filthy moat) killed three men of the garrison.

A visitor in 1851 wrote:

"Every one must be struck with the incivility and want of accommodation therein. Upon entering the gates this afternoon I found some hundreds of persons, male and female, huddled together, striving to obtain tickets from a window under a portico where no two persons can pass abreast, and the scene there reminded me of what might be expected at the gallery entrance of a theatre on boxing night. After waiting just one hour we obtained our tickets and were ordered into what is called the ante or refreshment room. This room is about 12ft. by 18ft., with a counter containing ginger pop, buns, &c., immediately behind which are two waterclosets (I understand recently erected). I will not attempt to describe the stench one had to contend with, the place being completely crammed with persons waiting their turns or numbers to be called, but merely add that this room seems to be the resort of pickpockets, two ladies having been eased of their purses, containing some pounds, during the half hour I was present therein."

Ainsworth opened the door to a more illustrious period in the Tower's history. It's true that the novel's prose is melodramatic ("heaving bosoms," "piercing black eyes" and "sinister smiles") and the pages are crowded with Gothic characters (not one or two but three supporting characters who are giants--and a dwarf!) along with august personages of the past. But Ainsworth's diligent research brings to life the grounds, the kitchens, the passageways, the prison cells and the beautiful chapels of the Tower. He made full, imaginative use of the Tower of London, as a setting for a story of high drama. And Cruikshank's 40 engravings and 58 woodcuts play their suggestive part.

Cruikshank's depiction of Lady Jane Grey
And in the center of it all is Lady Jane Grey, a character of undeniable pathos, surrounded by conspiracies. Ainsworth invests the Spanish ambassador, Simon Renard, with the malevolent abilities of a Blofeld straight from Bond. Northumberland is formidable indeed.There is an energy to the book, and an eerie, even frightening atmosphere. The rack, the Scavenger's Daughter and the infamous Little Ease are all present and accounted for.

The current official Historical Royal Palaces Tower of London "fact sheet" on torture emphasizes how little actual torture has taken place within its walls: "Myth-making reached its peak in the 19th century, spurred on by novelists who wished to evoke the Tower of London in its former days as an ancient fortress and stronghold e.g. Ainsworth’s The Tower of London." Ainsworth may have put the devices of torture to Gothic uses, but they were very much present in the 16th century. Ironically, government-approved torture of prisoners ebbed during the reigns of Edward VI, Jane Grey, and Mary, only to rise to highest levels during reign of Elizabeth.

After The Tower of London, Ainsworth's career went on for more than thirty years. The characters in his books were not dimensional; bosoms continued to heave and black eyes to snap. R.H. Horne, Dickens' friend and collaborator, described Ainsworth as "a reviver of old clothes" whose novels are "generally dull except when revolting." Punch satirized Ainsworth as an aging Tudoresque dandy with the caption "The Greatest Axe-and-Neck Romancer of Our Time."

By the time of the Punch jab, Ainsworth, a widower, was responsible for his mentally ill brother. He had accepted a government pension because...he needed it. A year after a dinner in his honor in Manchester, arguably the only place where he was still esteemed, William Harrison Ainsworth died at the age of 77.
But the Tower felt the lingering impact of Ainsworth. In the foreword of his book, he had called for the opening to the public of Beauchamp Tower, the place of imprisonment of the Lady Jane Grey, where she is thought to have written on the wall of her cell. The cause was taken up by powerful patrons, including Prince Albert. Beauchamp was restored by architects and made available to visitors; other buildings were opened too.

Ainsworth's influence, as explained in The Tower of London: The Official Illustrated History:

"In The Tower of London: A Historical Romance, the Tower was first and foremost the setting for an endless series of heart-rending events and foul play. The author tells of dungeons though in fact the Tower has very few basement rooms and of a time when Tower Hill boasted a scaffold and "its soil was dyed with the richest and best blood in the land.” Such fantasies, backed by the relentless march of the romantic movement, helped create and fuel an ever-increasing demand to see and experience such events.”

No matter how much the novel's violence veers into fantasy, the faintly menacing image of the Tower that draws the throngs of the curious today was created in part by William Harrison Ainsworth. He was the greatest neck-and-axe romancer of his time...and perhaps of ours too.

This article is an Editor's Choice and was originally published August 19, 2012. 


Nancy Bilyeau is a historical novelist and magazine editor based in New York. She wrote the Joanna Stafford trilogy, a trio of thrillers set in Henry VIII’s England, for Simon & Schuster. Her fourth novel is The Blue, an 18th century thriller revolving around the art & porcelain world. Her latest novel is Dreamland, set in Coney Island of 1911, is published by Endeavour Quill. A former staff editor at Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, and InStyle, Nancy is currently the deputy editor at the Center on Media, Crime and Justice at John Jay College and contributes to Town & Country, CrimeReads, and Mystery Scene magazine.

For more information, visit

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

Opera in Early 18th Century London

by Lucy May Lennox

Today opera has an (undeserved) reputation for being stuffy and dull, with the stereotypical image of a fat woman shrieking in a horned helmet. Opera in Georgian London was very different—it was the equivalent of our big budget superhero movies today, all about spectacle and popular entertainment.

The style of opera popular throughout Europe in the first half of the eighteenth century is called opera seria. Opera seria originated in Italy, which is why operas composed and performed in England were in the Italian language, and the most celebrated singers were from Italy. Unlike later opera styles, opera seria features solos almost exclusively; there is very little choral or ensemble singing. There are only a few duets, usually performed between lovers to highlight their emotional connection. The performance was very stylized, not intended to be naturalistic, and the singers showed their skill through vocal ornamentation rather than emotional expression. The plots were heroic and/or tragic, borrowed from Greek and Roman mythology, and the stagecraft featured all kinds of spectacles such as flying horses, mythological creatures, and magic. In contrast to performances in Italy, opera seria in London was popular entertainment for high and low alike, and the performances tended to be much more raucous.

Caricature of Handel opera seria Flavio featuring castrato Senesino
on the left and soprano Francesca Cuzzoni center.

London opera in the early eighteenth century is synonymous with the composer George Frideric Handel (1685-1759). Although Handel is best remembered today for his oratorios, particularly the Messiah (1742), he made his name in London in opera seria. Born in what is now Germany, Handel studied opera in Italy before moving to London in 1712. Over the course of his career, he composed forty-two operas, most of which were produced by the Haymarket Theater and the Theater Royal, Covent Garden. His operas were dramatic spectacles including dance as well as virtuoso singing, and drove the craze in London for opera seria. Today his best known aria is “Ombra mai fu” from Serse (Xerxes, 1738), written for castrato voice.

Handel composed oratorios throughout his career as well, but the most famous of these he composed in the 1730s and 1740s. In part he turned to oratorios in reaction to changing tastes in London, as the exotic appeal of opera seria waned. In contrast to opera seria, which was performed in Italian, most of Handel’s oratorios were composed in English. While the plots of opera seria were taken from classical antiquity, the text of the oratorios came from the King James Bible. In fact, Handel first wanted to stage bible stories as operas, but the Bishop of London would not allow it. Performing scenes from the bible in Covent Garden theaters, associated with prostitution, was considered blasphemous. Bible stories should only be performed in a church. Oratorio, in which the singers did not wear costumes or act out the scenes, but stood on stage beside the orchestra, was a compromise between theatrical and church music, and allowed the religious theme to be performed in a secular setting. Several of these oratorios were conducted by John Stanley, a blind composer and organist who worked closely with Handel for many years.

Portrait of Farinelli
The most popular voice type in opera seria was the castrato, a man castrated before puberty so he maintained a soprano range into adulthood. The practice of creating and training castrati was limited to Italy, although they performed all over Europe. The most popular castrato in London was Farinelli (1705-1782). There was a film about him made in 1994, although it is not very biographically accurate. The popularity of Farinelli and other castrati in London was intense but brief, peaking in the 1720s-1730s. There was an equally intense backlash against castrati, not only because they challenged gender norms, but because they were not English. Male social clubs called beef-steak societies were one source of this backlash. In particular the Sublime Society of Beef Steaks was founded in 1735 by John Rich, the manager of the Theater Royal, Covent Garden, as a means of expressing a British masculine identity. Rich was also the producer of the Beggar’s Opera (1728), written by John Gay as a parody of opera seria and the style popularized by Handel. Some of this xenophobic sentiment can be seen in the broadside “London” penned by beefsteak society member Henry Carey:
There your English actor goes, with many a hungry belly
While heaps of gold are laid, God wot! on Signor Farinelli
What did a castrato performance sound like? There’s no way to know exactly. Castration not only affected the vocal cords, but the entire physical development. Castrati had elongated limbs and large barrel chests, which gave them tremendous lung capacity and vocal power. Musically, their high voices symbolized virtue and purity, but certainly part of the appeal for audiences was the spectacle of a man with an almost inhuman high voice. After the castrati disappeared, revivals of opera seria tended to use female singers in their place through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, but lately there has been a trend for male countertenors to reclaim these roles.

Although men with high voices were the superstars of the era, there were women opera stars as well. One of the biggest stars in London was Anna Maria Strada del Pò (1719-1741) who was brought from Italy by Handel and performed the soprano lead in many of his operas. While she was celebrated for her fine vocal technique, she was also mocked for her appearance, particularly for inelegant facial expressions as she sang. Charles Burney noted that, “she had so little of a Venus in her appearance, that she was usually called the Pig.”

Portrait of Anna Maria Strada

Not all the prima donna were Italian. Kitty Clive (1711-1785), who was from Ireland, was another major star of the era. While Kitty Clive sang the role of Delila in Handel’s oratorio Samson (1743), she was best known for her comedic roles in David Garrick’s company. Likewise, Lavinia Fenton (1708-1760) was famous as a singer and comic actress, originating the role of Polly Peachum in The Beggar’s Opera (1728). The English singer Susannah Cibber (1714-1766), a contralto, sang many male roles in Handel’s oratorios. She was praised for her expressivity in tragic roles, although her vocal technique was not considered as polished as that of Italian singers.

Scene from The Beggar’s Opera, by William Hogarth. Lavinia Fenton as Polly Peachum is in
the center, and the Duke of Bolton is in the box to the right. Note the audience members sitting on
 the stage, talking during the performance.

Handel also innovated the inclusion of extensive dance scenes in opera seria, as another form of titillating spectacle. One of the most famous (or infamous) dancers was Marie Sallé (1707-1756), a French ballerina born to a family of circus acrobats. John Rich brought her to the Theater Royal, Covent Garden, where she appeared in several of Handel’s operas. She was known for dancing in loosely-fitting, revealing costumes, to the scandalized delight of audiences. She was also rumored to have female lovers, and was not the only performer to do so (for example, actress Elizabeth Ashe, the lover of Caroline, Countess of Harrington).

Attending a Covent Garden opera performance in the early eighteenth century was a very different experience than today. Opera performances only occurred at certain times of year, and when the season was over, there was no way to hear the same performances again. In an age of recorded music, we tend to forget how precious and rare live performance could be.

Opera performances could stretch on for four hours or more, although audiences might come and go as they pleased. Before the overture, there were usually three pieces played to entertain the crowd as they arrived at five o’clock to secure seats until the show began at six o’clock. Called the First, Second, and Third Music, these might be instrumental pieces or solos by up and coming singers, followed by a prolog or speech by the manager. Likewise, during the intermission (intermezzo or entr’acte), there would be additional performances as the sets and costumes were changed.

Audiences were loud and disruptive. A Trip Through the Town (1735) describes the theater audience thus: “They talk continually no matter of what, for they talk only to be taken notice of, for which reason they raise their voices to be taken notice of by those who pass by.”

Riot at the Theater Royal, Covent Garden, 1763
over increased ticket prices.
There was very little separation between the audience and the players. Although the interior of the theater was similar to theaters today, there was no curtain. The boxes, or balcony seats along the edge of the theater, extended alongside the stage. The wealthiest patrons were allowed to have seats right on the stage. Some Covent Garden theaters had rows of spikes along the proscenium to prevent overly amorous or critical audience members from leaping onto the stage during a performance.

Audiences might shout at the players or throw rotten fruit if they did not like a performance. Riots were not uncommon. Burford writes,
In 1738, after a riot in the Haymarket Theater in protest at the appearance of some French players, it was enacted that the public had a legal right to manifest their dislike of a play or the actors. In 1744 there was a riot at Drury Lane Theater over contemplated rises for admission. In another fracas in 1755 there was a free fight with gallants jumping from the boxes into the pit, their swords being drawn and blood being shed while the women screamed when the mob tore up scenery and smashed up the seats.
Audiences might also take sides in a rivalry between singers, booing the rival and cheering their favorite loudly, as happened with Handel’s singers Francesca Cuzzoni and Faustina Bourdoni. The two women even fought each other on stage. Handel threatened to throw Cuzzoni out a window when she refused to sing an aria during rehearsals.

All this meant that the life of an opera star was precarious indeed, especially for women. The actresses were all assumed to be prostitutes. The sad fact is that many were forced to become the mistress of a wealthy patron or engage in outright prostitution because the wages were so low. Many of the celebrated divas died alone and penniless, as happened to La Strada. Lavinia Fenton, on the other hand, married her much older lover the Duke of Bolton after the death of his first wife, and became a duchess.

Susannah Cibber’s personal life also erupted in scandal. She married actor Theophilus Cibber, son of playwright Colley Cibber, but she was far more famous and rich than her husband. As all of a wife’s assets belonged solely to the husband, she attempted to circumvent this law by placing her money in trust, but he managed to spend it all anyway. To pay the bills, they took in a tenant named William Sloper, which led to an affair that twice landed all three in court, with competing claims that Cibber forced Susannah at gunpoint to have sex with Sloper, or that she fell in love with Sloper and they slept together while a spy observed them from a closet. Nevertheless, she continued to perform through this scandal, which only increased her popularity.

Marie Sallé and Lavinia Fenton used their status to improve the working conditions and treatment of women on stage. Clive campaigned publicly for better pay for actresses, and for separating the career of actress from prostitution. She also wrote several short plays satirizing the poor treatment of actresses.

There have been some recent revivals of opera seria that attempt to capture the flavor of the era. This excerpt of a German production of Serse, with the cross-dressed singers arguing with the conductor, gives us a small taste of what it might have been like to attend the opera in the eighteenth century.

Selected sources:

Burford, E. J. Wits, Wenchers and Wantons: London’s Low Life: Covent Garden in the Eighteenth Century. Robert Hale: London, 1990.

Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians

Parker, Roger, ed. The Oxford Illustrated History of Opera. Oxford University Press, 2001.

Schœlcher, Victor. The Life of Handel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.


Lucy May Lennox is the author of The Adventures of Tom Finch, Gentleman, a novel set in the opera world of eighteenth century London.

London, 1735. Tom Finch, composer and conductor, approaches life with boundless good cheer and resilience, despite his blindness. Join Tom for a picaresque romp through high and low Georgian society among rakes, rovers, thieving whores and demi-reps, highway robbers, bigamists, and duelists, bisexual opera divas, castrati, mollies, and cross-dressers, lecherous aristocrats, and headstrong ladies. This meticulously researched, witty and lively tale overturns stereotypes about disability and revels in the spectacle and excitement of 18th century opera.

Monday, January 13, 2020


By Michael Paul Hurd

Charles II’s Royalist army was defeated by Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army at Worcester on 3 September 1651. Following the defeat, Charles II became a fugitive for the next six weeks, before he successfully escaped to Normandy, France, on the morning of 15 October 1651. During his fugitive period, Charles II covered a circuitous 625-mile (1006 km) route from Worcester to Shoreham and were almost captured on several occasions. The route of Charles II’s escape is known as “The Monarch’s Way” and is signposted as a Public Footpath in its entirety. Charles II himself recounted the exact details of his escape to the Earl of Clarendon, Samuel Pepys (pronounced “peeps”), and his personal physician, Doctor George Bate. There were few discrepancies in the accounts recorded by each of the three men.

During his time as a fugitive, Charles II apparently gained a new appreciation for the life of the common man in England and how badly the populace had been affected by the English Civil Wars. Traveling in disguise most of the time and without a significant entourage, he relied on loyal subjects and Catholic noblemen for concealment. The subterfuge was elaborate: Charles was at times dressed as a common field hand, had his coiffure changed to match the locals, and even had what would have been the equivalent of a “dialect coach” to teach him how to speak and walk like a local laborer instead of an educated royal. At other times, he adopted an alias.

One of his most notable situations was his brief stay at Boscobel House in Shropshire, on 6 and 7 September 1651. There, Charles spent all day hiding – and even sleeping -- in a nearby oak tree while Parliamentary forces searched nearby. This tree later became known as the “Royal Oak” and a descendant of that tree still stands on Boscobel grounds. The King’s companion at the time, a Colonel Charles Careless, hid with Charles inside the oak tree and was responsible for alerting the King to imminent danger. Meanwhile, Boscobel House caretakers were detained and questioned by Parliamentary forces at the local militia headquarters but somehow managed to convince their interrogators that the King had never been on Boscobel House grounds, nor the White Ladies priory in particular.

So loyal were the Boscobel caretakers that they did not surrender Charles’s location to the Parliamentarian militia, even when reminded that there was a £1,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the King and that the penalty for harboring the royal fugitive was “death without mercy.” However, the proximity of the militia to Charles’s location of concealment emphasized the importance of getting Charles out of England as quickly as possible.

Boscobel House - Image Attribution

Once again, Charles was on the move. His next exploits involved assuming the identity of a servant accompanying a woman who had a travel pass from the Parliamentarian military to visit a friend who was about to have a baby in Abbots Leigh, Somerset. Charles rode with the woman on a single horse, which threw a shoe during the journey. Because Charles had assumed the identity of a servant, it was his responsibility to take the horse to a local blacksmith; there, he engaged in a conversation with the blacksmith. In Charles’s own dictation of the escape to Samuel Pepys, he claimed to have told the blacksmith that “the rogue, Charles Stuart… deserved to be hanged more than all the rest…” Later, the King continued the ruse as a servant and was put to work in the kitchen, tending to a joint of meat roasting in the fireplace. He was inept at winding up the apparatus, and even claimed that he came from such poor beginnings that his family rarely ate meat, hence the inability to operate the roasting jack.

The exploits of the escape became even more elaborate over the next couple of weeks. His loyal accomplices tried to locate available ships to depart from Bristol; there were none available for at least the next month. Finding a hiding place in Trent while two Royalist officers tried to find a ship to sail from Lyme Regis or Weymouth, Charles himself witnessed a celebration by the local villagers who believed that he had been killed at Worcester. No one had recognized him. He later traveled with Juliana Coningsby, a niece of Lady Wyndham (who was the wife of accomplice Colonel Wyndham), pretending to be an eloping couple. They reached the market town of Bridport but found that the town was filled with Parliamentary troops. Charles boldly walked through the town to the best inn and arranged for rooms. He was almost recognized at the inn, but deflected and convinced the ostler that they had been servants together in the employ of a Mr. Potter in Exeter.

After the encounters in Bridport, the escape became much more complicated, but eventually Charles and his longtime traveling companion, Lord Wilmot, reached Brighthelmstone (now known as Brighton). There, the King was recognized by a former servant of the royal household under Charles I. This recognition was immediately problematic for the King; the captain of the vessel that was to transport him and Wilmot to France demanded an additional £200 as “danger money” before he would set sail. On the morning of 15 October 1651, Charles and Wilmot boarded the “Surprise”, sailing at the next high tide, around 7 a.m. A mere two hours later, Parliamentarian cavalry arrived in the village of Shoreham with orders to arrest the King.

Lord Wilmot

The previous narrative is an extreme oversimplification of Charles II’s escape to France. However, throughout the journey, Charles II repeatedly crossed paths with commoners and even assumed the identities of common servants; this is believed to have given him a thorough appreciation for their plight. When he returned to England nine years later at the request of Parliament following the death of Richard Cromwell, England was in political turmoil and the religiously divided House of Commons welcomed the Declaration of Breda in mid-1660. In this declaration, Charles II promised tolerance and liberty. He even promised not to exile past enemies nor confiscate their wealth.

Some historians have characterized Charles II as a popular King and a legendary celebrity in British history. Others have cited his ineptitude and poor judgment as contributing to a series of poorly prosecuted wars in the latter half of the 17th Century. Regardless of the bifurcated opinions, Charles II managed to guide Great Britain out of a period of extended political turmoil and towards the evolution into a constitutional monarchy under the Bill of Rights (1689) and the Acts of Settlement (1701).  These documents actually formed the basis for the United States Constitution, ratified approximately 100 years later.


Michael Paul Hurd retired from full-time employment in 2018 and began writing his first historical fiction novel in August of that year. His “Lineage Series” of novels projects the touchpoints of his family onto events in history on both sides of the Atlantic. Genealogical research indicated that he is a distant relative of Jane Giffard, wife of Sir John Giffard, MP (1466-1556) and their line, which at one time owned Boscobel House. Married to his wife, Sandy (daughter of a British emigrant to the United States), for nearly 40 years, he spent over a decade working in the United Kingdom, from 1983-1994. There he took an interest in British history, studying under Dr. Sid Brown of Leeds University. Fourteen novels are planned for Hurd’s “Lineage Series,” several of which will involve topics relevant to British history as they evolve out of the vignettes of the first book in the series. 

Friday, January 10, 2020

Tea Rooms and the Women’s Suffrage Movement

by Anita Davison
The Gardenia
Until the 1880’s it was not considered respectable for a woman to eat or drink in public either alone or in the company of other women. Kate Frye, an organiser for the New Constitutional Society for Women’s Suffrage, stayed in a Norfolk hotel while organising suffrage meetings. Her diary of 22nd March 1911 states:

Came in, had my lunch [in the hotel dining room] in company with four motorists. It is funny the way men come in here and, seeing me, shoot out again and I hear whispered conversations outside on the landing with the waitress. Then they come in very subdued and make conversation one to another and try not to look at me. Awfully funny – they might never have seen a woman before – but I suppose it does seem a strange place to find one.

Some enterprising business men, and women, saw the need for a haven for women away from the home, especially those providing female rest rooms. Thus cafes and tea rooms started to appear in the west end. These proved immediately popular for suffragists who would gather there or hire adjoining rooms in which to organise their activities and hold meetings.

The smarter restaurants were Slaters, Fullers, and The Criterion Restaurant Room at Piccadilly Circus. Smaller establishments were Alan’s Tea Rooms at 263 Oxford Street, The Tea Cup Inn, Kingsway, and the Gardenia, a vegetarian Restaurant in Catherine Street, Covent Garden.

Some of these cafes were part of chains, like the ABC, founded in the 1880s, and Lyons in 1894, catering for upper-working-class and lower-middle-class women who could sit at separate tables and be served, not by waiters, but by waitresses.

Alan’s Tea Rooms
Corner of Alans Tea Rooms

Alan’s was located on the first floor of No 263 Oxford Street, close by Jay's fashion store. The red brick building, constructed circa 1864, had a semi-circular arcaded Venetian style window, an early-19thc-style fireplace, and contained arts and crafts furniture with slightly splayed legs and high stick-backs chairs with rush seats.

The owner was 34 year old Miss Marguerite Alan Liddle, the daughter of a Shropshire solicitor. She employed her brother, Alan who lent his name to the café, as a manager. When Emmeline Pankhurst split from the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies [NUWSS] in 1903 to form the more militant Women’s Social and Political Union [WSPU], she began a newspaper, Votes for Women, in which Alan’s Tea Rooms was advertised. Helen Liddle lived at 8a Holland St, Kensington as a lodger in the apartment of Miss Emilie Chapman, a nurse, and ran the tearooms until 1916.

After a series of disruptive activities, in October 1909 Helen broke a post office window in protest at women being excluded from a Parliamentary meeting for which she was sentenced to one month’s imprisonment with hard labour. Her companion was Emily Wilding Davison whose will she had witnessed earlier that day. In Helen’s book, The Prisoner, a suffragette memoir, she states that she wanted to describe the atmosphere of prison and its effect upon a prisoner who is forcibly fed. While her brother was advertising her luncheons etc. in Votes for Women her sister was on hunger strike in Strangeways.

The Gardenia opened in 1908 by Thomas Smith, a young man who lived with his wife and two children in rooms above the restaurant. This establishment was well placed for the suffragist movement, as the Women’s Freedom League headquarters were located in Robert Street, just south of the Strand. The WSPU headquarters were to the east of Aldwych in Clement’s Inn. Vegetarian restaurants were particularly popular among suffragettes – many of whom were aligned to the anti-vivisectionist campaign.

The Teacup Inn opened in 1910 in a ground floor shop and basement, located in Portugal Street off Kingsway. Entirely staffed and managed by women, the owners, Mrs Alice Mary Hansell and Miss Marion Shallard, advertised the cafe in Votes For Women as "Dainty luncheons and Afternoon teas at moderate charges. Home cookery. Vegeterian dishes and sandwiches. Entirely staffed and managed by women."

Across Portugal Street, the Tea Cup Inn faced the London Opera House which opened in November 1911 close to the WSPU office. In 1912 the WSPU moved to Lincoln’s Inn House in Kingsway, making the Teacup Inn probably the nearest place of refreshment. The Teacup Inn was advertised at least once in the Pankhurst paper, The Suffragette, in June 1914, stressing: "Kitchens open for inspection".

Molinari’s Restaurant was at 25 Frith Street, Soho, advertised in The Suffragette magazine, offering to donate 5% of their takings to the cause for suffragists who wore badges. However in the 1920s the Home Office reported that its proprietor, Angelo Molinari, was the proprietor of ‘doubtful’ restaurants – suspected of running brothels in upstairs rooms.

Criterion Restaurant - The Criterion Restaurant built in 1874 at Piccadilly Circus [where it still remains] adjoins the theatre. In its Edwardian heyday it offered the Victoria Hall and the Grand Hall for hire on the first floor. The magnificently decorated Grand Hall overlooked Piccadilly Circus and was a café which provided the much vaunted ladies’ cloakrooms. The Actresses’ Franchise League [AFL] held its meetings at the Criterion due to its convenient location close to the theatre district.

Eustace Miles Restaurant opened at at Chandos Place, Covent Garden in May 1906 by Eustace Miles, who was a Cambridge-educated health guru – a real tennis player – prolific author – and vegetarian. He ran his establishment with his wife, Hallie as a ‘Food Reform’ restaurant.

Among his shareholders was the writer E.F. Benson, the headmaster of Eton, Bernard Shaw and his wife, Dr Helen Wilson, a Sheffield-based doctor and suffragist, and Mrs Ennis Richmond, a suffragette who ran West Heath, a progressive school in Hampstead.

Ellen Terry’s daughter, Edith Craig, who lived nearby in Bedford Street, sold Votes for Women from a pitch outside the Eustace Miles.

In March 1907 the WSPU chose it as the venue for a breakfast celebrating the release from Holloway of the prisoners who had been arrested when taking part in the deputation from the first Women’s Parliament. A year later, a breakfast was held for women who had taken part in the pantechnicon raid on Parliament.

English Suffragette China
As with Alan’s Tea Rooms and the Gardenia, the Eustace Miles rented a room for suffragist meetings and by those giving women-related talks. Kate Frye, a non-vegetarian, often ate there. The restaurant flourished during the First World War when meatless cookery became a necessity and stayed in business for over 30 years.

Prince’s Skating Rink Exhibition
In May 1909, the more militant of the suffragist organisations, the WSPU, held a fund-raising event at the Prince’s Skating Rink, Montpelier Square in Knightsbridge, where Mrs Henrietta Lowy and her four daughters together with Una Dugdale ran a tea room to serve refreshments for delegates. Una, the debutante daughter of a naval officer, sparked a national scandal in 1912 when she married Victor Duval, the founder of the Men's Political Union for Women's Enfranchisement, but refused to use the word "obey" in her marriage vows. The hall designated for the tea room was decorated with purple, white and green murals to Sylvia Pankhurst's designs with a blend of Pre-Raphaelite, Biblical and pagan symbolism of a female sower and angels as the centrepiece.

Lowry and Dugdale commissioned a Staffordshire pottery to make china specifically for serving refreshments at the exhibition - white china with a design based on Sylvia Pankhurst’s ‘portcullis’ and sported an ‘angel of freedom’ motif. The initials ‘WSPU’ are set behind the angel set against dark prison bars, surrounded by thistle, shamrock, rose and dangling chains. At the end of the Exhibition, 22 piece sets were offered for sale and used as propaganda tools to convert the ladies’ ‘anti’ neighbours.


From the EHFA Archives, originally posted on February 6, 2015. (Post slightly altered to meet EHFA guidelines.)

Anita Davison also writes as Anita Seymour. Her first published novels were set in the 17th Century and include Royalist Rebel and The Woulfes of Loxsbeare series. Her latest novels are Edwardian cozy mysteries, the Flora Maguire Mysteries.

Research of Edwardian London provided her the opportunity to look at the history of the Women’s Suffragette Movement.

Find Anita:
TWITTER: @AnitaSDavison

Wednesday, January 8, 2020

MacDonald's Choice

By Dr John Little

For many years Britain regarded herself as a seafaring nation and much of her folklore tapped into that. The size of her trading empire, the might of her navy and the ubiquity of her merchant ships upon the world’s oceans made it inevitable that seamanship and competence in navigation were things almost universally admired. History is littered with tales of bravery at sea, feats of endurance and hardihood in the face of great odds. Particular instances which stand out are those of William Bligh, of the Bounty, and Ernest Shackleton. Bligh’s astonishing voyage of 4,164 miles after being cast adrift was a cause of great admiration when he wrote about it on his arrival back in England. Similarly Shackleton’s traversing of 800 miles of ocean in an open boat to fetch help for his stranded expedition was instrumental in making him a national hero.

19th-Century Three Mast Barque similar to the Henry James
(Public Domain Image)

The actual deed of heroism need not involve great distances; Victorian Britain held up Grace Darling as an extraordinary heroine for rescuing people from a wreck using a small rowing boat. This admiration of people who took on the sea in open boats against all odds, has extended to those of other nations. Names such as Willem Bontekoe, Willem Barents, and more modern voyagers like Sir Francis Chichester, Sir Alec Rose and Dame Ellen MacArthur still have power to cause admiration and even awe at what they accomplished. Chay Blyth and Robin Knox-Johnson also come to mind; doubtless there are many others. There is however one man missing from this canon and his name has been almost forgotten, along with his voyage.

Scotland is a nation whose men have used the sea for centuries and this is especially true of those who come from the western isles. In 1888 the first mate of the iron barque Henry James was a Lewisman called Donald MacDonald. On 10 April his ship hit an uncharted rock in the Pacific Ocean and, burdened with several thousand tons of coal, she sank quickly until mostly submerged. There was no chance to take much as the passengers and crew abandoned ship; supplies were loaded into a boat but it was wrecked by the swell. It happened so quickly that some of the crew were stark naked. Thirty people in two boats had to make for the nearest land, which was Palmyra Atoll, almost 50 nautical miles away.

Four small girls, two women, one of them heavily pregnant, and twenty-four men struggled to reach terra firma. When they got there, tired, baked by the sun and almost without resources, they found the island to be deserted. There were no fruits or berries, no vegetables of any kind save coconuts, no animals and, at first, no water supply. There were some abandoned huts which gave shelter but for the next two weeks they foraged and scraped for shellfish, land crabs, sharks, pepper grass and anything else which could sustain life. They were way off a shipping lane and rescue looked as if it might be years away.

Passenger List (Image Credit)

Captain Lattimore asked Donald MacDonald if he would undertake to go and get help. Presumably as a western isles man he was well used to open boat travel; MacDonald refused. The journey proposed was 1300 miles to the nearest possible rescue and he was very unlikely to make it, let alone the men who would go with him. After two weeks on the island MacDonald was looking at one of the four small girls among the castaways and she was struggling to eat and swallow part of a seagull which was raw. One of the crew made a doleful remark to him that the poor child was not long for this world; her name was Laura Mary Hastings. It was at that moment that MacDonald made his choice and undertook to go and find help.

In a twenty-seven foot ship’s boat loaded with what provisions could be spared and many coconuts, he and four other men set off, hoping to reach Samoa. Before he left MacDonald gave a ring to one of the small girls, convinced that he had spent his last day on solid earth and would not make it to Samoa. They went well at first but hit a frightful thunderstorm a few days into their voyage. The coconuts turned sour in the heat and had to be thrown overboard. The rest of the food soon ran out and they resorted to eating their shoes. After eating the leather binding of their telescope they found that their tongues swelled up and their lips cracked; a couple of the men sucked their own blood to gain relief from the hunger. They suffered from dysentery and pain in the guts; the sun dried them out until their skins were burned black and covered in sores from burn and salt.

After eighteen days at sea they were dried out husks, two of the men were incapable of further effort and they had all but given up. As the sun came up on the eighteenth day at sea they sighted Samoa in the far distance and headed for it. Soon they met an island schooner which took them into the harbour at Apia and they could tell their tale and beg for rescue. MacDonald had navigated 1300 miles in an open boat across the ocean and hit his target bang on; a truly amazing piece of seamanship and navigation.

Sketch by helmsman Chambliss of Capt.
Lattimore coming aboard the Mariposa
Image credit
There were steam warships that could have gone to rescue the people on Palmyra but they could not move because of the political situation on the islands which were in a state of civil war. The British consul organised a schooner to go to the rescue but she would have to beat against the wind and the journey would take at least a month. After the schooner’s departure on its mission of mercy a great American steamer, the Mariposa arrived in Apia and its legendary Californian Captain Hayward heard the story for himself. He decided to alter his course and rescue the people on Palmyra, which he did. The steamer arrived at the atoll ten days before the schooner and took on the twenty five people still cast on the shore, taking them to Hawaii from whence the British Consul was able to despatch them homewards. Throughout the whole perilous debacle, no one had died.

The Maripsosa (Public Domain Image)

MacDonald returned home to Glasgow and the shipping community there was full of admiration. His bosses recommended him to the Board of Trade to receive a medal for bravery at sea. This was refused and the only reason that seems plausible was because such a thing would have made national, even international news. The political situation between Britain, the USA and Germany in Samoa at this time was so delicate that the British government had good reason for not wishing to place Samoa centre stage in the attention of the world’s press. The indignation caused in Glasgow was considerable and The North British Shipping Company instead nominated MacDonald for a Lloyds Bronze medal for saving life at sea. This was awarded and the ceremony was reported in the Glasgow newspapers; it was ignored by the newspapers nationally which was rather anomalous. Normally one would have expected to see paragraphs about such things in regional newspapers across the nation. MacDonald would have been a national hero; but it did not happen.

At the ceremony MacDonald appears to have been very shy; he had to have someone speak for him after the medal had been awarded. His family and friends had been told nothing about it, and MacDonald never spoke of it until he described the voyage in a letter forty years later. Unlike Bligh or Shackleton, MacDonald was no patrician with a fine accent; he was an ordinary working sailor from Lewis and this may have had something to do with his treatment; but the non syndication of his story across the UK remains a puzzle.

There is a particular grace note to this story which played out eight years after the rescue. Donald MacDonald was by now the first mate of the Auldgirth, a Glasgow ship on the Australia trade run. Docked at Portland, Oregon, MacDonald saw two young women approach the gangplank of the ship and one of them called up to him and asked if he had been the first mate of the Henry James.

“‘Well ladies, I saw the last of that ship’ I replied.

She then took off her glove, took a ring from her finger and handed it to him. It was his own.

Putting my hands on her shoulders I said ‘Then you are Laura Mary Hastings’

‘Between sobs she answered ‘I am sir, and this is my sister Ada.’”

MacDonald's Medal (Image Credit)
MacDonald’s medal is in New Zealand, where he settled after retiring. His story may be found in a few contemporary newspapers and in more detail in The Gaelic Vikings by James Shaw Grant from which the above extract is taken. Apart from that his name is virtually forgotten in Lewis, in Glasgow, in Scotland and in history.

What MacDonald did ranks with the great open boat voyages in the history of the sea; if this article helps to raise his profile slightly then I can only be glad.


Dr John Little spent almost forty years teaching in various schools in London and the South East. He was head of History at Meopham School and Rochester Independent College. He gained the first History PhD  awarded in the University of Westminster. He has done a considerable amount of long distance walking in the UK and particularly the Lake District. Until he was 52 he could not drive and cycled everywhere, including completing a Land's End to John o' Groats ride. He has cycled extensively in Britain and some parts of Europe. His PhD was grounded in WWI and he has guided numerous trips for children and adults to the Western Front.
He has written nine books, mostly novels, and has settled into historical fiction as his favoured genre. His work is based on real evidence, people and events contained in plausible narratives. He also give talks and presentations on the topics about which he writes.