6 August 2011

Of mice and microfilm

I am spending the day at the Guildhall Library and thought I would take a break to share this. (Apologies for the poor quality: it’s a camera-phone picture of a microfilm). It’s in the inside front cover of one of the quarterage books of the Worshipful Company of Ironmongers. Someone has added a pencil sketch of the Company’s coat of arms, echoing the printed one that already decorates the book’s binding. However, it is different in one important way to the actual coat of arms: in this case a carving from outside Ironmongers’ Hall in Aldersgate.

The crest is supported by salamanders, appropriate for a Company connected with iron because they were reputed to be able to survive fire. It’s a little hard to see on my photo but the salamanders seem to have become mice! I would love to know who drew it and when. All I know is that it must be before 1985 when the manuscript was filmed.

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3 August 2011

Acton Court

This is a portrait drawn by Hans Holbein in about 1535 of Nicholas Poyntz. I share his name, and also a family resemblance. If I’ve worked it out correctly, he is my first cousin thirteen times removed; in other words, I am directly descended from his uncle.

In 1535, Nicholas was living at Acton Court, in the village of Iron Acton in Gloucestershire. This had been in the family since 1364, and at the start of the sixteenth century was a medieval manor house surrounded by a moat. Nicholas had inherited it in 1532 after the death of his father, Sir Anthony Poyntz. In the same year, Nicholas had accompanied Henry VIII to his conference with Francis I at Calais. So he was already known to his king when, in 1535, Henry decided to undertake a royal progress around the west country.

It’s not clear how Acton Court ended up on the itinerary, but whether it was always the plan or was later added, Nicholas seems to have acted hastily to improve the accommodation Henry could expect. Little of the medieval manor building now survives. Instead, this is the sight that greets you as you approach:

This is not the original entrance to the house, but shows the impressive Renaissance brickwork of the east wing that Nicholas had erected. Archaeological work by English Heritage in the 1980s revealed through tree-ring dating that the timbers used in the construction were from the spring of 1535. The building must have gone up in an awful hurry, and would have occupied many local tradesmen as it used a very regionalised technique that did not involve mortar.  The pointing you can see is modern: the walls would then have originally been rendered and whitewashed.

Use of this technique meant it is lucky the building has simply not collapsed under its own weight. Here for example is one end of the east range. The window originally occupied the entire space between the two brick pillars at either side. At a later date, the window has been made smaller and buttresses added to keep the gable from falling down.

The walls have also had to be reinforced:

It’s hard to get a sense now of what this addition to the building would have looked like. In 1680 the building was sold out of the family and became a tenanted farm. What’s left is the east wing, part of a further north range added in around 1550, and various eighteenth and nineteenth-century additions. In this view you can see the remains of the north range, which was originally twice as long, together with the gigantic buttress that supports it. The spiral staircase in the centre, connecting the two, is Elizabethan.

Compare this to a view of the building as it would have looked in 1535:

You can see here the east range with its gigantic chimneys tacked on to the medieval manor.To the south is the original approach to the house. To the north are the formal gardens (still unexcavated), and to the west the original core of the house.

The purpose of the new range was to provide accommodation for Henry and Anne Boleyn. At one end was a gigantic high-ceilinged receiving room, leading through into an anteroom and a bedchamber. A significant amount of panelling and painting still survive inside the building. The reason it has survived is because so little was done to the house after it left the Poyntz family. Most of the buildings came down, the high-ceilinged reception room was used to hang cheeses, and other rooms were partitioned off.

An improvement which seems to have pre-dated the royal visit is this wonderful sundial by Nicholas Kratzer, dated 1520:

It was found in the 1980s in a nettle patch near the building. It seems to have been a broken first iteration: the mason hadn’t carved it correctly according to Kratzer’s plans, so it couldn’t tell the time accurately. It was either thrown away or re-used as a building material. Like so much of what has survived at Acton Court, it is only due to gentle neglect at the time that it still exists. A huge amount of exotic Venetian tableware, for example, has been found in the moat (which had been filled in by about 1550). This would almost certainly have been purchased for Henry’s visit.

There doesn’t seem to be conclusive evidence about whether or not Henry did stay at Acton Court as planned: he had to amend some of his itinerary because of the plague. However, the general consensus is that he did. Nicholas was knighted in 1535, possibly at Acton Court, and steps seem to have been taken before the house was sold out of the family to preserve the buildings (not least to stop them falling over), to commemorate what they were used for.

In 1984 the building was sold, first to a trust that tried and failed to get a grant to restore it, before it then passed to English Heritage. The family legend is that my grandfather (who lived twenty miles away) also considered buying it. Since then English Heritage have done an amazing job of excavating and restoring the site. It is a beautiful place to visit on a summer afternoon, with a restored Tudor garden and surrounded on all sides by meadows with long grass and rare flowers. The building only opens to the public for a limited period: I went last weekend, and if you want to go yourself you have until 14 August this year. The Acton Court website has more details.

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28 July 2011

Anne Fothergill

This post is about a woman called Anne Fothergill, who lived in London in the mid-seventeenth century. I had written the first few sentences of this post before I realised that I had introduced her entirely by way of her relationship to other people – specifically, other men – rather than what she herself did. So let’s start again: Anne was an apothecary.

The fact that we know this about her is unusual. Many women of this period left no trace of their lives at all, and those that did are often defined by their marital status in legal documents: ‘spinster’ or ‘widow’ rather than their profession or what they did. This is certainly the case with Anne’s will, prepared in 1653 and proved in 1665. There she is described as ‘widow of St Giles Cripplegate’. However, we are lucky that the parish clerk for Cripplegate recorded not just the names but also the professions of members of the congregation. Under an entry for the birth of Anne’s granddaughter (also called Anne), we find this:


The context for this entry of 15 September 1639 is that that Henry, husband of Anne’s daughter Mary Walker, was away from London studying at Queens’ College, Cambridge. Sensibly, Mary seems to have gone to her mother’s house in St Botolph’s to give birth. The clerk has recorded not just that Anne was a widow, but also that she was an apothecary.

To discover how Anne came to get this description, we have to go back a number of years to her marriage. She was married to James Fothergill, who had been practising his trade since at least 1606 and who was one of the founding members of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries when James I granted it a royal charter in 1617. The year before, he had been charged by the College of Physicians with giving a pill of ‘aromatibus alephangin’ to a Mrs North. This was a scented pill made from aloe-wood, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, myrrh, rose petals and other ingredients, used in the treatment of epilepsy, vertigo, migraine and melancholy. Many apothecaries in this period fought a running battle against the College’s attempt to regulate their drugs.

As with other trades at this time, widows with sufficient qualifications were allowed by London’s guilds to take over their husband’s business after their death. In the case of the Society of Apothecaries, widows had to demonstrate that they had gained sufficient knowledge of the trade when assisting their husbands. Their time doing so was treated as an apprenticeship and they were allowed to join the Society. In James’s will, he left Anne the lease of the premises from which he ran his business in Little Britain, in the parish of St Botolph.

At some point Anne moved from St Botolph’s to the parish of St Giles Cripplegate. This was where her daughter Mary and son-in-law Henry lived for at least the first half of the 1640s. Possibly she moved to be near them, but she may also have had her own reasons for moving. In the 1640s, Cripplegate saw pitched battles between a puritan faction in the congregation against its high Anglican vicar and churchwarden. At that point, Parliament was on its side, but by the end of Anne’s life nonconformity was rather less favoured. Nonetheless, Cripplegate became a centre for puritans after the Restoration and it may be this that drew Anne there. At least a third of her will deals with matters of faith rather than worldly goods, and in terms that hint at millenarian beliefs:

calling to remembrance the [...] estate of this transitory life and that all flesh must yield unto death when it shall please God to tell doe make constitute and ordaine & deliver this my last will and testament in manner and forme, revoking and annulling by these presents all and every testament and testaments and wills heretofore by me made and declared eyther by word or by writing and this to be taken only for my last will and testament and none other. And first I being penitent for my sinnes and sorry for the same from the bottome of my heart most humbly desiring to be forgiven for the same I give and committ my soule unto Almighty God, my saviour and redeemer in whom and by the merritts of Jesus Christ I trust and believe assuredly to be saved and to have full remission and forgiveness of all my sinnes and that my soule with my body at the generall day or [...] shall rise again with my Lord through the merritts of Christs death passion possesse and inheritt the kingdom of heaven prepared for his best and chosen.

In the meantime, Anne had managed to build up a small property portfolio, with houses in French Alley and Bell Alley in Cripplegate as well as her original premises in Little Britain. The latter she passed on her to daughter Mary. She seems to have managed to run her business and property interests without knowing how to write: her will was signed with her mark rather than a signature, and the fact that a scrivener called James Linwood was one of the witnesses to the will suggests that he may have helped draw it up.

Despite this lack of formal education, what little I have managed to find out about her life suggests Anne must have exercised considerable commercial and confessional agency. She would have had to demonstrate a considerable medical and pharmaceutical knowledge to the Society of Apothecaries in order to be allowed to trade, all of which would have been picked up from observing and assisting her husband. If the wording of her will is hers, then she also seems to have had a developed and individual religious faith. More widely, Anne must have played a very significant role for many friends and neighbours in her parish, dispensing pain relief to help during childbirth and medicines to deal with the stone, fever and other illnesses.

For more on female apothecaries in seventeenth-century London, I would recommend Judith S. Woolf’s article in Chemical Heritage Magazine here, which has three other examples of counterparts to Anne.

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13 July 2011

The journals of James Williamson

A bit of a plug for a new initiative by the National Maritime Museum Cornwall. The NMMC have just launched a new website about maritime history called Maritime Views.  The highlight is a transcription of the journals of James Williamson, a surgeon on a packet ship sailing out of Cornwall. In total he made seventeen voyages around the Mediterranean and across the Atlantic.

The journals are wonderfully well-written and remind me of nothing so much as a real-life version of Matthew Kneale’s English Passengers. Williamson’s account of his first voyage is now up: here are some highlights.

Monday 25 Aug.t 1828 – this morning was very warm, so that I perspire much without exerting myself. Today for the first time saw the flying fish. These are about the size of our herring with two fins near the head so large – that when spread out they will support the fish in the same way as the wings support a bird. But these fish are so constituted that they cannot fly to any great distance – because their wings or fins require to be frequently wette. Some of them having fallen on the deck were next day prepared for breakfast, when we found them to be most excellent eating.

Wednesday 17th – fine day 172 Miles. Saw to day great numbers of Portuguese Men-o-War as these are called. This is a fish, the upper part of which is seen constantly above the water – and it seems like a fin about the size & shape of a Cox-combe. There appear to be two kinds – the one smaller and without any colour – the other 5 or 6 times larger and ornamented with most beautiful and vivid colours. The former are the common Men of War – while the latter may be called the Admirals or Commodores ships.

Saturday 20 Sept.r - the Bananas are a small fruit 5 or 6 inches in length of the shape growing in bunches on one stalk. They have a sweetish insipid taste and I don’t much like them. The Mangoes are about the size of a pigeon’s egg – with a skin like that of a peach. Their taste is delicious, resembling the strawberry precisely in flavour.

But to finish with the Portuguese on board, I shall put down what I have observed relative to their manners.

They seem to me very much addicted to gambling – but of this propensity, I have observed little or nothing since leaving Madeira. They do not by any means drink much – and I believe that they have not consumed the 10th part of the wine, which the same number of Englishmen would have done. Much to my surprise and contrary to all my preconceived notions, I have not found the Portuguese so extremely devout, as I had expected – I never saw them cross themselves – or kneel or keep the Sunday with any form of religion – although we happened to have a Bishop on board.

At dinner as a necessarily appendage or accompaniment a score or two of wooden & elastic toothpicks (called pelillos) are set down, and every gentleman helps himself to these as occasion requires – for not being hard or durable like ours they are soon totally useless. Those made at Lisbon are peculiarly esteemed – & of these, many gentlemen carry a dozen or so in their pockets, for their own accommodation & that of their friends

In some of their habits they are very dirty. For example once or twice at dinner, Lleyall, the merchant, after he had finished eating, took a mouthful of water from his glass – inserted his fingers into his mouth – rubbed his teeth with them and finally squirted the water into his plate. Faugh! Faugh!

Wednesday 10th – today a small schooner was towed into Harbour which had suffered severely during the gale on Saturday last. Her masts were broken – her bulwarks driven in – & in fact she was nearly a wreck – but of 7 men 5 had been washed overboard, & only the Capt.n and a boy remained. The boy also had been washed overboard but luckily got hold of a rope. The Capt.n himself was at the helm when a tremendous sea came & washed him from his place – and he was only saved by his head being jammed in between the tiller and the skylight.

There is also a great article by Tony Pawlyn, who transcribed the journals, about their provenance and history.

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12 July 2011

Now you are four

Four years ago I registered this blog with WordPress and wrote my first post. The blog was only ever meant to last for the length of my MA, if that. But it’s managed to outlive my degree and, while I don’t get as much time to blog now as I’d like, it’s still hugely important to me. I have posted elsewhere about what I get out of blogging so I won’t repeat it here. But I thought I should mark the occasion nonetheless, so I’ve dug out some statistics.

Since 12 July 2007 this blog has had:

  • 148,407 unique views.
  • 404 comments.
  • 303 spam comments.

The most hits I’ve had in one day is 821 – from when the blog got linked to by MetaFilter (as a long time member of MeFi, still probably my proudest blogging achievement).

The most popular posts have been:

None of these are particularly brilliant posts, but I can see why they are popular. Most of them are about Charles I and Cromwell, and I suspect are well-used by students for revision judging by the search terms through which people end up here. Every so often the post on the Mowing-Devil pamphlet gets linked to by paranormal websites interested in crop circles, despite the fact I make clear the pamphlet’s not about crop circles at all.

Much of what is on the blog is throwaway snippets or initial thoughts as I start to engage with a topic, but every so often I have used posts to write up more considered pieces (one of which eventually turned into a published article). Amongst the long-form posts, some of the ones which I wouldn’t entirely disown include:

  • Samuel Pepys and self-fashioning: this post came almost out of nowhere and tumbled out fully formed onto the page over an hour or two.
  • The ghost of Lukas Wainman: by contrast I spent about a week crafting this post, which is as much about me as it is Wainman, and nobody seemed to read it as a result!
  • Recycled woodcuts: 1, 2, 3. I would like to go back and do more with this material at some point.
  • Cromwell and mince pies: prompted by annoyance at various spurious stories in the press last Christmas.
  • The early years of Henry Walker: the product of lots of hours browsing microfilms of parish registers.

The last bullet reflects the fact that I’m currently writing up – well, trying to write up – the initial chapters of a book about Walker at the moment. I never would have started this project without the blog, and particularly not without encouragement from its readers. So here’s to another four years: I may even have finished my book by then.

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