An 18th-century Domestic Fire Engine


The picture above shows the 18th-century Newsham domestic fire engine which today stands in a corridor at Felbrigg Hall, Norfolk (NT). Fire was a constant threat in Georgian mansions, especially given the number of candles, the flammable fabrics of curtains and wall-hangings, and — above all — the many chimneys and fireplaces. Most homeowners lived in constant fear of a breakout and took elaborate precautions against it. If the house did catch fire, it was up to the family and household servants to tackle it.

Felbrigg Hall still has a long line of 18th-century fire buckets hung on the wall as well as this fire engine — state-of-the-art at the time. The engine is mounted on wheels, so it could be dragged wherever it was needed. In use, it was able to direct a thin, continuous stream of water from a swivelling metal pipe and nozzle mounted on the top. Pumping was by hand, with two people able to stand either side and pump in time with one another, using the handles provided. It doesn’t sound too effective by modern standards, but it was a great deal better than people forming a bucket chain to throw water at the fire!

The Development of the Fire Engine

This type of engine harks back to improvements made by a Dutchman, Jan Van der Heyden, (1637–1712). Besides being a painter, draughtsman, printmaker, Mennonite and inventor, Van der Heyden made significant contributions to improving contemporary firefighting. In 1672, with his brother Nicolaes, who was a hydraulic engineer, he designed a better type of fire hose, making it of flexible leather and coupling it to another hose every 50 feet. He also improved the fire engine designs of the time, reorganised the local volunteer fire brigade in 1685 and wrote and illustrated the first firefighting manual, the Brandspuiten-boek.

Drawing on his work, moveable fire engines like this one were further developed by Richard Newsham, an eighteenth-century button-maker of London, and patented by him in 1718. His engines, like the one at Felbrigg, were designed to be pulled like a cart to the fire. They had two single-acting pumps and a water tank which formed the frame of the machine. This tank could be kept filled by hand, using buckets, or connected to a hose from a suitable water-source, such as a pond or stream. They were the first fire engines able to deliver a continuous stream of water and direct it at a fire.

In literature advertising his engines in 1728, Newsham described his invention as:

“The most useful and convenient engines for quenching fires, which carry a constant stream with great force, and yet, at pleasure, will water gardens like falling rain.”

Newsham’s company went on to build the vast majority of English fire engines during the 18th century. They were also popular in the American colonies. Newsham had the foresight to publicise his designs there as well, boasting that his engines were so popular in Britain even King George II had ordered one to protect his palace. The city of New York bought a Newsham engine in 1731. After the Capitol at Williamsburg, Virginia, had been threatened by fire in 1754, the Council of the colony directed:

“. . . that the Receiver General send to London for a Fire Engine and Four Dozen of Leatheren [sic] Buckets for the use of the Capitol.”

The chosen machine, Richard Newsham’s “new water engine for quenching and extinguishing fires”, is still on display at Colonial Williamsburg, I believe. Over the following years, many American cities imported Newsham engines for their fire companies.

When Newsham died in 1743, he passed his company to his son, Lawrence. After Lawrence’s death, his wife took over and joined forces with her cousin George Ragg. So durable were these machines that Newsham and Ragg pumps were still in use in the late 1930s!

How It Works

The smaller pumps were worked by four men. Up to twelve were needed for the largest versions. Those pumping raised and lowered long handles, called ‘brakes’, to either side of the chassis. To increase the power of the jet, in some models more men operated foot-treadles at the corners. Water was usually provided by a bucket brigade, who emptied water into the hopper at the engine’s rear (hence the long row of buckets hung on the wall above the engine at Felbrigg). Some engines (again like Felbrigg’s) came with a suction fitting, which could draw water directly from a pond, river or any similar body of water.

The Felbrigg engine uses a twin-cylinder, single-acting pump equipped with an air chamber. Because truly reliable hoses were unavailable in the 18th century, most Newsham engines, like the one at Felbrigg, had a metal spout to direct the water spray. An iron lever at the front of the machine allowed the operator to switch the pump between using the integral tank and a suction hose attached to a covered nozzle underneath the handle — but not both at the same time. The square iron brackets on the sides of the tank were for wooden rods to lift the engine over obstacles or help steer it, since the iron wheels are fixed and facing in a straight line.

Other surviving Newsham Engines

What is reputed to be the oldest surviving fire engine in the UK — with a design quite similar to Felbrigg’s, but rather more ornate — was purchased by the Corporation of St Albans in 1733. They were directed to buy “one large pump and one small” at a total cost of £40 (around £75,000 to 80,000 today). The surviving machine later saw service in the house of Alderman Francis Nichol, who died in 1778. By 1832, it was in use in a brewery and was taken to tackle a fire in Hatfield House in that year. Finally, it was presented to the local fire brigade in 1903 and kept at St Albans Fire Station, until it was sold and restored privately in 1963.

The South Molton and District Museum in Devon has a much larger version of an engine of Felbrigg’s type, this one pumped by six or eight men, which was bought for £46 (£80,000 – 90,000) in 1736. It remained in use in the town until 1886. Bray, in Berkshire, has a horse-drawn, ten-man Newsham Fire Engine, which was donated to the parish in 1737 by the Right Honourable Lady Anne Coleraine of Canon Hill. It is said to be able to discharge 773 litres (170 gallons) of water a minute over a distance of 38 metres (41 yards). That’s no mean jet of water, though how long the poor men could keep pumping at that rate is anyone’s guess! It was kept in St Michael’s Church at Bray for more than 200 years and was used to protect the whole parish.


Posted in Tid-bits | 4 Comments

Provincial Libraries in the Eighteenth Century


Former Circulating Library, Milsom Street, Bath

The protagonists in both the series of historical mysteries I have written are members of a new force in eighteenth-century British society: ‘persons of the middling sort’ or members of the professional and mercantile middle classes. Mr Ashmole Foxe is a wealthy bookseller and property owner; Dr Adam Bascom is a physician and younger son of a member of the minor gentry. The middle classes were important at this time for many reasons. Their prosperity was growing, as were their numbers, making them increasingly important in political and economic terms. Indeed, by the end of the century, some of them were far wealthier than many of the lesser landed gentry — and even some of the less affluent nobility. Agricultural land, the principal source of income for the latter two groups, no longer paid as well as it once did, even with the effect of newer patterns of agriculture.

The main difference between these prosperous merchants and professionals and the landed gentry and nobility lay in the fact that they worked for a living. They did not rely on inherited, landed wealth — hard to increase and easily lost. They also lived in — and were broadly tied to — urban settings. That was where their businesses and professional practices lay and they had to pay constant attention to them as the source of their wealth. The gentry and nobility still divided their time between London and their country estates, with occasional visits to fashionable ‘watering places’ such as Bath.

However, like their ‘betters’ and unlike those below them, the middle classes were beginning to have a significant amount of time — and appetite — for leisure activities. Those also needed to be available where many of the middle classes lived, in Britain’s burgeoning provincial towns and manufacturing centres.

Booksellers and Newspapers

Booksellers were well established in many provincial centres by the end of the seventeenth century. Since books were expensive and sales turnover consequently low, most supplemented their trade in other ways. The most common of these was printing and distributing pamphlets. Another was the production of a local newspaper. Norwich had its first newspaper (it was the first outside London too) in 1701. Books were heavily advertised in these newspapers, not least because the newspaper publisher and bookseller were often one and the same. It was therefore possible in some areas for books to be ordered and delivered by the men who travelled outside provincial centres, carrying newspapers and pamphlets to small towns and villages.

It was now a small step from selling books to renting them out. This seems to have been the basis on which many commercial libraries began.

Circulating, Subscription and other Libraries

Nomenclature is confused on the topic of early libraries. You shouldn’t imagine that the neat typology I am setting out here was always reflected in real life. Some libraries would come under more than one of these categories. However, for the purposes of explanation, I will consider them separately.

Circulating libraries came closest to the idea of renting books. They were almost entirely linked to booksellers and set up with a clear commercial purpose: to provide for the many readers, especially those desiring the new category of novels, whose appetite for books would otherwise have soon outrun their budgets. The most basic approach was to borrow a book at a set amount per week, payable when the book was returned. Other circulating libraries, perhaps to help with the cost of continually purchasing new volumes, also charged a small monthly or annual subscription.

Subscription libraries proper were set up by various philanthropic or civic societies formed for that purpose. They tended to cater for more serious tastes in reading and might even have their own premises, offering a reading room in which members could consult volumes without further charge. Subscription levels tended, however, to be quite substantial, which restricted their use to the upper levels of society. In Norwich, both charitable societies, such as the Society of United Friars, and scientific societies, such as the Natural History Society and the Norwich Botanical Society, established such libraries for their members. The debating and philosophical societies, such as the Speculative Society and Tusculan Society, both dating from the 1790s, also had substantial libraries, including many books that would be seen as controversial.

A subset of subscription libraries contains those libraries set up by learned societies or similar organisations as an offshoot or adjunct to their main activities. This might include diocesan libraries, expressly catering to the needs of the clergy; libraries associated with philosophical and scientific societies (as noted above); music libraries and libraries designed for use by members of the medical and legal professions. In all cases, membership was restricted to those who had already been accepted into the relevant group or society. If any additional subscription was charged for access to the library, this was normally set aside to help pay for new books.

Reading Groups

It might surprise you to know that book clubs and reading groups were also around at this time. Most were set up by groups of gentlemen — it was nearly always gentlemen — to help share the cost of books. These groups would meet in a private house, or sometimes a coffeehouse, or even an inn. They might charge an entrance fee, often quite a substantial one, followed by an annual subscription, all of which was used to purchase books to be passed around amongst the members. Meeting to discuss what they had been reading was not universal, but it was quite common. At the end of each year, that year’s books — probably quite dogeared by now — were sold off to help defray the cost of new ones. People also passed books around amongst their friends, of course, but these reading groups were far more formal than that.


As provincial towns grew and prospered, their wealthier citizens and civic fathers began to see the provision of certain leisure facilities as an essential sign their town should now be counted as an important centre of culture and learning, as well as a growing manufacturing or commercial base. It’s probably fair to say that the provision of Assembly Rooms and a purpose-built theatre — both in place in Norwich by the 1750s — were top of their agenda. However, libraries also played no small part in helping to extend the cultural life of the provincial town.

Not surprisingly, not everyone welcomed them. One Scottish clergyman, the Rev Robert Wodrow, responded to the provision of a library in Edinburgh with the claim that:

“All the villainous, profane and obscene books and plays printed in London, [were being] lent out to young boys, servant women of the better sort and gentlemen, and vice and obscenity dreadfully propagated.”

(Libraries and their Users, Paul Kaufman, London: Libraries Association, 1969)

He was probably not alone in his view. By contributing to the spread of knowledge and literacy, libraries helped to initiate social change, breaking the stranglehold on learning which the elite had held for so long. Events soon showed, as in the case of Thomas Paine, that books could be a force for subversion as much as prosperity. The genie was out of the bottle and could not be returned.

Posted in Georgian Society

Aristocratic Naughtiness in the Shrubbery


Stoke Park
Note the thick shrubbery in front of the church!

Our Georgian ancestors were just as interested in celebrity gossip as anyone today. The greatest celebrities of the time were to be found amongst the aristocracy; one of the finest sources of gossip came from court cases concerning ‘Criminal Conversation’ (Crim. Con.): civil cases in which an aggrieved husband sued for compensation from his wife’s lover for loss of ‘conjugal comfort, society, and assistance’. Since the essence of these cases was to prove the dealings between the plaintiff’s wife and the defendant were adulterous, the courts were treated to a mass of detailed evidence to prove the two had been up to no good. A successful case might be the prelude to a divorce, although divorces were both expensive to pursue and difficult to obtain. Many a husband remained content with the public shaming of the two parties that a Crim. Con. case produced.

Newspaper reports of the cases tended to be fairly circumspect in their language, but many pamphlets were produced in which the more salacious details were set out in full — or hidden only by dashes and asterisks. Such was the taste of the public for this kind of document that one London publisher produced a book in 1786, entitled “Trials for Adultery: Or, the History of Divorces”, which ran to seven volumes!

In this post, I’m going to concentrate on just two cases. These are the two which, combined with new trends in landscape architecture, turned the word ‘shrubbery’ into one of the favourite printed euphemisms for locations for aristocratic sexual naughtiness.

The Fashion for Shrubberies

Thanks to Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown and Humphrey Repton, the fashioning of parks and gardens surrounding aristocratic mansions had changed markedly. Rather than the formal, geometric arrangements found on the continent, British landscape architects favoured a more natural style of pleasing walks and vistas to produce a harmonious blend of open spaces, trees and coverts, which would lead the eye through the landscape towards a suitable feature, such as a folly, often in the shape of a classical temple, or a distant body of water. The shrubbery was an essential element in this process, especially in the work Humphrey Repton. It provided shelter from the sun and wind, a pleasant area in which to walk or a secluded place to read, picnic or — naturally — to indulge in activities you wished to keep away from prying eyes.

Lady Foley and Mrs Arabin

Motion for a new trial on behalf of Lord Peterborough, in the action brought against him Mr. Foley for crim. con. with Lady Ann Foley, came on to be argued. The ground on which Lord Peterborough contended for a new trial was, that the verdict which was for plaintiff, Mr. Foley, with 2,500l [£2,500, maybe be £450–500,000 today] damages, was against evidence. At the trial it had been attempted to be proved, that Mr. Foley was privy to, and conniving at the general incontinency at least of Lady Ann, if not conscious of the present instance of infidelity ; and that he did not use all those means which he ought, to have prevented it. Mr. Mingay argued, that a husband, in such a case, should not be suffered to take advantage of an injury which he might have prevented and compared it to the case of Sir Richard Worsley, in which Lord Mansfield laid down the rule of law so to be. —This rule of law was not denied Mr. Foley’s counsel; but it was strongly contended by them, that there was no evidence whatever of any such fact; and of this opinion was the Court unanimously . . . The rule for a new trial was therefore discharged, and Mr. Foley remains in possession of the verdict.

(Hereford Journal, Thursday 05 May 1785)

The successful case brought against the Earl of Peterborough at Hereford Assizes by Edward Foley hinged almost entirely on evidence from a passerby on what he had seen taking place within a shrubbery on the Foley estate at Stoke Park, Stoke Edith, a few miles from Hereford. So intrigued did the public become with this particular case of aristocratic naughtiness in the shrubbery that the trial was written up in great detail in a publication entitled “The Trial, with the Whole of the Evidence, and the Speeches of the Counsel, &c. In an action at…Hereford…wherein the Hon. Edward Foley was Plaintiff, and the Right Hon. Charles Henry, Earl of Peterborough and Monmouth, Defendant, for Criminal Conversation with Lady Ann Foley… For Adultery”(G. Lister, London, 1786).

The Arabin case took place in 1785 and also centred on evidence involving Mrs Henrietta Arabin’s frolics with a Mr. S—n in a shrubbery in their villa garden. Links to the Foley case became explicit as in this comment:

It is pretty remarkable that Mrs A—b—n’s shrubbery frolic, should have been the exact counterpart of that of Lady Ann Foley. —From the above examples, the nurserymen have been applied to for the purpose of planting with thick growing shrubs several fashionable villas!

(Morning Post, 28 June 1785)

In yet another successful publication on this topic, comes the following statement:

“Fidelity in Wives is all a Joke,
Whilst there is a Coffin,
Shrubbery, or Oak.”

(“Amusements in High Life, or Conjugal Infidelities in 1786”, G. Lister, London, 1786).

I’m not sure about the coffin. That sounds rather uncomfortable to me! Yet another publication included this snide comment, with its reference to both villas (the site of Mrs Arabin’s amours) and estates (alluding to Lady Foley):

A correspondent who has been present lately that the sale of some villas and estates, observes, that the auctioneers dwell much on the excellence of the shrubberies, in their encomiums; and that this circumstance generally weighs more than all the other good properties of the estate. The style is generally thus — dining room, parlour, four-post bedstead shrubberies, &c. &c.

(Morning Post, 7 July 1785)

Shrubberies were planted in many of the pleasure gardens in London and provincial cities; places notorious for the liaisons that took place in their remoter regions. This may have added to the idea linking shrubberies and sex in the public mind. I don’t have to explain the various other salacious comments in which male trees and female shrubberies were linked.

Adulterous goings-on could take place almost anywhere suitably private and tolerably comfortable, but somehow the shrubbery seems to have become indelibly associated in the public mind with an aristocratic contempt for morality and respectability. As a result, it featured heavily in jokes, double entendres and euphemisms. Since the discovery of the guilty couple also usually involved a Peeping Tom, spy or curious passerby, this linked the supposedly hidden misbehaviour of the aristocracy to ordinary people going about their day-to-day life.

What more could a newspaperman ask for?

Posted in Georgian Society | 2 Comments

Georgian Booksellers in Norwich

Maps.K.Top.27.21.b, plate 17

Those of you who have read my “Ashmole Foxe” series of historical mysteries will know that Mr Foxe is a bookseller in the city of Norwich during the 1760s. Nothing about him is inauthentic to the period, so far as I am able to ascertain, save for his tendency to spend a good deal of his time in solving murder mysteries. To prove the point — and, I hope, interest the rest of you — this post is all about actual booksellers in the city between 1701 and around 1790, with special emphasis on the Chase family, whose activities informed my imagination in creating Mr Ashmole Foxe.

By the start of the 18th century, the ‘middling sort’ — tenant farmers, tradesmen, shopkeepers and the new professionals — were becoming a sizeable group within the society of the time. All had increasing leisure and disposable wealth, which they looked to use in emulation of the gentry. Before this time, there had been few booksellers outside London and the university cities of Oxford and Cambridge, but by 1701, several booksellers had set up in Norwich, generally combining their trade with that of printing. It was one of these bookseller/printers, a man called Goddard, who, in that same year, started the first newspaper outside London. He was soon followed by two others, so that, by 1707, there were three newspapers in the city, none of which was particularly successful.

Maybe it was an attempt to cut his costs which persuaded Mr Goddard, in 1710, to put his struggling newspaper in the hands of one of his apprentices, William Chase, a lad of barely 16 with only one year’s experience behind him. It should have been a disaster, but it was not. Indeed, another of the newspapers, the Norwich Post, was also being run by a teenage apprentice, Edward Cave, at around the same time.

William Chase set up on his own account as a bookseller in 1714, becoming a Freeman in 1716. At first he sold Goddard’s newspaper, then began his own, changing the name several times, until it settled down as the Norwich Mercury in 1720. Not only that, he branched out from bookselling into other kinds of publishing and printing, holding book auctions (alone and in conjunction with Goddard) and expanding his second-hand books business to the extent of buying and selling complete libraries. He was obviously both a clever businessman and a natural entrepreneur, soon becoming a wealthy and influential man as a result. When he died, in 1744, his wife, Margaret, continued to operate his businesses until his eldest son, another William, was able to take over.

William Chase II

As the son of a Freeman bookseller, William was able to become a freeman himself in 1749, at which time he assumed full responsibility for the family business. Indeed, he developed the business into one of the largest in the city and certainly the largest bookseller.

While bookselling, printing and publishing remained at the core of Chase’s business, he later branched out into other areas. He sold paper and stationery, patent medicines and even tea, coffee and chocolate. Since this was Norwich (famous for canaries), his advertisements also mentioned: “Canary seed for birds, as good and as cheap as any.” He continued to buy and sell second-hand books, as his father had done, and let his bookshop act as a kind of library, allowing customers to borrow books at a set charge per week. He never set up a formal circulating library, as Ashmole Foxe’s partner, Mrs Crombie, does in my books, but all the rest was there.

In time, Chase dropped the sales of groceries and the like, but added music, popular prints and caricatures, and lottery tickets to the range of goods on offer. As well as casual printing, he printed books, maps and other ephemera, plus the first Norwich Directory. He expanded the book auction business, holding auctions in other Norfolk towns and began to deal in property and auctions for other goods, including china and even livestock. None of these extra services were unique to the Chase family. What was unusual was the sheer range and scale of what William Chase II was able to offer.

By the time he died in 1781, William was a rich man with a wide range of interests in the city, serving on the Common Council for many years and as Guardian of the Poor several times. His interest in these roles seems not to have been especially political; it was probably due to the business benefits that could accrue from being involved with the City Corporation and the contracts it awarded. He made sure to secure work from the Diocese of Norwich and the established church generally. Such ‘highbrow’ official printing, was balanced by the publication of details of forthcoming trials, followed by accounts of the verdicts and subsequent executions at the gaol, including supposed ‘dying speeches’ and confessions on the scaffold.

After his death, the business continued under his heir, yet another William, but never attain to the same heights, though various descendants of the original two Williams continued to play significant roles in bookselling and printing well into the 19th century.

Posted in C18th Norfolk, Georgian Society | 5 Comments

Punch: The 18th Century’s ‘Middling’ Drink


Hogarth’s view of a punch party in 1733
(CC) Welcome Collection

Different choices of alcoholic drink have long been associated with wealth and class, from the finest and most expensive imported wines to the roughest ciders. Georgian times were no different. When gin, brought from Holland by the soldiers of William of Orange, became popular amongst the poor, it did so mostly because it was cheap, especially compared with brandy, which had to be imported. Beer was available freely, but was considered an everyday drink, not suitable for entertaining — and meeting in social venues fast became an essential part of life for the Georgian ‘Middling Sort’. Clubs and societies of all kinds sprouted up everywhere, driven in part by increasing wealth and in part by an increase in available leisure time. The wealthy had long devoted themselves to various ways of socialising with their peers; now the middling sort wanted to do the same — but less expensively.

The Origins of Punch

Punch was an exotic drink — at least at the start — but one that was easy to make and not too expensive. The word itself is of Hindi origin, revealing its links to the exciting world of the Far East, and comes from the word for ‘five’: the original number of ingredients. The basics were a spirit (usually rum or brandy) to provide alcoholic content, various fruits and spices, sugar and something to bulk it out, perhaps cheap wine or fruit juice or even tea.

When the rich drank punch, they naturally used only the most expensive ingredients:

The Regent’s (George IV) Punch

“Pare as thin as possible the rinds of two china oranges, of two lemons, and ove one seville orange, and infuse them for an hour in half a pint of thin, cold syrup; then add to them the juice of the fruit. Make a pint of strong green tea, sweeten it well with fine sugar, and when it is quite cold, add to it the fruit and syrup, with a glass of the best old Jamaica rum, a glass of Brandy, one of Arrack, one of pine-apple syrup, and two bottles of Champagne. Pass the whole through a fine lawn sieve until it is perfectly clear, then bottle and put it into ice until dinner is served. We are indebted for this receipt to a person who made the punch daily for the prince’s table, at Carlton palace, for six months; it has been in our possession for some years and may be relied on.”

Modern Cookery for Private Families, Eliza Acton (1849)

Punch Parties

Just as coffeehouses provided a meeting place for middle-class men, so a few punch taverns or punch houses sprang up in major cities. However, they seem not to have caught on, perhaps because punch is easily prepared at home. Instead, as groups of middle-class ladies began to meet over tea for social purposes, so men started to hold punch parties for similar reasons. Tea was thought of as a polite drink, but perhaps not quite ‘masculine’ enough for the kind of male get-together at which tongues would be loosened and inhibitions set aside. Alcoholic punch served the purpose better and became something of an English male obsession during the middle and end of the eighteenth century. It sat in the middle between the cheapest alcoholic drinks — and the low-class taverns and grog-houses where they would be served — and the expensive wine, port and brandy that marked out the tables of the gentry and peerage. A half-crown bowl of punch (two shillings and sixpence) would serve about eight people, making each serving cost around 3.5 pence (about the same as a cup of Starbuck’s latte today) — compared to beer at a penny per pint.

It also became seen as a quintessentially English drink; a misapprehension that Addison made fun of in the Free-Holder of 5th March, 1716. He reports talking with a boorish country squire, who denigrates everything foreign or associated with overseas trade. They end up sharing a bowl of punch, at which Addison points out the other man’s foolish bigotry thus:

I took this occasion to insinuate the advantage him, that water was the only native of England this occasion: but that the lemons, the brandy , the sugar, and the nutmeg lemons, were all foreigners. This put him into some confusion.

The new socio-political clubs and dinners that arose during the latter part of the eighteenth century, especially during the Napoleonic wars, often used the serving of good punch to mark their ‘elite’ status as important citizens, even if they were not members of the gentry. It was all part of the gradual rise of the middle class into greater prominence and growing political ‘clout’. While these meetings could get rowdy, most were fairly serious affairs for the discussion of economic and political issues important in an age of growing commercialism.

Serving Punch

In line with its modest level of refinement, the bowls for serving punch were generally made of decorated china and earthenware. Lower quality ones certainly existed, as did some made of glass and silver for the gentry, but most were typical middle-class possessions. A ‘China Punch-bowl’, allegedly stolen from the house of one William Lawrence in 1737, was said to be worth worth 5s (£40 – 50 in today’s money). Many are mentioned in the inventories associated with wills at almost all levels of Georgian society, proving how widespread the drinking of punch had become.

To make ye best punch

“Put 1½ a pound of suger in a quart of water, stir it well yn put in a pint of Brandy, a quarter of a pint of Lime Juice, & a nutmeg grated, yn put in yr tosts or Biskets well toasted.”

Katherine Windham’s Boke of Housekeeping, 1707

By the mid-century, some punch pots looked very like large teapots, their different use mostly proved by lettering or pictures on them referring to punch. Why were they used? Perhaps to make an overt link between tea (a polite drink for ladies) and punch as a polite drink for gentlemen. Maybe it also helped the host to control the amount taken by anyone. An open bowl was an invitation to dip in; a lidded pot required someone in charge of pouring the drink out. Perhaps its use also made punch drinking more acceptable in mixed company, since we know both genders drank punch, at least in domestic settings.

It would be easy to extend this post further, but I think this is enough for the moment. I find it odd that research into this fascinating topic is rather limited — a chance for an aspiring Ph.D. student, perhaps?

Posted in Georgian Society | 1 Comment

The Eccentric Mrs Atkyns


Charlotte Atkyns, née Walpole, deserves a prominent place amongst 18th-century Norfolk eccentrics, despite the fact that she was neither Norfolk born nor — though she was happy to suggest it — related to the well-known Norfolk Walpole family, descendants of Sir Robert Walpole, the first prime minister.

Charlotte was born in Ireland around 1758, the daughter of a William Walpole of Athlone. She became an actress, making her debut in Dublin in January 1776, and playing at various theatres in the city throughout that year. Her first London appearance was at Drury Lane in October 1777, where she had modest success. By 1778, she was appearing at the Theatre Royal, Bristol, and displaying her versatility as a singer as well as an actress. The theatre management announced her in this way in the local newspapers:

“She is a good Singer, an excellent Actress, and it is a matter of dispute with the young Londoners in which character she appears to most advantage, male or female.” [i.e. in “breeches” parts, as in the image above]

In 1778 – 79, she returned to Drury Lane where she added dancing to her repertoire of skills. However, after that season she did not continue on the stage. The reason was simple. In May 1779 she married Edward Atkyns of Ketteringham Hall, near Wyndham in Norfolk, and bore him a son in 1780, though like many actresses who married into the gentry, she does not seem to have been easily accepted by her husband’s peers. The couple spent some time abroad, a fact that was put down to financial difficulties, at least by those who doubted her husband’s wisdom in marrying her. This is what Lady Jerningham wrote in a letter from Lille in 1784:

“A great many people have taken refuge here, to fly from their creditors in England; among the rest a Norwich family and a Mrs Atkins of Ketteringham. She was a player, a friend of Miss Younger. You may remember to have heard of her, and he was always a great simpleton or else he would not have married her.”

Others were more complimentary. A note preserved in the Folger Library and dated 1790, reads:

“Mrs Atkins, late Miss Walpole of Drury Lane Theatre, is perhaps the most [enterprising?] Female Equestrian. This Lady, whose residence is at Lille in Flanders, frequently rides for an airing… to Calais, which is 74 miles and returns the following Day with the greatest ease.”

The French Revolution

During the French Revolution, various tales circulated about Mrs Atkyns and her activities. Some claimed she acted as a spy for counter-revolutionaries; others that her heart was set on freeing Marie Antionette from imprisonment and spiriting her and her son out of the country to safety. Unfortunately, the sources for most of them date from long after the lady’s death and are heavily laced with romanticism.

I’m not going to go into those matters in this blog. They demand fuller treatment, which must be reserved for another occasion. All that matters now is to note that she gained something of a reputation for enthusiastic support of causes dear to her — and for spending her husband’s money on them.

The Norwich Election of 1806

Edward Akyns died young (36) in 1794 and Charlotte lived on alone at Ketteringham Hall. All was quiet until another matter arose into which she threw herself with her typical vigour.

Although women couldn’t vote at the time, a good number of ladies from the gentry and aristocracy took active roles in supporting their chosen ‘side’ in parliament. In 1806, the previous government, dubbed ‘The Ministry of All The Talents’, collapsed and fresh elections were called.

In Norfolk, the election for the two county members was especially fiercely fought. On the Whig side, Thomas Coke and William Windham opposed Colonel John Wodehouse, a man of firm Tory principles, assisted in his ambition by the wealth he had obtained by marrying an heiress. Both sides canvassed hard. However, the Whigs found themselves at a decided disadvantage in terms of feminine support, going so far as to claim that they were victims of a female conspiracy.

Coke had hoped for the support of Lady Townsend, but she preferred to ignore the Norfolk County vote in the hope of getting her son elected at Great Yarmouth. Windham had been both a member of the outgoing cabinet and a vocal supporter of war in the administration of William Pitt the Younger. As a result, he was now unpopular, since he was associated with a war against France of which many people were thoroughly tired. He also found female support decidedly lacking.

“Vote for the Colonel!”

The Whigs were even more irritated when two Tory ladies, a Mrs Bernie and our Mrs Charlotte Atkyns, decided to take a public part in proceedings. They rode around Norwich in a carriage, dressed in the Tory colours of pink and purple, canvassing and calling out “Vote for the Colonel!”

Things turned nasty. The Whigs denounced the two women as Amazons, “brazen-faced widows”, and “saucy and over-bold witches”, who dared:

“To trade and traffic with our fate
In riddles and affairs of state.”

Since both ladies had once been actresses, a good deal of sexual innuendo and general mud was also thrown against them. The Whigs even went so far as to dress two local prostitutes in their own colours and have them ride around Norwich the next day, pouring scorn on the Tory ladies. Coke at least was embarrassed:

“… some of Coke and Windham’s party placed two prostitutes in a barouche and drove them about in imitation of those ladies. Mr Coke said that on hearing of it, he did what he could to prevent it, but found one of his nephews at the head of the mob, which he could not stop.”

Coke and Windham won — just — but it proved a short-lived victory. The two Tory ladies were not to be outdone. They raised a petition, claiming bribery and electoral fraud. Coke and Windham lost the subsequent case, though neither were punished. However, the election result was declared null and void and had to be held again.

Since the two Whigs were said to have spent £33,000 on the previous election and defending the petition, neither had the means to take part in the re-run. Windham was given a seat for a safe “pocket Borough” by one of his supporters. Coke took his brother’s seat. Colonel Wodehouse also refused to stand again. Two Whigs were therefore elected, neither of whom had stood before. You might well say Mrs Atkyns had won in the end, even though no Tory member got elected.

As a postscript, it’s worth noting there was yet another election in 1807. This time, Windham tried to persuade one of the Whigs victorious in 1806 to stand aside for him, but was rebuffed. His personal unpopularity had grown to the point where he had no chance of re-election, either for Norfolk or his short-lived pocket Borough, so he withdrew from politics altogether.

Posted in Norfolk Eccentrics, Politics

Cat Epitaphs


Gravestone of Harry McNeish in Karori Cemetery showing statue of Mrs Chippy (Nigel Cross)

From the middle of the century, epitaphs for pet cats, usually in the form of poems, begin to appear in various newspapers and magazines. Here are some lines from one published anonymously in the London Magazine of 1733, obviously by a poet:

Oppressed with grief, in heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn.
How shall I sing? What numbers shall I choose?
For in my favourite cat I’ve lost my muse . . .
. . . She in the study was my constinate;
There we together many evenings sate.
Whene’er I felt my towering fancy fail,
I stroked her head, her ears, her back and tail;
And, as I stroked, improved my dying song
From the sweet notes of her melodious tongue.
Her purrs and mews so evenly kept time,
She purred in metre and she mewed in rhyme . . .

Another epitaph, published in the Gentleman’s Magazine in 1769, opens like this:

Here lies beneath this verdant hill
Tom, a favourite cat,
Who when alive, did never spill
The blood of mouse or rat.

William Stukeley, antiquarian, wrote this of the death of his cat, Tit:

The creature had a sense far superior to her kind; had such inimitable ways of testifying her love to her master and mistress, that she was as a companion, especially so to me . . . From the admirable endowments of the cat I took a great liking to her, which gave me so much pleasure, without trouble. Her death I grieved for exceedingly .

She was buried in his garden under a mulberry tree, but poor Stukeley could never bring himself to go near it afterwards, or even look at her grave.

This comes from a tombstone at Meaford Hall, Stone, in Staffordshire.

’Tis false that all of pussy’s race
Regard not person but the place,
For here lies one who, could she tell
Her stories by some magic spell,
Would, from the quitted barn and grove,
Her sporting haunts, to show her love,
At sound of footsteps, absent long,
Of those she soothed with purring song,
Leap to their arms in fond embrace,
For love of them, and not for place.

As a final example, here’s the opening of an epitaph from 1775, published in the London Magazine:

Here lies entombed poor honest Blewet.
Poor honest Blewet, pray who’s that?
Some tippling Poet? No, a Cat . . .
It was a loving, lovely creature
Compleat in every grace and feature.

There’s more, but that gives a flavour of the whole.

Why does it seem that literary folk and cats are natural companions? I don’t know, but some of you may have ideas on the topic. If so, please add them via the comments.

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