A TOUR GUIDE IN ENGLAND: HATFIELD HOUSE

This time over to England, I was determined to visit Hatfield House, as it has many connections to the Duke of Wellington via the Cecil family, second cousins to the Duke on his mother’s side, via Emily (nee Mary Amelia), Lady Salisbury, the first Marchioness.

Emily, 1st Marchioness of Salisbury by Joshua Reynolds

The Duke and Emily were more than cousins, they were good friends. Wellington went often to Hatfield House to dine, to stay, to see the children and to take part in the annual Hatfield Hunt. In fact, it was the light blue Hatfield Hunt coat, gifted to him by Emily herself, that Wellington took to wearing on his various campaigns.

Emily was a fine horsewoman in her own right, the only female regularly welcomed to join hunts at Hatfield and beyond, due in equal part to her riding skills as to her no-nonsense attitude. She rode daily, right up until the day she died. The Duke’s great good friends, Charles and Harriet Arbuthnot, were also frequent guests at Hatfield. In January, 1827, Mrs. Arbuthnot wrote, “We had a large & very pleasant party at Hatfield. Old Lady Salisbury, who is the most wonderful woman that ever was, 78 years old, but riding out on horse back & having apparently none of the infirmaries of age; she tumbled down the stairs the other day, cut herself in various places, but particularly on her leg, which swelled as big as two but to which she wd only apply a lotion used for horses, & went about as if nothing had happened.” Still later, Lady Salisbury’s eyesight began to fail and a groom would accompany her on her daily rides and, it is said, would warn her when approaching a fence by shouting, “Jump, dammit, My Lady, jump!”

In 1834, Harriet Arbuthnot died suddenly of cholera at a farmhouse near the Arbuthnots’ seat, Woodford House, in Northamptonshire. Immediately after her death, her husband, Charles, sent an express message to the Duke at Apsley House. The messenger, however, had to divert to Hatfield House where Wellington was dining with the Dowager Emily and the 2nd Marquess and Marchioness of Salisbury. The following year, Emily died tragically at the age of eighty-five in a fire at Hatfield House. It was thought that feathers in her hat caught alight when she was at her writing-desk and caused the blaze. Her loyal servants frantically attempted to open the door to her room when the fire became evident, but to no avail. The fire destroyed the west wing of the house and only a few bones were found in the rubble.

Emily’s death did nothing to deter the Duke from visiting Hatfield; he remained close to the 2nd Marquess and both of his wives, becoming godfather to several of their children. In addition, Wellington championed the 2nd Marquess’s sister, Emily, Lady Westmeath, during her contentious and much publicized divorce.

So, you see why I wanted to visit Hatfield House. Upon mentioning this to Jacqueline Reiter, she offered to accompany me and Sandra Mettler to Hatfield and to bring her family along. Joy! It turns out that Jacqueline had visited Hatfield House several years ago and informed me that there was a “Wellington Cabinet” in the House, filled with family momentos connected to the Duke. More joy!

On the day, Sandra and I took the train out to Hatfield House from London and met Jacqueline, her husband Miklos and their children, Felix and Julia, at the front gates.

Walking up the drive, we were brought up short by the sight of this contemporary sculpture by Henry Moore in front of the house. Inside, we entered into the Marble Hall.

The embroidered banners hanging from the Gallery feature bees and imperial eagles, symbols of Napoleon. They have recently been copied from originals which were made just before the Battle of Waterloo and meant for Napoleon’s various Departments. After Waterloo, they were instead given to the 2nd Marquess by the Duke of Wellington.

The ceiling’s woodwork and plasterwork are original but colour was added by the 3rd Marquess in 1878, when Jacobean reliefs of the Caesars were replaced with panels featuring classical themes painted by the Italian artist, Giulio Taldini.

The Grand Staircase

The ceiling was decorated for Queen Victoria’s visit to Hatfield in 1846 and has recently been restored so that visitors will be now able to see it in all its glory. At the top, a carving on a newel post shows the figure of a gardener holding a rake. This is said to be John Tradescant, who was sent abroad by Robert Cecil to collect rare and exotic plants for his new garden at Hatfield.

 

The ceiling of the Long Gallery, originally white, was covered with gold leaf by the 2nd Marquess who had been impressed by a gold ceiling he had seen in Venice.

Nearly at the end of our route through the house, we finally came upon the cabinet containing items related to the Duke of Wellington. I’ve been to several other houses that have Wellington items passed down through the family, including Levens Hall in the Lake District, home to Wellington’s niece, Mary Wellesley, who married Sir Charles Bagot. Impressive. In fact, Levens Hall has a dedicated Wellington Trail, directing visitors to all the items associated with the Duke throughout the house. I’ve seen large Wellington collections and I’ve seen small Wellington collections, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a collection more charming than that at Hatfield House. One can assume that the Cecil family would have some “wow factor” Wellington items, as evidenced by the Napoleonic flags in the Marble Hall, but what they chose to save and display in this cabinet are items of a far more personal nature.

At the end of our house tour, we stopped for a lunch break and my spirits soared upon seeing this –

and they were dashed when we learned that it was a dog grooming salon.

After lunch, we took Felix and Julia to the farm yard, which they seemed to enjoy. In truth, no one enjoyed it more than me. Baby animals!

Bidding a reluctant goodbye to the Reiters, Sandra and I headed to the rail station, where we discovered that we had enough time for a pint before the next train. The perfect ending to a perfect day.

 

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THE MORE THINGS CHANGE… A LOOK AT THE EVOLUTION OF 19TH CENTURY SOHO

by Guest Blogger Bronwyn Scott

There are many factors that determine a city’s longevity, anyone who enjoys the works of Edward Rutherford or Ken Follett knows that – having an attraction that draws people in, a cathedral, a market, a fair, being located on a trade route or a river, being a capital or a terminus. Perhaps most important of all, the city that lasts is the city that morphs with the times, it continues to grow and change to meet the needs of the populous, and to take advantage of improving technologies. London has proved time and again that it is such a city.

One of the exciting aspects to building the world inhabited by the 4 exiled princes of Kuban in my series The Royals of Kuban, was using the changing structure of London in the 1820s as a backdrop for their adventures. One neighborhood featured in the series is the neighborhood of Soho, located west of St. Giles. It has an interesting history that runs parallel to the history of St. James which was being constructed at the same time. For us, looking back through history, St. James is perhaps the better known, historically. Today, I want to share a little about the perhaps lesser known historical neighborhood of Soho, not the trendy bohemian capital of west-end London that we are familiar with today, but how it evolved in the years since it’s inception in the 1670s and the intervening centuries.

So, let’s get started with the ominous words, “In the beginning.”

In the beginning, (that being the 1670s), Soho was developed with the vision of making an upscale neighborhood peopled by the aristocracy. The area was divided into three squares, Golden (which was originally referred to as Gelding Close), Leicester and Soho.  Leicester Square is featured in the painting to the left as it appeared in 1800. And yes, the aristocrats came. Some of those who lived in Soho included The Earl of Fauconberg who resided there from 1683-1700, the Countess of Carlisle, and the Duke of Monmouth among others.  Let’s mention the ‘among others’ piece. It wasn’t only nobility who came. Golden Square, for instance, not only saw peers living there but also army officers and foreign ambassadors.

Historians agree that an elite patronage of the neighborhood barely survives fifty years, and in fact, it is easy to argue the neighborhood never had a chance of sustaining a ‘Mayfair-esque’ longevity as a gathering place for the wealthy.

Three factors played a role in preventing Soho from becoming a  wealthy watering hole.  First, what any realtor has known for ages: location, location, location. Remember that other area being developed? St. James? by the 1720s,  map drawings of London highlight the West End as a focal point of the city with close attention being paid to the St. James Court.  An example of this is shown below in the reproduction of cartographer, John Kip’s panorama of London. Sure, Soho is in the West End, but it’s St. James that gets the attention on the map.  Why? That’s where the royal family was and where royal business was conducted until the reign of Queen Victoria. Many peers began to feel Soho was simply too far from the palace.

Second, a mish-mash of landlords. Soho was, in some aspects, a wild, wild west. There was no single landlord overseeing the land grants and the quality of development as there was, for example, in Mayfair where the Grosvenor family held control over who and what built in the area. As a result, there were varying degrees of quality and purpose to the homes and businesses that sprung up in Soho. That’s, right, businesses. Residences were built next door to medical clinics, and people like to live close to their work. It’s not a leap of logic to understand who moves in next—doctors for instance who want to be close to their practices. But they can’t afford the housing styles of the wealthy. You see where this is going, right?

Third, there’s not only a wide variety of landlords developing the area, there’s a wide variety of tenants. Not only a middle class physicians and tradesmen, but also immigrants. In the 1670s, Greek immigrants congregated in Soho after being chased out of Turkey by the Ottoman invasion. They are followed in the 1680s by French Hugenots escaping persecution.  One historian notes that by 1711 over a quarter of the population of St. Anne’s Parish (the parish serving Soho) was French. To give you a sense of that, the parish records attests to serving a population of 8,000 people. This is not an isolated occurrence. The trend continues throughout the 1800s as nationalist revolutions rise and fall throughout Europe in the wake of Napoleon’s defeat.  For instance, Germans, Italians and Hungarians flock to Soho in the aftermath of failed revolts in 1848. It is by no mistake that the blog, Hidden London, refers to the Soho of the twenty-first century as a “longtime centre of alternative culture.”

By the time the Kuban princes arrive in London, English peers had long since decamped from Soho. The  Soho of the 1820s had become a melting pot of immigrants who worked as artisans, clerks, musicians and assistants to the wealthy, and  aristocrats fleeing homelands and attempting to live in genteel poverty while clinging to their aristocratic pride. To keep the flavors of their various homelands alive, many opened up bistros and small eateries where the working man and woman could grab a bite to eat on the go that reminded them of home. Eventually, the idea of such bistros gained wide appeal in London as the concept of ‘eating out’ caught on and the West End came to Soho for a taste of Europe.

The other Soho legacy left to the people of the 1820s were the homes built on big lots for the wealthy who had moved on. This is what appeals to hero, Prince Nikolay Baklanov, formerly of his majesty’s cavalry in Kuban in “Compromised by the Prince’s Touch.”  He walks the neighborhood of Soho looking for a house and a lot big enough to him to establish his own riding school. By the 1820s, big lots with their own mews and riding houses were at a premium in London. But Soho has some remaining from its glory days.  Leicester Square is where Nikolay finds his perfect property.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this look at Soho! For more about the Royals of Kuban, you can visit my blog at www.bronwynwriting@blogspot.com

Bronwyn Scott

THE JOBMASTER’S HORSE

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

The best horses are, of course, those used for fashionable carriage work. The high-class harness horse comes to London when he is about four years old. He is untrained, undrilled, with all his troubles to be faced. The young cart-horse is gradually introduced to work on the farm; not so the carriage horse, who is too much of the possibility of a valuable animal to run any risks with. He may fetch 80L; but if he is a handsome, well-built, upstanding state-coach horse, of the kind now so much sought after, he will be cheap at 120L. He has to be educated to behave himself like a gentleman; he must learn to stand well—not an easy thing to do—he must know how to back and turn gracefully, how to draw up stylishly at a front door, how to look nice when under window criticism, how to carry his head and lift his feet, and how to work with a companion and be as like him in action as one pea is like another; in short, he has to go through a complete course of deportment, though not of dancing, and he will be a promising pupil if he gets through it in eight months. If he does well and shows a willing mind, it is well with him and he has an easy time of it for years; but if he is tricky or perverse in any way he may have to go to hard labour and spend a twelvemonth in a ‘bus. Sometimes that breaks him thoroughly of his bad habits and he returns to carriage work; sometimes, like an habitual criminal, he refuses to amend, and he remains a ‘bus horse for life. And herein is the advantage of a miscellaneous business, for if a horse will not do in one branch he may in another.

The new horse is not branded or numbered, but a note is made of his marks, and he is named from a book of names, taking, perhaps, an old name which has been vacant for at least a year; the names being chosen as fitting the particular horse, and not as aiding the memory with regard to the date or circumstance of his purchase, naming from pedigree, as in the case of a racer, being, of course, out of the question. There are many systems of naming; some firms, like Truman & Hanbury, and Spiers & Pond, give the horses names which begin with the same initial all through the year, so that the A’s may show the horses bought in 1890, the B’s those bought in 1891, the C’s those bought in 1892, &c.; others have other plans, but nothing of this systematic sort seems to exist in the livery trade, owing, perhaps, to the possibility of awkward developments in the event of the customer learning the key.

When the horse has passed his drills and been pronounced efficient, he takes his place with eight or nine others in a stable which has its roof thatched inside, so as to keep the temperature equable in summer and winter; and in every one of these stables the horses are as much as possible of the same colour and size, so as to look their best amid their comfortable surroundings. There are fixed travises and no bales for this class of horse, and no peat, but the usual straw, both for the sake of appearance and to save his coat from roughening. He is as well cared for as the plate at a silversmith’s, and, like it, is not often so well treated when out on hire. But horses of all grades are nowadays better treated than they used to be, even though there may be deterioration in their quality, which, to say the least of it, is doubtful.

(Doctors) with a consulting practice want a different sort of horse to the humbler general practitioner. The consulting man must have a pair that go fast and well, and cover long distances, and draw up at the door in a style that will inspire the patient and the patient’s friends with faith—and move the G.P. to envy. The said G.P. must have a horse that is ready for work at all hours, and looks none the worse for standing about in the rain; in other words, one wants a coach-horse, and other wants a good hackney, which some would consider the better horse of the two. Most of the doctors are horsed by the jobmaster. Some of the Harley Street and Cavendish Square men have half-a-dozen horses on hire, which means a nice little addition to their expenses. The horses are usually foraged by the jobmaster, and every fortnight the feed is delivered in sacks at the stable; but the shoeing is done by a local farrier, though at the jobmaster’s expense.

There is no doubt that the typical doctor’s horse, the horse of the hard-working general practitioner, has a trying life. Like the maid-of-all-work, his work is never done; and he must be exceptionally sound and robust to stand the wear and tear of day and night, particularly on what we may call the outer edge of London. He may not look so well as the animal driven by the country medico, who generally takes a pride in his horseflesh, but he costs quite as much and does not last as long. Six years’ work is as much as can be expected of him, and the expectation is frequently unfulfilled, for as a rule he has little time to bo comfortable either in the stable or the street, although many a one-horse doctor walks his round on Sunday, to give his weary steed a rest. Of late years influenza has been exceptionally hard on the doctor’s horse; it has hit him in two ways: as an ailment from which he suffers, and as a cause of much extra work. No wonder that the doctor jobs, and avails himself of an inexhaustible supply of horse power, in which the risk is spread over thousands instead of being concentrated on his one poor pill-box bay.

The daily round of the doctor’s horse must be as monotonous as that of the milkman’s. As a contrast we have the festive outings of that holiday animal, the wedding grey. As we have before noticed, the grey horse is not appreciated by the cabman, nor is he much loved by the omnibus owner or the carrier, but the livery stableman cannot do without him. For a wedding he is indispensable, though in a crush of weddings chestnuts have to take his place, just as in a crush of funerals the ‘black masters’ have to call on their brethren for the loan of darkish bays and browns.

Tilling averages half-a-dozen weddings a day all the year round, Sundays excepted, for Sunday is not a
favourite marriage day among the folks who patronise the jobmaster. To horse these weddings takes about forty horses, most of which do nothing else; but taking London round, the wedding horse is a superior kind of ‘bus horse out for a holiday, which he owes not to his merits and points, but to his colour; and it has been observed that the melancholy air with which he eyes the bride and bridegroom is due not so much to his forebodings as to their future, but to his veiling his joy at having such a light day’s work.

All the large horse-owners have infirmaries to which the sick and injured are sent, and most of them have a farm for the convalescent. Tilling’s infirmary is a special yard about a quarter of a mile from headquarters, where there are over sixty loose boxes and stalls for the patients under treatment. We have already seen how curiously alike to man the horse is in his ailments. This is all the more noticeable at this infirmary from the fact of a slate appearing on each door, on which is written the patient’s name, his complaint, and the treatment ordered; it only wants a blue paper by the side of it, to be sent to the dispenser for the medicine, to make the resemblance to a hospital complete. The horses that die in a livery stable are few, but those cleared out every year amount to about 12 per cent. This gives an average of eight and a half years’ work, but it is spread over so many kinds of horses as to be hardly worth consideration.

A WELLINGTON KIND OF DAY

 

In my last post, I left off at the point where Sandra Mettler and I stopped by my old stomping ground, the Duke of Wellington pub off Sloane Square. We were supposed to meet Ian Fletcher there the following evening and you can imagine my shock when Sandra and I found the pub deserted – the place was empty, locked up tight and even the signboard, above, was gone.

What the Hell? I thought. “What the Hell?” I asked Sandra. As soon as we got back to the hotel, I got on to the pub website and found that the old Duke of Boots was undergoing a renovation. And that it would be re-opening . . . . tomorrow night. Really, what were the odds?

Everything was falling nicely into place and, as it turned out, the entire next day turned out to be filled with all things Wellington. First, Sandra and I stopped in at Horse Guards

 

 

Wellington’s entrance at Horse Guards

We timed our visit perfectly and so were on hand to watch the changing of the Guards in the entrance gates and to also see the Guards muster for the 11 o’clock inspection.

Exhausted by all the military hoopla, Sandra and I crossed over the road to The Clarence for a refreshing pause at a sidewalk table.

Afterwards, we headed up to Trafalgar Square and on to see my antique dealer, who had quite a nice little something for my collection.

 

Shopping was followed by lunch at Boulestin, in St. James’s Street.

Around the corner, we found the Beau surrounded by construction barriers on our way to Fortnum and Mason and Hatchard’s.

Some time later, we hopped into a cab and headed to the Duke of Wellington pub to meet Ian Fletcher – fingers crossed.

And . . . . it had re-opened! The sign board had been re-hung, the furniture was back in place and the Duke of Boots, as usual, was packed.

 

It wasn’t long before Ian arrived – introductions were made, drinks were ordered and from that point on, the conversation was pretty much non-stop. A goodly amount of time passed before I realized we’d better go on to dinner, and I suggested that we cab it over to that other Wellington stalwart, the Grenadier Pub, once the officer’s mess for Wellington’s regiment and just a stone’s throw from Apsley House.

 

 

The Grenadier was also packed, but thankfully most of the punters here were content to stand outside and enjoy apres work cocktails, while we went inside and were seated for dinner immediately. Sandra quipped that I must feel right at home in these surroundings, and it was nice to have old friends around me, both in print and in person, but to be honest, the Grenadier does a much better cheese plate than I do at home.

 

 

 

I suppose it’s at this point that I should make the obligatory mention of the Grenadier pub ghost. Rumour has it that an officer, caught cheating at cards, was beaten to death outside the pub and that his ghost can be seen standing in the sentry box, above. And it is nothing but rumour. The ghosts never appear anywhere near the sentry box.

 

After dinner, Sandra, Ian and I took advantage of the balmy evening and strolled the streets of Belgravia. It had been a good day. I’d spent it with good friends and I’d found a really nice Artie-fact to add to my collection. As we parted from Ian, Sandra and I turned into Eaton Square and headed home.

“Mista Hudson!” I called quietly.  “Are you there, Mista Hudson?”

“Aye, I’m here, Mrs. Bridges, but that scamp Sarah is no where to be found. Go and ask our Rose if she’s seen her,” replied Sandra.

A grand day was had by all.