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HAPPY 153rd BIRTHDAY TO BEATRIX POTTER

July 28, 2019, is the 153rd birthday of Beatrix Potter, an extraordinary woman we remember with great affection and appreciation.  Victoria here, a lifelong fan of Peter Rabbit and the other familiar characters she wrote about.

Born in 1866, Helen Beatrix Potter (died 1943) lived in London and vacationed in the Lake District and Scotland.  She studied animals and plants, and developed a love of the outdoors as well as an ability to draw plants and fungi. 

This website (click here) will give you all the background you need on the stories, her life, and her legacy.  It also provides information on the recently discovered Tale of Kitty-in-Boots which was published in September 2016, a special treat for all of us.
Perhaps Potter’s most valuable contribution, beyond her stories, is her gift of more than four thousand acres of land in the Lake District of Britain. She left the land to the National Trust which has maintained her Hill Top Farm (click here) open to visitors. Most of the land is incorporated into the Lake District National Park.
 
Hill Top Farm

 

One of my favorite stories is The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.  I suspect it is more because I adore hedgehogs, not because I am a neatness freak about housework and laundry.

 

Fortunately, Potter’s stories and their wonderful illustrations have been preserved.  No disney-fication for them!  My grandchildren have greatly enjoyed the DVDs from the BBC with the original characters.  

In 2006, Miss Potter, starring Renee Zellweger was filmed. The trailer is here.  

Renee Zellweger as Beatrix Potter
The Real Thing!

Hooray for you, Beatrix Potter!! And thank you for all your gifts.

THE SALE YARD

From The Horse-World of London by William John Gordon (1893)

Tattersall’s is usually looked upon as the headquarters of horsey London. It is certainly the headquarters of the horse of pleasure, but, as has been made clear enough in these pages, that sort of horse is simply lost in the thousands that throng our streets. Tattersall’s is practically the great betting exchange, but the visitor to any of the Monday or Thursday sales will be puzzled to find the least sign of a betting atmosphere at Knightsbridge. The two things are as distinct on those days as, say, the Bank of England and Capel Court. The yard is under cover, a lofty glass-roofed hall, which cost 30,000L to build, and which is as big as many a railway station. It is surrounded by a handsome gallery, behind the arched and columned screen of which every type of pleasure vehicle seems to be ‘on view,’ duly numbered in ‘lots’ for the hammer. In the centre of the gravel area is a drinking fountain, surmounted by the quaint old Georgian bust of the founder, with its eyes fixed on the entrance doors, and its thoughts apparently as far away from water as are those of the crowd around.

It is a different variety of crowd from that which gathers in any other sale yard. London has several ‘repositories.’ There is Aldridge’s in St. Martin’s Lane; there is Kymill’s in the Barbican—these two being the chief; and there are Stapleton’s out in the East, and Ward’s in the West, and the Elephant and Castle in the South, and others which many a horse knows well. There is a sort of horse that ‘knows the lot’; the sort that ‘does the round,’ and brings more money to the auctioneers than to the unfortunate buyers, who ‘find him out’ in a fortnight, and ‘get rid of him sharp’ to an unwary successor; a wonderful animal this horse, ‘quiet in harness, a good worker,’ who has only two faults, one that ‘it takes a long time to catch him in a field,’ the other that ‘he is not worth a rap when caught.’ But this kind of horse does not put in many appearances at Knightsbridge. Tattersall’s has a character to keep up, and it has kept it up for over a hundred years now. It is eminently respectable, from the unused drinking fountain and the auctioneers’ hammer, one of the good old pattern, with a rounded knob instead of a double head, down to the humblest hanger-on.

Entering one of the stables which open on to the yard, and have a dozen or more roomy stalls apiece, we find a horse being measured, to make sure he is correctly described. One would think he was a recruit, from the careful way in which the long wooden arm is brought down so gingerly as not even to press in his skin. Soon his turn will come. Up in the gallery will go his number, and the young auctioneer in the rostrum below —which has a sounding-board, as if it were a cathedral pulpit—will read out his short title.

Out comes the horse at last—tittuppy-trot, tittuppytrot. ‘Ten,’ says one of the crowd. ‘Ten guineas,’ echoes the auctioneer. ‘Twelve,’ comes from the crowd; ‘twelve guineas,’ echoes the Varsity man in the pulpit. And so the game goes on with nods and shouts, each nod or look being worth a guinea, so that the solo runs, ‘Thirteen—thirteen guineas—fourteen guineas—fifteen guineas—sixteen—sixteen guineas— seventeen—eighteen—twenty guineas’—quite a singsong up to—’ twenty-eight guineas’—and so gradually slowing, with a spurt or two to ‘forty guineas’—and then a grand noisy rally till ‘fifty-five’ is reached. ‘Fifty-five?—Fifty-five?—Fifty-five? Last time, Fiftyfive!’—knock—and away goes Captain Carbine’s hunter, to make room for a ‘match pair’ that will change hands at 165 guineas, or perhaps fifty more if the season has begun—the bidding always in guineas, in order that the auctioneer may live on the shillings, as Sir John Gilbert used to do in the old days when the guineas flowed to him for his drawings on the wood.

If you want riding horses or carriage horses you go to Tattersall’s; if you want draught horses for trade, you go to Bymill’s or Aldridge’s, where you not only get the new-comers, but also the second-hand, and many-another-hand, from London’s stables. With those second-hand horses we need not overburden ourselves; our task has been to bring the first-hand horses into London, and sort them out. We have brought in the ‘bus horses, the tram horses, the cab horses, the railway horses, the cart and many other horses. Of the cart horses we could, if it were worth while, say a good deal more. We have said nothing of the distillers, the millers, the soap merchants, the timber merchants, the better class contractors, and half a dozen other firsthand horse-owning trades. Some of the distillers’ horses are said, by those who know, to be as good as any in the brewers’ drays, and by ‘as good’ is meant that they are of the same breeding, and can be compared with them, owing to their being at somewhat similar work.

If you think you know anything of horseflesh and want the conceit taken out of you, by all means attend a repository sale. You will see a horse—it may be a likely mare—led from her stall and stood ready for her turn, and you will probably value her at, to be reasonable, 20L; and she looks worth not a penny less. When her number goes up at the window you will see her shown at her best at a run, and, for a moment, you will be inclined to add hi. to your estimate, But soon a chill will run down your back as you hear the bidding. ‘Three! Three and a half! Four!’ a long pause. ‘Four and a half! Five!’ jerks the auctioneer in the corner, with about as much expression as if a penny had been put in his mouth to work him automatically. ‘For the last time! Five!’ Knock. Five guineas! And as the mare is led back to her stall she seems to Change before your very eyes, and you are ready to admit that she doesn’t look worth a penny more!

THE PASSING OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE

Prince Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge
From The Letters of Queen Victoria
Queen Victoria to the King of the Belgians.
Buckingham Palace, 9th July 1850.
My Dearest Uncle,—We live in the midst of sorrow and death! My poor good Uncle Cambridge breathed his last, without a struggle, at a few minutes before ten last night. I still saw him yesterday morning at one, but he did not see me, and to-day I saw him lifeless and cold. The poor Duchess and the poor children are very touching in their grief, and poor Augusta,1 who arrived just five hours too late, is quite heart-broken. The end was most peaceful; there was no disease; only a gastric fever, which came on four weeks ago, from over-exertion and cold, and which he neglected for the first week, carried him off.
The good Prince of Prussia you will have been pleased to talk to and see. Having lived with him for a fortnight on a very intimate footing, we have been able to appreciate his real worth fully; he is so honest and frank, and so steady of purpose and courageous. Poor dear Peel is to be buried to-day. The sorrow and grief at his death are most touching, and the country mourns over him as over a father. Every one seems to have lost a personal friend.
As I have much to write, you will forgive my ending here. You will be glad to hear that poor Aunt Gloucester is wonderfully calm and resigned. My poor dear Albert, who had been so fresh and well when we came back, looks so pale and fagged again. He has felt, and feels, Sir Robert’s loss dreadfully. He feels he has lost a second father.
May God bless and protect you all, you dear ones! Ever your devoted Niece, Victoria R.

A VISIT TO DOWNTON ABBEY

Back in March, Victoria and I traveled to see the Downton Abbey Exhibition in West Palm Beach, Florida. It was a multi-media extravaganza, using film, projection, interactive displays, props, sets and costumes from the original to bring the series to life. Right off the bat, we were greeted by two familiar faces.

 

Do take a moment to watch the introductory trailer below to familiarize yourself with the Exhibition –

Props on display, used to impart authenticity to the Downtown sets, even if viewers will never actually see them, include the bank notes above and, below, the telegrams that had such an impact on the plot lines –

Below, items belonging to Tom Branson, including his wristwatch and ribbons won at the local agricultural fair.

Of course, the servants were well represented, as well –

Once through the green baize door, we were greeted by life sized holograms of Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson.

           

        

           

      

In “The Library” visitors are treated to an ever changing array of moving scenes which are projected onto the walls, making you feel as though you are part of the action.

           

           

Violet, Dowager Lady Grantham, was a particular of the show for us.

           

Then it was on to Lady Mary’s bedroom –

           

And finally, the costumes –

           

The Ladies of Downton were well represented –

        

 

           

           

                       

                 

                  

The final exhibit was a representation of the dining room –

And lastly, Lord and Lady Grantham bid us adieu and thanked us for visiting Downton Abbey.

The Downton Abbey Exhibition in West Palm Beach, Florida was scheduled to close on April 22nd and, at the time Vicky and I visited, there were no plans for it to move on to a new location. Click here to see if that’s changed.

In the meantime, here’s a teaser for the forthcoming Downton Abbey movie, set to be released in September 2019.

THE DEATH OF WILLIAM IV

William IV, the Sailor King, died on 20 June 1837. He was the third son of George III and younger brother and successor to George IV and was the last king and penultimate monarch of the House of Hanover. While William’s reign was much more sedate than that of his brother, George IV, with less scandal and spending and more attention being paid the business of running the country, William IV did have one bane to his existence – his sister-in-law the Duchess of Kent, mother to Princess Victoria.

King William’s problems with the Duchess began early in his reign – in fact, at his coronation, as related in a book called When William IV was King By John Ashton:

During the procession to the Abbey (for the Coronation of William IV) the weather was fine, and the sight a brilliant one; but, soon after one o’clock, a very heavy rain descended ; the wind, too, blew with great violence, and occasioned rattling and tearing among the canvas canopies of the newly erected stands. It ceased for a short time, between two and three, when it broke out afresh, and was particularly lively when the ceremony was over, at half-past three. It quite spoilt the return procession, some of the carriages driving straight away, and those that fell into rank had their windows up.

In spite of the weather, London was brilliantly illuminated, and the theatres and Vauxhall Gardens were thrown open free. There was a display of fireworks in Hyde Park, at which many were more or less hurt by the falling rocket-sticks, six so seriously as to have to be taken to St. George’s Hospital. Throughout the country the festivity was universal. One little thing marred the universality. The Duchess of Kent was not present at the coronation, neither was the Princess Victoria. It was an open secret that the King and the Duchess were not on friendly terms, but it was thought very bad taste on her part not to be present.

Though more contretemps between the King and the Duchess were to come (as will be shown in future posts), for the time being, all was well in the land. In his Memoirs, Charles Greville included the following entry for July 18th.— King George had not been dead three days before everybody discovered that he was no loss, and King William a great gain. Certainly nobody ever was less regretted than the late King, and the breath was hardly out of his body before the press burst forth in full cry against him, and raked up all his vices, follies, and misdeeds, which were numerous and glaring enough.

The new King began very well. Everybody expected he would keep the Ministers in office, but he threw himself into the arms of the Duke of Wellington with the strongest expressions of confidence and esteem. He proposed to all the Household, as well as to the members of Government, to keep their places, which they all did except Lord Conyngham and the Duke of Montrose. He soon after, however, dismissed most of the equerries, that he might fill their places with the members of his own family. Of course such a King wanted not due praise, and plenty of anecdotes were raked up of his former generosities and kindnesses. His first speech to the. Council was well enough given, but his burlesque character began even then to show itself. Nobody expected from him much real grief, and he does not seem to know how to act it consistently; he spoke of his brother with all the semblance of feeling, and in a tone of voice properly softened and subdued, but just afterward, when they gave him the pen to sign the declaration, he said, in his usual tone, “This is a damned bad pen you have given me.” My worthy colleague, Mr. James Buller, began to swear Privy Councillors in the name of “King George IV.—William, I mean,” to the great diversion of the Council.

A few days after my return I was sworn in, all the Ministers and some others being present. His Majesty presided very decently, and looked like a respectable old admiral. The Duke [of Wellington] told me he was delighted with him— “If I had been able to deal with my late master as I do with my present, I should have got on much better”—that he was so reasonable and tractable, and that he had done more business with him in ten minutes than with the other in as many days.”