CONTENTS
|
A
Lecture delivered to the Addison Street Church Literary Society,
March
10th, 1901, revised and printed by request.
SECOND
EDITION.
Nottingham:
H.
B. SAXTON,
BOOKSELLER,
KING STREET.
1904.
PRICE
NINEPENCE
For
certain emendations in the topographical remarks, I am indebted to
Mr. Granger who has long made a careful study of Old Nottingham's
Streets and Lanes and has thus become a recognised authority on the
subject.
June,
1904.
PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION
If the personal element in my paper is too
obtrusive I must crave your
indulgence because the very title of it — "Recollections" — necessarily
implies the experience of the recollector who cannot exactly retire
behind her subject.
I am one of the few who have lived under four Sovereigns, but the
reminiscences about to be presented to you gather around two decades,
the thirties and the forties: that is around the two neither your
memories nor lives are likely to touch.
You will observe that I speak of Nottingham as a town — the town and
county of the town of Nottingham — a far greater distinction to my mind
than the empty title of city.
I have supplemented my own knowledge and reminiscences by a few
fragmentary details culled from that interesting and locally valuable
work — The Nottingham Date Book.
RECOLLECTIONS OF OLD NOTTINGHAM, MARCH, 1901
PATRIOTISM in its usual signification, is taken to mean love of one's
country. In the widest application that is so. It is the fully
developed affection which had its beginning in the home of childhood
and youth. It has a centrifugal action. Beginning with one's town it
works outwardly. Pride in the town and its institutions tends in ever
widening circles to embrace interests vast as the empire which created
them.
Such a definition of patriotism justifies the position I venture to
take for myself. Patriotism must have been an instinct, for I well
remember having heated discussions with school-fellows, visitors, and
others on the vast superiority of Nottingham over all towns I was at
that time acquainted with — Newark, Mansfield, Derby, Chesterfield. In
a sense I was able to hold my own, because I had acquired in very early
years a knowledge of Nottingham, its history and topography, derived
not from books, but from the conversation I was permitted to hear
between my father and his friends, one of whom became a local
historian. Those were the days when conversation was a recognised and
practised art — no mere monologue where the talk is monopolised by one
brilliant tongue, but where all might join, "give and take" being the
fair principle on which they met for interesting discussion.
I propose to give you a sketch of Nottingham and its neighbourhood as
seen by my eyes in those far-off years which nevertheless, by "memory's
magic", often seem so near. I shall fill in the outline with pictures
of events I have witnessed. And let us not talk of the mouldy past, an
expression full of ingratitude, and one I never would use. For what is
our present but the outcome of a past which our forbears, enduring the
strain and stress of social, political and religious life have made
easier for us. If our share in the Past has been unworthy, as oft it
has, conscience in league with memory revealing many a barren waste of
opportunity, many a sad blot smirching the wide expanse, let us at
least be honest in giving honour where honour is due; thus with fuller
appreciation shall we recognise the work achieved by our predecessors
in times of danger and difficulty of which we in this free age can have
no idea. A cultivation of the historic sense would help towards such
appreciation.
Nottingham justly lays claim to the merit of being a town of great
antiquity. Many of its excavations favour the supposition of the
presence of ancient Britons. Whether or not it was a Roman station has
been much debated, but no one, examining into its history doubts that
it was a town of importance at the Saxon Heptarchy, when it was called
Snottengham, from Snottenga (caves) and ham (home), subsequently
softened into Nottingham. Whoever the earliest inhabitants were, they
were troglodytes as evinced by traces everywhere of their cave
dwellings, the soft yielding sandstone furnishing them with the
required shelter. Indeed, Nottingham is honeycombed with caves; from
underneath the Market Place they extend to the Castle in one direction,
to St. Mary's Church in another, and right away on each side of
Mansfield Road to Gallows Hill, and to that part of the old Forest now
converted into the Church Cemetery.
I pause here to narrate an incident in connection with one set of caves
just above the Blue Coat School, Mansfield Road. Hearing that a party
of workmen employed to paint the interior of some property in the
neighbourhood had been warned not to descend certain steps leading to
the caves, yet despising the warning had gratified their curiosity at
the expense of a night's captivity (another proof by the way how
curiosity belongs not alone to the daughters of Eve), I accepted the
invitation of the owner to take as many friends as I liked and explore
them, for he was about to have the entrance blocked up. Remembering the
experience of the workmen who, after their one candle had burnt out and
their lanterns were exhausted, wandered about from six in the evening
until ten next morning, when they were found by a rescue party white
with terror, and the hair of two completely blanched, I was glad that
the invitation was hedged about with every precaution. On the appointed
afternoon, a guide was in attendance with a clue of lace waste, and
each of the thirty visitors was provided with a lighted candle. Down
the steps we went to the entrance, the only aperture for air and light
being a tiny window opening at the top of the descent. We soon lost
this and were in total darkness except for the artificial light we
carried. Very remarkable was the structure that dimly revealed itself
to our astonished gaze. The rock had been scooped out into tiers of
chambers, the floor between them supported by pillars cut in the living
sandstone. It was a veritable labyrinth, and we could well understand
how in the darkness those poor fellows imagined their day of doom drew
near. In one compartment, besides a bench or two, there was a
depression which suggested a manger. Imagination thereupon busied
herself with the purpose of it. Was it the rude cradle for the
offspring born in these caves? It was curious, as we stood pondering,
to hear the vehicles in Sherwood Street lumbering overhead, giving
added force to the thought of contrast between the life of upper air
and the subterranean life lived in these regions in the remote past.
One remarkable feature was the salubrity of the air, the absence of
every kind of organism, and the perfect cleanliness throughout. I have
seen it stated somewhere that the caves were fashioned in comparatively
modern times by one man who kept the secret to himself, so that he
might gain his living by selling the sand he excavated. Their size and
number are to my mind sufficient refutation, especially as they are
known to extend from that point onwards to the Church Cemetery.
Nottingham can fairly claim, as a town of note, the age of one thousand
and fifty years; as a considerable borough eight hundred and fifty; as
a Mayor's town and Parliamentary borough a little over six hundred; as
a county, which honour and advantage a few other boroughs possess, four
hundred and forty-one years. As for situation, where could we go to
find her equal? I speak now of her pristine beauty ere improvement's
feverish rush had swept off many natural attractions. Elevated on the
broken declivities of her red sandstone rock, she was protected on the
north, east and west by hills rising gently above her; while on the
south stretched out a beauteous expanse of meadow land intersected by
the Leen and its tributaries; beyond was the noble Trent spanned by its
historic bridges; still beyond, the hills of Clifton and Wilford; to
the east, Colwick Hill and Wood; westward, Bramcote and the Hemlock
Stone Hill. Between St. Mary's on one rock and the Castle on another
and greater, the old town sloped and curved towards St. Peter's; that
part from St. Mary's bearing the names of the High, Middle, and Low
Pavements. So steep was this rocky ridge between St.
Mary's and Low Pavement that streets of steps led to the lower parts of
the town. I need only mention Short Stairs, Long Stairs, Garner's Hill,
Middle Hill, as such streets conducting to the various Marshes: Broad
Marsh, Narrow Marsh, Middle Marsh. Those roomy houses on High Pavement
were, in my time, the residences of well-to-do manufacturers and
professional men; now, they are nearly all turned into warehouses.
Those on the south side had gardens at the back, or spacious
court-yards. From one of these, our family doctor's house, I used often
to watch the people in Narrow Marsh below and notice how small they
looked from such a height, and how pretty the height was, adorned with
wallflowers and other plants growing on its ledges, or with elder trees
which had found root in its crevices. Canal Street, or Leen Side, as we
called it, was the boundary of the town southward; Parliament and
Wollaton Streets, or Back Side, the northern limit. Westward it
terminated at the space fronting the General Cemetery and from this
space opened out three main roads: Derby Road, Ilkeston Road, Alfreton
Road, beginning with Birch Row in Radford Parish. Of these three roads
only one, Ilkeston Road, was much peopled. There were no houses after
you passed Barrack Lane on the Derby Road till you came to a few at the
foot of the hill called Lenton Sands; then past Wollaton Lodge there
would be here and there a stately home embedded in trees. Alfreton Road
on the right was open fields, part of it being the boundary of the
Forest on that side; on the left was a number of houses broken in their
continuity by passages and entries, themselves the site of much smaller
tenements. The name of Birch Row still survives in Birch Passage, which
I happened to notice lately as I passed along. But it was towards the
east that the town stretched farthest — from the top of Pelham Street,
Bottle Lane, and Chandler's Lane (for there was no Victoria Street)
down Swine Green, Goose Gate, Hockley, Meadow Platts, to Southwell
Road, which with the Beck formed the division between the borough and
Sneinton. Some of the oldest parts of the town lay between Goose Gate
and the Pavement. There were Warser Gate, Fletcher Gate, Pilcher Gate,
St. Mary's Gate on one side of Stoney Street, which street ran at right
angles with Goose Gate and Hollow Stone; on the other side were Barker
Gate and Woolpack Lane; beyond these, Bellar Gate, Carter Gate, and
Fisher Gate, where formerly dwelt the fishermen who were wont to ply
their avocation in the waters of the Trent and Leen. The wall, pierced
by gates, that encompassed the town was built for its greater security
by command of Edward the Elder. It was joined to an ancient tower which
occupied part of the ground where the Castle was afterwards built. Part
of this wall having been destroyed in the wars between Stephen and
Matilda, Henry II repaired it. It ran from the Castle rock along the
site of Park Row, crossed Chapel Bar, thence the whole length of Upper
and Lower Parliament Street, pursuing its way to St. John's Street,
Coalpit Lane, Carter Gate, Fisher Gate, Hollow Stone, the three
Pavements, to the end of Lister Gate; thence it passed up the south
side of Castle Gate and below St. Nicholas' Churchyard to Brewhouse
Yard, where it joined the Castle rock once more. Up to March, 1900, a
portion of an old wall, generally, yet erroneously, elieved to be
Edward's wall, could be seen in Galloway's Yard, nearly opposite the
east end of Trinity Church; on it rested a brick wall of the early part
of last century. I have often taken friends to show them that
interesting historic relic, and I never passed by daylight without
turning in to glance around and indulge in the retrospection its
antiquity called up. You can judge then of my indignation when on
entering one afternoon I found pick-axe and shovel busily engaged in
the ruthless work of demolition. And cui bono! The brick wall was
pulled down apparently for a stronger one; but why not have let the
new, as the other, rest on the stone base, strong in itself, an object
of great interest, as almost the last bit of the supposed historic town
wall. Alas! alas! for the want of reverence for old associations
manifested by Nottingham's authorities. Only a short time ago it was
proposed to enlarge the Riding School or Drill Hall, to do which a
portion of the old Castle wall, built in the time of the Norman William
must have perished. If I had had my way years ago when the town showed
such an abnormal tendency to expansion, there would have been created
the office of Guardian of Public Monuments, with the object of
preserving to posterity, where possible, from the destruction of the
speculative builder, works of architectural beauty, structures full of
interest on account of the cunning hands which reared them in the
far-away Past. There used to be in St. Peter's Gate a lovely specimen
of mediaeval architecture — an overhanging house whose plaster panels
were adorned with an exquisitely beautiful design. This unique example
was worthy the attention of Ruskin, who put up at the George Hotel one
nigh in order to rise very early and make a sketch of it ere the world
was stirring. There were similar gabled houses in Bottle Lane; many in
Bridlesmith Gate, Jew Lane, Hounds' Gate, Castle Gate, Long Row, Timber
Hill, Parliament Street, Bunker's Hill, Wheeler Gate, Pepper
Street; yea, everywhere in the old town. An example of a
different period, the Renaissance, may yet be seen in Armitage's Cafe,
Wheeler Gate. Glance upward, when you next enter the place, to admire
the richness of the ceiling decoration. In my persistent advocacy
whether by lip or pen for more reverence for what has been, do not
suppose I am indifferent to the undoubted improvements of modern times;
far from it. These I have hailed with satisfaction when their inception
and execution in any town has been marked by reverent consideration for
the excellent work of former artificers.
In
reverting to that bit of old wall in Galloway's Yard opposite the
east end of Trinity Church, it is only fair to say that our late
distinguished local geologist, Mr. Shipman, whose opinion is of high
value, did not regard it as part of the old town wall of Edward the
Elder. A most interesting relic of far-off times he knew it was; his
reasons for not accepting the hitherto recognised and popular belief
are given in his able work on the subject, entitled Notes on the Old
Town Wall of Nottingham.
Besides the town wall as security against a common enemy, there were
two others which played an important part for many generations.
William the Norman knew better how to settle the kingdom politically
than socially, for when he had partitioned Mercia among his followers
and had bestowed Lenton Priory and the fortress on the rock on his son
Peveril, leaving the Saxons to amalgamate with the new comers as best
they might, he could not extinguish the burning hate of the English —
as the Anglo-Saxons had begun to be called — against their rivals
in possession. So fierce were the quarrels that it was found necessary
to divide the town into two boroughs — east and west — with separate
jurisdictions, separate tribunals, separate churches. A wall was
constructed from near Robin Hood's Yard along a bit of Milton Street,
Clumber Street, High Street, Bridlesmith Gate, Drury Hill, Sussex
Street, to Leen Side, the southern boundary of the town. All to the
east of this wall was English; it included the Old Town Hall, then
called Mont Hall, Weekday Cross, St. Mary's Church, and the important
Leen Bridge at the foot of Malin Hill. To the west of the wall the
borough was Norman, except one-half of the Market Place. To further
accentuate the differences between the two races who could not meet on
market days without strife, a wall ran east and west from the Exchange
to the Malt Cross; the space to the north fronting Long Row was
assigned to the English; that looking towards South Parade, to the
Normans, who thus possessed that part of the borough west and
south-west. Their Guildhall was the Old Moot Hall at the bottom of
Friar Lane; their churches those of St. Peter and St. Nicholas; and
their bridge over the Leen, the one at the foot of Castle Road. Rivers
and bridges have long gone the way of all things. Lenton Boulevard
covers over the channel and its reedy banks as they were in my time,
when a walk by Leenside and across the Park, then innocent of houses,
was an enjoyable ramble. The distinction between the two boroughs as
evinced by the two walls remained until 1724; on any old map may be
seen the Market Place division. And it is a curious fact that even down
to my day a remnant of the old jealousy survived; for before the
appointment of Nottingham's penultimate Coroner, who filled the office
over fifty years, there were two Coroners — one for the east, one
for the west.
It is difficult to believe how in one person's lifetime a town could
change so much as Nottingham has done. Figure to yourselves its compact
appearance at the accession of our late beloved Queen. The great
expansion was, as I have said, eastward where the borough bordered on
Sneinton. Westward, at the top of Chapel Bar, there were a few houses
and shops at the right hand side going up Derby Road; very few on the
left to diversify the fields and sandhills lying between them and the
Ropewalk. One side only of Park Row was built upon, that nearest the
town; in front of it there lay those sloping Lammas fields where the
burgesses had the right of pasturage. There was no Wellington Circus
with its radiating streets, no St. Barnabas, Nunnery, or People's
College. From the town's northern boundary — Parliament Street and
Wollaton Street — there stretched breezy fields to the windmill-crowned
Forest.
Suppose we are at the top of the Forest and want to go to the Market
Place and Meadows. As there was no Waverley Street, no Addison Street,
and but a small portion of Sherwood Street, we must use the footpath of
Lark Dale, or Bowling Alley Lane — now Waverley Street — or Sherwood
Street, at its lower end called Shaw's Lane, or go down the chief road,
Mansfield Road, where on the left there were no houses whatever till
one came to the point where York Street forked into the main road. From
this point, looking opposite, it was all country, and so it continued
to be till one got to Milton Street. All was field and hedgerow; thus
there was no Shakespeare Street, no Mechanics' Hall, no Trinity Church
and Schools, no Burton Street; the fields now
intersected by Burton Street and Church Street were called Burton Leys.
In leaving Wheeler Gate to get to the Meadows, as Albert Street was not
yet formed, a detour had to be made by St. Peter's Church, then down
the little narrow opening called Church Lane into Lister Gate. We have
passed our southern boundary and are now in the meadows. How did we get
there? For as yet there was no Carrington Street Bridge over the Canal.
By that bit of road nearly opposite the end of Walnut Tree Lane and
Finkhill Street to the little bridge near the Navigation Inn, or else
by the openings from the Flood Road. I cannot hope to give you an
adequate idea of that fair expanse. Often in my day dreams I find
myself and companions wandering — by its streamlets, watching the fish
in the clear waters, or the dragon flies skimming along the surface, or
gathering the floewers that grew along the banks. Anon we rest on the
Rye Hills, listening to the lark's song, happy in "the glad, joyous
sense of Being" and in the freedom we shared with all the beautiful
things above and around.
Nottingham owed the beauty of her surroundings, and in a measure her
own, to the belt of common land that engirdled her. Over this the
burgesses had the right of pasturage several months in the year; this
privilege, with many others, dates as far back as the early Plantagenet
kings. The right of pasturage, the right of fishing in the well-stocked
rivers, the right to roam free and unfettered in coppice, meadow,
forest, wood and field, brought about a sense of brotherhood which
bound them together into a very clannish community. To hold the
position of a burgess a man must be the son of a burgess, a native of
the town, and apprenticed seven years to a burgess. Occasionally
natives of other towns were made burgesses by the payment of a fee — a
fine as the Records call it — of ten pounds. The privilege was
sometimes bestowed upon outsiders as a token of respect. Very jealous
were the burgesses of strangers settling amongst them as tradespeople,
hence it happened that but little change in streets and Market Place
was seen; so, as I said before, Nottingham owed her own beauty to the
preservation of the architectural features which this burgess system
unconsciously brought about. I have before me an apprenticeship
contract, the quaintness of which amuses, whilst its loyalty evokes
respect. Their estate was a remarkably rich one, furnishing some
provision for their widows and children, and under the name of burgess
parts was dotted about the town's environs. You all know how the
Corporation bought it up some years ago, and settled annuities on the
then holders, their widows, and their eldest sons, at whose death they
cease.
The system of apprenticeship in those old burgess days had many
advantages both to the apprentices themselves and to the community at
large. One element of character — honesty in workmanship — was no
less cultivated than honesty in dealing: the apprentice learned his
trade thoroughly; so that if a joiner he could be set on a piece of
furniture at the expiry of his time, begin and finish it completely;
unlike the subsequent system of division of labour, when for instance
one man would spend his time making the backs of chairs, another the
legs and so on. There was scope for original design too, when as an
apprentice his individuality was allowed to assert itself.
WATER WORKS
In my time Nottingham began to be well supplied with drinking water.
"The Trent Waterworks were finished in 1831; the river, filtered
through the sand and gravel of a large reservoir near the bank of the
Trent, was pumped by a steam engine along the main pipe to an open
reservoir at the top of Park Row whence miles of piping conducted it to
various parts of the town. Prior to this there was the Old Water Works
Company established at the close of the seventeenth century, their
pumping station being on the bank of the Leen at the bottom of Finkhill
Street. The water from this source was forced into a reservoir behind
the General Hospital. In process of time, by the establishment of
bleach and dye works on the banks of the Leen, the water became too
impure for drinking purposes. Power was then sought and obtained by the
Company in 1831 to make new works at Scottam in Basford parish, whence
the water was conveyed to the newer works at the foot of the Castle
rock in Brewhouse Yard and forced, as before, into the Town Reservoir
behind the General Hospital." I have reason to remember that reservoir
as I recall an incident of my very early days when I went to school on
Park Terrace. That side of Postern Street consisted of a blank brick
wall pierced about the middle of its length by a doorway — the door
always shut. But on one occasion I saw it open; in the excitement of a
game at hide and seek with my schoolfellows, I rushed in, ran swiftly
up some steps, and was just about bounding on what looked like a
smoothly paved floor when I started back, as a ripple on the surface
betrayed the nature of that flooring. I shudder even now as I think of
what might have been.
Our play-beat began at the steps by Park Terrace leading into the Park,
and at the adjoining rock (long since cut away), and continued to
Postern Street, down Russell Street (now Amberley Street), along
Cumberland Place to the backs of the houses in Park Row. Some of these
houses possessed pretty little gardens; in one of them a huge rocking
horse, set in motion by the present Dean of St. Paul's and his
cousin-brother of three of my schoolfellows — used to give me when
mounted much delight.
Besides these there were the Northern Water Works at the top of
Sherwood Street — near to the Jews' Burial Ground belonging to the
Corporation. They were formed in 1826 and supplied water from a copious
spring pumped into a large cistern for that side of Mansfield Road
already built upon, for York Street, and the eastern portion of the
town. These works with the adjoining property passed from the
Corporation into private hands somewhere about the early seventies, the
spring having ceased to flow. The cistern was then dried up and small
tenements were built along its sides.
Still earlier than the Northern Works were the waterworks
established in 1824 by Mr. Joshua Beardmore on Sion Hill and Gregory
Street (now Holden Street). The water was raised by a steam engine from
a well sixty yards deep, with a reservoir at the top of the engine
house, and then sent by pipes to houses in that part of the parish —
New Radfordto the Barracks, and to the few houses Nottingham Park
Side then possessed. These works also supplied the various water carts
that came for the benefit of the poorer classes as yet untouched by
water pipes. When Mr. Beardmore was getting into years he sold the well
to Messrs. Walker who had marble works on Sion Hill and who needed the
water for certain processes in their business. The above named Joshua
Beardmore seems to have been a most excellent character. Prosperous in
business-that of a tallow-chandler-through industry and capacity, he
was at the same time large hearted. One instance, suppressing names,
may be here related. A certain Joseph X, an old friend, fell on evil
days. Meeting Mr. Beardmore in the street one day, he exclaimed,
"Good-bye, I am on my way to the workhouse." "No," said Mr. B, "you
shall not go there while I have a roof to shelter you." Acting on the
words, he made a home for him, found him employment, tended him when
ill and finally buried him in his own family vault in Old Radford
church yard. His brother, John X, a prosperous saddler in Spaniel Row,
had turned his back on him, and thus left him to the tenderer mercies
of a non-relative. This same John X was the father of Miss X, a name
well known to me in early days. Inheriting her father's fortune, which
accumulated, and living a quiet ife in the quaint old house close to
the Quakers' Chapel, Spaniel Row, she died exceedingly wealthy. She
became possessed of this chapel in a curious fashion. The people were
about to make certain alterations or enlargements when she stopped them
because, as she said, they were undermining her house. Being quiet
people, and wishing to avoid litigation, they sold her the chapel and
built another in Friar Lane; eventually the Irvingites acquired the
building and made decided alterations. Miss X, by the way, had made a
will duly attested and signed regarding the almshouses she had built.
Respecting her other property a will was drawn up, but was not signed
when sudden fatal illness seized her. The consequence was that a
cousin, whom she much disliked and whom she would never permit to enter
her house, came in for a large fortune.
In 1845 the bill for the Inclosure of the Common Lands became law, but
it was not till the early fifties that much change was wrought in the
fair face of the country around us. Then it got wrinkled with roads in
every direction. As these hills began to be built upon, as villas and
terraces and gardens arose, my fancy likened them to the seven hills of
Rome radiating from our Forum, the Market Place.
At the time of my marriage Nottingham had five
churches — the three
parish churches St. Mary's, St. Peter's, St. Nicholas', together with
St. Paul's and St. James's, the latter a chapel-of-ease to the church
of St. Mary. There were three Independent Chapels — Castle Gate
Meeting, the parent church, St. James's Street Chapel, now Park Hill,
and Friar Lane, now the Friary Chapel, West Bridgford.
My earliest associations are with St. Nicholas', for it was there my
people worshipped and where I was baptised and married. In those days
the Church of England's conception of duty was but meagre; the three
parish churches being content with the two Sunday services year in year
out. I never heard of a week-night service, a tea-meeting, a social
gathering in connection with any one of them. A striking contrast to
the activity of the Established Church to-day ! On the other hand the
Independents, as Congregationalists used to he called, were very
active. At the time I began to mingle with them, there were the two
Sunday services, Sunday-school morning and afternoon, prayer meeting on
Monday evening, lecture (as it was called) on Thursday evening, united
services of the different denominations once a month, three days given
up to the County Associations' Meetings in March, three days to the
Missionary meetings in June, besides the two tea-meetings at Christmas
— one for the church, the other for the congregation, and the
Sunday-school tea-meeting on Shrove Tuesday. At Friar
Lane the Sunday-school work was supplemented by classes for
writing, arithmetic and sewing on two evenings of the week. The
announcement sheets of the years 1844-45-46 on the table will show what
importance the County Associations gathered around them, judging from
the number of meetings arranged.
If the Episcopal Church was lethargic in the spiritual oversight of her
flock, she made up for her supineness by a rigorous exercise of her
ecclesiastical power even to the penalty of excommunication for
refractory members. Consider for a moment what excommunication meant at
the beginning of the 19th century. A person under its ban had no
religious privileges, few social ones; he could not vote, he could not
recover a debt. A very old gentleman, an acquaintance of ours, who died
in the eighties, told me how he narrowly escaped — by a technical flaw
— the disabilities of excommunication. It seems that some person
he knew, calling himself a gentleman, had shamefully treated a young
woman to whom he was engaged; whereupon our friend denounced his
conduct in the hearing of others and finished up by saying he deserved
to be tied to a cart's tail and whipped round the Market Place, he
himself undertaking to be the whipper. (This punishment, by the way,
was a common one at the time even for women.) The
report of such indignant speech reached the ears of the offender who
summoned him for libel in a civil court; the words being spoken, not
written, the action fell through. Determined on revenge, he now sought
the strong arm of the Church to crush the object of his wrath. "Railing
or contumelious words" was the charge; had it been sustained, the curse
of the Church, supported by the common law, might have landed him in
prison, failing his submission to the Church. The case broke down on a
technical point, but there still lived in the eighties in Nottingham
Park two gentlemen who went down one day to St. Peter's Church
expecting to hear the excommunication pronounced.
CURIOUS CUSTOMS
A few curious customs loom out from the Past as I look back. I will
just mention the one associated with Old General — as Benjamin Mayo was
called — a harmless imbecile, yet not without a certain cleverness and
gift of humour. It was the custom in my girlhood for the Mickleton jury
twice a year to beat the bounds. Their duty was to take the sons of
burgesses, while yet schoolboys, along the boundaries of the borough;
to point out the limits and to emphasise the teaching by beating each
boy; thus, while a lad might forget the spoken word, he would never
forget the beating. Furthermore the business of the jury was to remove
nuisances and obstructions and prevent encroachments. They must have
been very lax as regards the latter duty in far-off days, for houses
did continually encroach on the pavements of even our chief streets.
Where the east end of the Poultry has been opened out in comparatively
modern days, there used to be two narrow lanes — Bottle Lane and
Chandler's Lane — converging into the north end of Bridlesmith
Gate; here it was just possible for only one vehicle to pass. Until
recently you might see similar encroachments in High Street.
To return to Old General dear to all school boys — for were they not
indebted to him for a day's holiday? I think I see him now making his
way to the Grammar School, Stoney Street, with batches of boys he had
already released. Our girls' school was on the other side of Stoney
Street, so we were well placed to observe the fun. Sentinels at the
Grammar School windows soon gave notice of his approach. "Out, Out,"
they cried. Down went books; helter skelter the lads tumbled into the
street to join the General's army — the masters (even had they been so
disposed) unable to offer resistance. His troops all concentrated, the
General marched them into the Market Place, proud to present them to
the jury with the Coroner at the head, for the business of the morning.
There is a very excellent portrait at the Castle of Old General in the
midst of a group of boys, bare-headed as always; and an exact likeness
as to figure, at the Old General Inn, Radford Road. I quite appreciate
the feelings of those gentlemen who have put up a tablet to his memory
on the top walk of the Cemetery.
Another custom was that of having geese served up for the Michaelmas
Day midday dinner. Most households of the middle class observed the
custom just as carefully as they did that of pancakes on Shrove
Tuesday. And I should not wonder that in this custom may be partly
traced the origin of the name Goose Fair, the annual Fair just three
days later, a title which has puzzled many.
But the most interesting and beautiful custom of all was the yearly
visit in March to our crocus covered meadows, young and old alike
turning out during the fortnight the beauteous purple bloom lasted to
revel among them. Not to have seen the crocuses was to confess yourself
false to the traditions of the place, and they were such a hardy
generous-hearted flower; they resented not the intrusion of thousands
of feet, but sprang up day by day as if in recognition of the
admiration they aroused. I have written elsewhere upon the distinction
nature conferred on Nottingham, when she gave her the indigenous growth
of Crocus vernus.
It was not till about the early forties that policemen, such as we have
now, became the guardians of the public safety. Formerly the town
depended for such aid on constables, their avocation being set forth on
the doors of their houses — Constable No. 1, No. 2, and so on. Each
parish provided its own constable. At night they went about with
lantern, bludgeon and rattle. Standard Hill being extra parochial had
its own special constable provided by the inhabitants, who were of the
well-to-do class. He began his perambulation soon after ten. Very
startling was it, at times, ere "slumber's chain had bound me",
ensconced within the curtains of a four-post bed, to hear the
vociferous announcement "Hell, Heaven (eleven) o'clock — fine starlight
night", or later on "Two o'clock, clear, frosty morning".
It was in the forties that the first cab-stand was introduced, 1845
being the year of their appearance in the Market Place. Did you want a
vehicle, unless you kept your own gig or phaeton, a much more common
possession then than now — you must send to livery stables for a fly or
coach as it was called. Although the railway between Nottingham and
Derby, our one solitary line, had been in use for six years, the only
vehicular accommodation at the station was an omnibus or two. That
small woodcut represents the station on the opening day, May 30th,
1839, when the whole town was "en fete" to celebrate the stirring
event. You will observe it is on the site of the Midland goods station
just over Carrington street bridge — a bridge not at that time in
being; therefore to reach the station you had to go over the little
Navigation Inn bridge and by the road above the canal bank which for a
while went by the name of Locomotive Road. One of the earliest
Bradshaws bearing the date 1840 lies on the table. I saw lately that a
Bradshaw three months earlier was sold for 25 pounds.
CHEAP POSTAGE
It was in 184o, as you all know, that the penny postage was introduced,
and with it gradually disappeared the old letter sheet; envelopes then
came in, not adhesive, but requiring to be closed with wafers or
sealing wax as in the case of letter sheets. There was but one
post-office, the General in Bridlesmith Gate; by the side of the main
building, near to where Lloyd's Bank now stands, there ran a narrow
passage opening on to which was a little window, in size and shape like
the sliding door at a railway booking office, and it was here that for
a long time people preferred to pay their penny and post their letter,
even after the introduction of stamps. At the corner of your letter you
wrote "post-paid", or "pre-paid", or "p.p." or "free", and if you
wanted to be very affected and fine, "exempt". The newer post-office in
Albert Street was opened in 1848. After twenty-one years the business
was removed to more commodious premises in Victoria Street; another
period of twenty-nine years passed, and the staff migrated to the
spacious block in Queen Street.
Before giving you pictures of notable events connected with Nottingham,
I ought first to speak of one of her oldest institutions, Goose Fair.
GOOSE FAIR
It needs no little courage in these days to say a word in favour of
Goose Fair. To the prejudiced people of to-day it is a word of sinister
import associated in their minds with turbulence and licentiousness.
True, like most institutions, it is a mixture of good and bad, but that
it was not always the vile thing its detractors represent I will
proceed to show.
Nottingham is said to owe the privilege of Goose Fair with its former
undoubted benefits to the graditude of Edward I for the assistance the
bold Sherwood archers — the forbears of our modern Robin Hoods — had
given him in the conquest of Wales. By Royal statute the Fair began on
October 2nd (except when the and fell on a Sunday) and lasted nine
days. I despair of giving you an adequate idea of the importance of the
Fair and of the picturesque scene our grand old Market Place presented
in my early years. You cannot realise it by what you
see to-day. Now, there is no business, in the proper sense, transacted;
and what there is of pleasure gathers about the ubiquitous
merrygo-rounds-machines then unknown. One only remnant there is to
remind me of former fairs — the menagerie; but even this is as a shadow
of the glory of Wombwell's first magnificent collection. We owed much
to Wombwell in our knowledge of the forms and habits of the savage
beasts of the forest, of the curious ruminants from the East, of the
gay-plumaged birds of the tropics, of the deadly reptiles. When
travelling was difficult a journey to London where these animals might
be seen was a comparatively rare event. Indeed a person who had been to
Paris and back created an atmosphere of importance about him at which
we now can smile. Wombwell had in his service an intelligent man whose
duty it was to go round and describe the living contents of each cage ;
thus a lesson in natural history was blended with the pleasure of the
exhibition.
Nottingham's calendar was regulated by Goose Fair. If you asked a
workman concerning the date of any domestic or municipal event he would
most likely reply — "Come next Goose Fair, it happened so-and-so."
You can have but little idea of what the preparations for Goose Fair
implied, seeing that the festival had the importance of Harvest Home,
Fair and Christmas all rolled up into one. What Christmas is now as to
family gathering, Goose Fair was then. So high was its importance in
the estimation of all classes, that when young men were enrolled in the
Militia one of the conditions of service was the being free to come
home at Goose Fair. For two or three weeks all good housewives were
busy with the renovation of their homes for the expected arrival of
guests — a mild sort of spring-cleaning being thus put in operation.
While these preparations were in progress, the glow of excitement, the
throb of anticipation pulsed through the individual and collective
being of the whole community. The result was, hospitality such as I
have never subsequently seen, of the most generous not to say lavish
kind. Everybody kept open house; the utmost bonhomie prevailed; the
schools had a week's holiday; children were taken by their parents'
visitors into the bazaars, there to feast their eyes ere returning home
laden with fairings. Two-thirds of the Market Place would be devoted to
business purposes, the remainder to shows. From Long Row to South
Parade booths stretched their grey exteriors. Within, all was life,
activity and bustle. Thither the Sheffielder brought his cutlery; the
Barnsley man his linen; the Halifax and Leeds people their cloth; the
Staffordshire man his china; the Grantham lady — the
wellremembered "lassie with the golden locks" — her gingerbread;
while various towns contributed the dolls and toys for the delectation
of the juveniles. Four stalls fronting the Exchange were devoted to the
sale of Nottingham's special products. One exhibited lace and hosiery;
another, baskets of all sorts manufactured from material furnished by
the osier beds near the Trent and at Wilford. Another displayed
whipcord of a superior quality made from the hemp growing in the
alluvial soil of the depressions in the Park valleys, notably near the
fishpond gardens, where the Leen flowed at the foot of the Castle rock
and by the Cow Drinks at the left hand side of Lenten Road as you cross
the Park. There were several ropewalks in operation in my time, but the
one whose name now survives stretched from Derby Road to Park
Row. Our illustrious poet Festus Bailey — as his
admirers prefer to call him — once told me how, when he was a boy, he
used to watch the spidery movements of the ropemakers from the very
spot where his house now stands. The fourth stall fronting the Exchange
held nothing but heaps of liquorice grown also in the Park valleys.
The Fair was proclaimed with much ceremony. No showmen might utter
their alluring invitations to "walk up, walk up", and see the wonders
within, no bazaar-holders begin their respective sales before the
proclamation went forth declaring Goose Fair opened.
On a temporary platform in front of the Exchange window stood the Mayor
in robe and chain of office, supported by aldermen and their
officials. The ringing of the bellman's bell produced
a lull in the hubbub of the crowd beneath, while he in suitable words
proclaimed the Fair. At the conclusion of this part of the ceremony he
and various members of the Corporation, preceded by the mace-bearer,
walked in procession along Long Row, then down the avenue of shows at
the foot of Market Street — no wide street then but a narrow opening
called Sheep Lane — along Beastmarket Hill, South Parade, back to the
Exchange, which they entered by the Smithy Row portal, there to lay
aside the official garb, and resume ordinary dress.
In early times the Fair was a necessity. When railways were not,
turnpikes not too well kept, and country lanes in the depth of winter
often impassable, the storing of certain kinds of provisions, clothing,
and agricultural appliances was imperative on the part of the
inhabitants of villages and small townships. Nottingham herself
profited much by the commodities the country folk brought in such
abundance at her fairs in March and October, notably at the last. Take
my own home as an instance. Well do I recall the rows of shelves in one
compartment of the store-room, where apples, pears, walnuts were
temptingly displayed on beds of clean straw; the smaller room where
cheeses were kept to last the family until March fair came in; the
bushels of potatoes in the cellars, the strings of onions depending
from the scullery ceiling. You might remark — Why not buy such things
at the shops as you required them? Good old-fashioned house-keepers
would reply, "The very raison d'etre of Goose Fair was the opportunity
it afforded of buying the commodities at wholesale prices."
All along the Poultry cackled the Michaelmas geese; opposite, at
Cheapside, the fruiterers took their stand as now.
But you will be saying: "You have got into Goose Fair and do not know
how to get out." Let me linger just a moment to describe the space
enclosed by Cheapside. It was a lovely, picturesque bit. As you looked
with your back to the Market Place, quaint gabled houses met the view;
the one nearest to Bridlesmith Gate was called Elizabethan House — a
toy and fancy goods emporium kept for long years by one Corbett; to the
left of this was the grocery shop of Samuel Fox, the Quaker
philanthropist. This man — "Sammy Fox" as he was lovingly called — was
quite a character, doing good in countless ways, yet preserving to the
last his simplicity of speech and garb. All the members of his
establishment wore the Quaker dress: the women, old and young alike,
the lavender gown, white shawl, low shoes, and the lavender silk tunnel
of a bonnet.
Now, we will turn round and look towards the Market Place. On the right
were well-built shops, curving somewhat from the line of causeway and
extending to the passage opening into the Market Square. These, for the
most part, remain unchanged. On the left were similar shops and
dwellings — for you must remember people lived over their shops in
those days — until you came to the Flying Horse and the shops reaching
to Peck Lane. These later have been absorbed by the Flying Horse and
modernised. Before leaving this space let me call your attention to the
block of buildings jutting eastwards from the Market
Place. The end one is now a shoe-booth; but in my
time it was always a butcher's shop, and it was on this site that the
poet, Henry Kirke White, the son of a butcher, was born. At the
entrance to the Shambles you can to-day see a low quaint public-house —
the Henry Kirke White Tavern, adorned with the portrait of the poet —
which is popularly believed to be his birthplace. This is a mistake, as
I will prove. My old writing-master, Mr. Lee, who taught most of the
school-girls of my generation, often used to tell me interesting
anecdotes of Henry Kirke White's mother. She kept a school at this
butcher's place for a while, afterwards removing to High Pavement. Mr.
Lee was writing master there also. It is difficult to believe that in
those days writing was an extra in schools, like Music, French and
Drawing. Yet so it was, and I was not taught writing till I was eight
years old; although many a sheet of letter-paper I had previously
stained with pen and ink printing characters.
THE BURNING OF THE CASTLE
In the long vista of the years this lurid picture occupies the remotest
position. And yet there is one event of domestic import, still earlier,
that my parents used to tell me happened when I was barely two years
old, which I to this day distinctly recall. And does not Mr. Gladstone
place it on record how, as a babe creeping on the nursery floor, he
remembered the colour and pattern of his nurse's gown?
The spirit of discontent, which broke out into open riot in Nottingham
at the rejection of the Reform Bill by the House of Lords, had been
smouldering for two or three years, so that when the news was brought
down by Pickford, the great carrier, and by the mail coach passengers,
the mob, swelled by roughs arrived for the forthcoming races, was ripe
for every form of mischief. How did this discontent originate? It was
simply the re-action from years of unexampled prosperity. During a
great part of the twenties the bobbin-net manufacture and its
application to the stocking-frame, the invention of Heathcote and
others, made the fortunes of scores of families. Workingmen,
framework knitters, f.w.k.'s as they were described in the calendar,
the grandfathers of the twist-hand of to-day, used to earn from four to
ten pounds per week. Some of the wiser ones took fortune at the flood
and began to establish themselves as master lace manufacturers; but the
majority as usual spent their earnings in self-indulgence. The great
houses of to-day, all except a few, sprang up in this manner, impelled
by the unparalleled wage-earning power of the period.
On the morning of the memorable Sunday, October 9th, hundreds assembled
before the White Lion, awaiting the arrival of the mail. As the coach
drove up a passenger remarked that the reformers in London were beating
to arms. That was enough. The crowd, with wild cries. rushed at the
dwellings of supposed anti-reformers and perpetrated lawless deeds. The
Mayor, Mr. William Wilson, left the service at Castle Gate Chapel and
hastened to the multitude. While exhorting them to disperse and refrain
from violence he himself was struck and injured. The Riot Act was
then read; the constables were, however, unable to seize the chief
offenders, or make much impression on the moving mob. Monday morning
was comparatively peaceful, so that the Mayor did not think it
necessary to prohibit the public meeting in the Market Place which he
had convened at the request of the principal townsmen. The speakers,
from a waggon in the centre of the space, addressed a dense and orderly
mass; but the fringe of the assembly consisted of the lowest and most
despicable characters. These renewing the disturbances of the previous
day, the authorities, ever loth to do so, found the moment had come to
use extreme measures. A troop of the 15th Hussars was called out from
the Park Barracks — for Nottingham was for many years a military
station. They kept dispersing the mob. One section, however, eluded
their vigilance. Making their way Sneinton-wards they proceeded to
Colwick, the original Notts. seat of Lord Byron's ancestors. Entering
the mansion they began to lay about with the railings they had torn
from Notintone Place, Sneinton; they ripped up the pictures, smashed
everything they could, and finally set fire to a portion of the
building. Mr. Musters was away from home; Mrs. Musters — Lord Byron's
Mary Ann Chaworth — and a French lady, a visitor, made their escape to
the shrubbery. Here, in evening dress, Mrs. Musters received that shock
to the system which terminated her life five weeks later at Wiverton
Hall, the dower-house of the Chaworths.
The mob now turned homewards intoxicated
with
success and with the wine
they had broached in the Colwick Hall cellars. "To the Castle" was now
the cry, and thither the mass surged on. The details, so far, I had
from my father and others. Now for my own personal recollections. On
that l0th of October I was in bed about eight o'clock, but not asleep:
the roar outside was too terrible and persistent for even infancy's
slumbers. Presently some one — presumably a servant — lifted me up and
throwing a shawl over me held me at the window. I can never forget that
sight. Beneath, a dense black mass of human beings, more like wild
beasts, shrieking and howling; above, columns of smoke through which
after a while the flames penetrated, lighting up St. James' Church,
Standard Hill, and the whole neighbourhood. Athwart that deafening roar
came the sound of crackling and falling timbers; by and by a delicious
odour was wafted in our direction from the burning cedar wood, of which
costly material the panels of many of the rooms were made. It seems the
place was completely gutted; the beautiful tapestry which escaped the
conflagration at the beginning was torn down by the miscreants and sold
to bystanders at three shillings per yard. One impressive sight was the
molten lead pouring down in lurid streams from the roof of that noble
mansion; for it must not be forgotten that the fortress of the Norman
period — the Castle proper — had given place to the fine structure
erected by the 1st Duke of Newcastle, in the spirit of the Inigo Jones
style of architecture. For a long period the Dukes of Newcastle had not
been in residence, but had let the Castle and grounds to various
tenants. My dear husband's family, unable when they first came to
Nottingham to find a suitable house, occupied one wing for several
months. I have often heard him describe the beautiful view from the
windows of the boys' playroom — now the refreshment saloon and the
print gallery above, for there was then no dividing floor in this
apartment tapestried from plinth to cornice. As far as the eye could
reach stretched rich meadow land, along a portion of which the Trent
wound in and out like a broad silk ribbon; no smoky chimneys, no
collieries to defile the bounteous landscape terminated in the extreme
distance by the Belvoir hill and its crowning Castle. Fortunate was it
that the Castle was untenanted when the mob attacked it; the
lodge-keeper, after useless resistance, had to flee for his life.
The Rutland Foundry Works were in imminent peril at this time, the
maddened mob having got it into their heads that the place was rented
from the obnoxious Duke of Newcastle. An audible threat arose amid the
noise and din to the effect that when they had finished that "job" —
meaning the Castle — they would turn their attention to this.
My father, ever sagacious and prompt in action, lost not a moment in
causing the walls, the great gateway and the delivery warehouse door to
be chalked in largest characters, "These premises do not belong to the
Duke." This device had the desired effect, to the discomfiture of the
returning, lawless throng.
PASSING OF THE REFORM BILL
The next recollections in the order of time are the festivities at the
passing of the Reform Bill. The procession, a mile long, of about
20,000 people, consisted of horsemen four abreast; pedestrians, in rows
of ten; a carriage drawn by six horses, containing Sir Thomas Denman
and General Ferguson (Nottingham's two members); the Odd Fellows and
Masons wearing their peculiar devices; and, what I recollect most
distinctly, thousands of boys carrying miniature flags of all colours
and varied designs. It was at a window in Friar Lane that my father
held me up in his arms to enjoy on that bright summer day in 1832 the
brilliant scene forming in the Market Place, about nine in the morning.
The procession wound its way through the chief streets until it reached
the Flood Road, then returned up Hollow Stone, down the three
Pavements, up Castle Gate, Castle Road, along Park Street, Friar Lane,
to the Market Place again. On a platform in front of the Exchange the
two Members addressed the vast multitude, after which they dispersed,
the thousands of boys being conducted to George Street (barricaded for
the purpose), where they were each regaled with a bun and a small mug
of ale. Perhaps the most distinct impression of this event is connected
with a subsequent alfresco banquet, given by the firm of Mechanical
Engineers, Iron Merchants and Iron Founders, to which my father then
belonged, and which business he afterwards purchased in partnership
with Benjamin Cort, of Leicester. The proprietors at this time were
Messrs. Boothby, father and son. Benjamin Boothby subsequently removed
to Melbourne, Australia, and became the grandfather of Guy Boothby, the
prolific novelist of to-day.
In the spacious yards of what were subsequently the premises of Mr.
Cort and my father tables stretched in the form of a capital T. At the
long tables the workmen were placed, dressed up in their best and
sporting flowers in their button-holes. At the cross table the
"quality" sat. When the dinner of roast beef and plum pudding had been
duly and appreciatively discussed, the dessert at the upper end came
on, and with it the little daughter of the house. I recollect well how
I was petted and made much of. In a pause of the toasts, which followed
each other in rapid succession, I begged that my favourite horse might
be brought out from the stable to receive from my hand some token of
the day's rejoicing; whereupon the ostler was despatched for the animal
and for a remnant of plum pudding, which the dear old creature took,
and thus my childish wish was gratified. By the way, until two or three
years ago, had you stood on the little bridge at the Navigation Inn and
looked eastward, you would have seen the name "B. Cort & Co.",
unless the wood sheds intercepted the view, and you could not have
failed to admire the proportions of that Carrington Street Bridge, as
well as the ornamental work of the spandrels. In the comparatively
older parts of Nottingham may still be seen the name "B. Cort &
Co"; for instance, on the pallisades of Wellington Circus, on many
gratings, and on the staircase balusters of numerous private houses.
Strong as was the bridge, it had to be pulled down after sixty years'
service, and replaced by one more suited to the heavier traffic of
to-day. The City Councillor, who when lately broaching the matter
observed it had done good duty for fifty years, was under the mark, for
it was in 1841 — more than sixty years ago — that the construction was
begun.
This iron foundry business was the oldest and largest in the town: the
premises occupied nearly the whole of Granby Street, and turned the
corner into St. James's Street. This part contained the foundry proper.
Here human bones were discovered from time to time by the moulders in
the preparation of the ground for casting — a fact which goes far to
strengthen the conjecture that this was the burial place of the White
Friars, whose possessions covered all that space now bounded by Granby
Street, Friar Lane, Beastmarket Hill, and St. James's Street. A little
grating at one end of the iron warehouse connected with the foundry
looked on to the Quakers' burial ground, abutting on Friar Yard, Friar
Lane. I hav occasionally watched from this opening the simple funeral
rites of the quiet people. In silence they gathered about the grave,
clad in their ordinary costume, as in silence they committed the loved
remains to the dust. Their previous place of interment was in Walnut
Tree Lane; and it was only last year (1903) that it was disturbed for
business purposes, and the bodies removed to the Cemetery.
In looking back I have sometimes wondered why I, a schoolgirl, was
permitted to wander about and watch the varied industries of this great
business, from the joiners' shops to the moulding processes preceding
the casting. From one entrance of the watchman's lodge I have stood and
gazed with awe at the fearful risks those moulders ran in carrying the
molten metal from the cupola to the moulds in the fine sand prepared to
receive it. The explanation probably was in the desire my father always
manifested that his daughter's education should be as practical as
possible — that I should see for myself as well as acquire knowledge
from books and conversation. I remember seeing the casting of the great
girders which supported the Carrington Street Canal Bridge.
CRICKET MATCH — 1836
My next recollection in the order of time was of a grand cricket-match
on the Forest between Notts and Sussex, for at that time the County
Matches came off in that locality. It was in the early autumn of 1836.
The arrival of the Sussex team by coach was the signal for much
cheering as soon as the vehicle was seen toiling up Hollow Stone. On
the following day play began, when the schools had half-holiday. How
well I recall it all — the walk, as soon as the northern boundary,
Parliament Street, was passed, through Roper's Close and the fields
beyond, where we looked with eager anticipation at the ripening
blackberries and watched the robins and wrens flitting about in the
hedges. Even the costume of myself and sister I can remember. We wore
on that bright afternoon white frocks with pink sashes, tippets, and
Leghorn gipsy bonnets trimmed with pink.
When we reached the rendezvous the scene was most animated and
picturesque. The slopes from the windmill-crowned crests down to
the race-course resembled a military encampment; for the white tents
for refreshment and various other purposes were dotted about in every
direction. Among them the Forest's native beauty asserted itself in the
gorse bushes not quite depleted of their gold, the dwarf thorn trees
and the tall grasses which clustered about them. As the multitude
squatted on the patches of sward watching the play and hailing with
exultant shouts the achievements of the players, the white tents, the
greenery, the wide expanse, and the click-clack of the windmills
appealed with fine effect to the senses and the
imagination. For, as William Howitt wrote, "I had the
strongest idea of an amphitheatre filled with people that I ever had.
In fact, it was an amphitheatre. It is the nearest approach to the
athletic games of the Greeks that we have made or are likely to make.
SNOWSTORM OF CHRISTMAS DAY, 1836
The great snowstorm of Christmas Day, 1836, should now be mentioned. In
that year Christmas Day was on a Sunday; the snow had been falling
since Wednesday night almost without intermission: the roads in country
districts were impassible, so that on Christmas Eve the different
parishes sent out poor men by scores to open them. It an ill-wind that
blows nobody any good; the families of these men rejoiced in that
snowstorm, because of the excellent wages the shovellers received at a
season when employment was scarce. If the storm was severe in the
Midlands, the records tell us how much worse it was in the South of
London, where high ridges ran across the streets up to the first floor
windows; for three days not a shop was opened; and intercourse between
London and the South Coast was suspended for that period. My
recollections corroborate much of this picture. On awaking that
Christmas morn I gazed on the whitest of worlds; the snow was more than
a yard thick, for it was up to the window sills; the horses were snowed
up in the stable; silence reigned impressively supreme over the
deserted streets; and the church bells themselves found no tongue to
salute the happy morn. As the snow was still falling the ridges
deepened, and so did the difficulty of getting to the animals. After
hours of shovelling on the part of two or three of the household the
stable at last became accessible.
The mention of Christmas recalls the paucity of holidays in those times
— the only recognised public holidays being Sunday, Christmas Day, and
Good Friday. I do not say that Saint Monday was not frequently
observed, yet not as it is to-day. There were no Bank holidays widened
out as now into a third of the week; no week's holiday for a workman in
the autumn, no fortnight for his master; no Thursday or Saturday
afternoons. The pendulum has swung to my thinking too much the other
way, and people nowadays seem more intent on their play than on their
working hours.
THE CORONATION, JUNE 28TH, 1838
Radical as was Nottingham's political creed, she was not behind other
towns in loyal demonstrations of attachment to the young Queen.
Coronation Day was fittingly observed as a general holiday. The chief
event which I recall was a procession formed by the Mayor and
Corporation, the Mace-bearer, the Yeomanry Band, the soldiers from the
barracks (a troop of the 9th Lancers), the Odd Fellows, many of the
principal inhabitants, and thousands of Sunday-school children.
They started from the Exchange and marched along South Parade,
Beastmarket Hill, Long Row, Pelham Street to somewhere about Stoney
Street, where the procession halted, the Mayor and Corporation
proceeding to Divine Service at St. Mary's, the Sunday Scholars being
taken in hand by their respective teachers and conducted to the
schoolrooms adjoining their various places of worship, where dinners of
roast beef and plumpudding were provided. The afternoon was spent
by these children in the Park; while they walked in procession they
sang hymns; when they rested, or wandered about among the thorn-clad
undulations, or sat under the shade of the trees which extended from
the Barracks to what is now called Lenton Avenue they listened to the
stirring strains of the military band stationed in front of those fine
trees. I well remember the appearance of those Sunday-school
processions from the hill above the rock-holes or Druids' Caves, where
myself and my people stood to watch them. The male teachers mostly wore
white duck trousers and white hats. The dress of the children was
simplicity itself. The "masses" could not afford to ape the fashionable
"classes", even were they so disposed, the dear loaf of protection
absolutely forbidding it. The dress of the girls, for the most part,
consisted of a print frock, a nankeen tippet, and a straw-bonnet
trimmed with a "curtain" behind, a bow at the side, and a piece of
ribbon between the crown and brim long enough to serve as strings.
Between four and five o'clock the teachers conducted their classes back
to their respective schoolrooms, where "tea" — consisting of milk and
buns for the girls, ale (in some instances) and buns for the boys
— was
served; after which the children were dispersed and the teachers rested
until late in the evening, when the festivities of this memorable day
were brought to a close by a grand display of fireworks in the Market
Place. My people had engaged an upper window at the Exchange, and it
was from this vantage ground we witnessed the best pyrotechnic
display
— as regards design — Nottingham had ever furnished. I will
just
pause here to observe what a lamentable thing it is when memory wears
away to a mere tabula rasa, or if not quite that, to a surface of
blurred impressions with nothing distinct, nothing in relief. In the
Diamond jubilee year I was addressing a meeting and recalling the
events of the Coronation in the hope that one of the women of about my
own age would impart her recollections so as to vary my own. She could
not recall anything, neither the delicious brightness of the day, the
warmth tempered by a gentle breeze, the ringing of the bells, the flags
and banners, the bands of music, nor yet the roast beef and plum
pudding dinner, of which, as a Sunday scholar, she must have partaken
somewhere or other. How true I find it that
When Time that steals our years away Shall steal our pleasures too, The
memory of the Past shall stay And half our joys renew.
I have already alluded to the opening of the railway in 1839. Previous
to this, and for some time afterwards, the needs of Nottingham were
well supplied by her public coaches. Besides those that started from
the Maypole and Black Boy to Derby and elsewhere, there were two
coaches from London to Sheffield and Leeds, which daily stopped for
horse-changing, and for the passengers' breakfast at the White Lion in
Clumber Street — an old hostelry set back from the street by a clean,
well-paved court-yard. The "Express" left the "Bull and Mouth", London,
every evening at six o'clock, and arrived in Nottingham at eight next
morning. The Mail Coach left London at eight in the evening, and
arrived here at eleven next morning. They came along the Flood Road, up
Hollow Stone, along High and Middle Pavements, Bridlesmith Gate, and
High Street to the inn. They would reach their destination — Leeds —
between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, and six and seven
respectively. Their arrival created no little stir in our good old
town; the signal was the playing by the guard of popular tunes on his
horn -the Old Hundredth, as he neared St. Mary's on Sundays. Some idea
of the former surroundings of Nottingham may be gathered from the
oft-repeated remark of the old coachmen that nowhere near a town was
there a mile of such beauty as that which lay between Trent Bridges and
Hollow Stone.
The next important event was the opening of the Mechanics' Exhibition
in 1840 to provide funds for the building of the present Mechanics'
Hall. It was held in the Exchange Hall, enlarged for the occasion by an
annexe in front. Art, manufactures, machinery, scientific instruments,
curios were well represented; and as it was one of the first
undertakings of the kind the Midlands had attempted, the novelty of the
thing, combined with the excellence of the exhibits, assured its
success.
Up to the building of the Mechanics' in 1845 there were only two public
halls suitable for large assemblies — the Exchange and the Assembly
Room, Low Pavement. It did sometimes happen that the club rooms of the
Odd Fellows at various inns could be hired, but the concession was rare.
Winter amusements were thus few and far between. Two public charity
balls for the Infirmary and Dispensary, and the three subscription
concerts got up by Mr. Woolley and his sisters comprised the
dissipation of the well-to-do. I had almost forgotten the little
theatre in St. Mary's Gate, near the Old Bugge Hall, the town residence
of the Willoughbys; but as we were never allowed o frequent such
places, I can only speak of the two occasions when after my marriage I
entered its portal. This was in 1861, and each time it was for the
purpose of seeing Charles Kean and his wife in their magnificent
interpretation of Hamlet, and in Louis XI.
But if the winter amusements were few the summer delights were many. No
town had a neighbourhood richer in country rambles, whether of meadow
or field or stream or woodland. The working-man had his garden on the
Hunger (said to be a corruption of Hanger) Hills; his master having his
near his own house, for most of the houses in the chief streets had
gardens at the back. There were besides many tea-gardens, the resort of
the middle classes and others; those at Radford Folly, St. Ann's Well,
Blue Bell Hill, the Coppice, the Whey House near the Trent, Old Lenton,
and others recur to me. I wish I could give you a fair picture of those
Hunger Hill rose-gardens. Down to comparatively recent times they were
known far and wide for the wonderful richness and variety of their
bloom. The twist-hands cultivated them in their leisure hours and made
much profit thereby, for they supplied the Manchester and Liverpool
markets with freshly cut roses twice a week. Their success in this
direction was largely due to the assistance they received from Canon
Hole, now Dean Hole of Rochester, a noted rosarian. Most Saturdays in
the season he might be seen near the florists' stall in our Market
Place among a group of men waiting for his opinion on such and such a
strain. Those lovely gardens were arranged most effectively. The one I
have specially in my mind was of five or six terraces; the lowest was
planted with roses of the deepest red; the one immediately above glowed
in crimson beauty; and so the gradation softened until the uppermost
fascinated by their delicate hue. The last or top terrace was finished
off by a trellis where the honeysuckle and jasmine rioted together in
fragrant luxuriance.
VISIT OF THE QUEEN DOWAGER
One morning in September, 1841, while in the midst of a French lesson,
Signor Assolari, our master, suddenly remembered that Queen Adelaide,
on her way to Sudbury, would change horses at the George, and that the
cortege must necessarily pass our school in Stoney Street. Permission
having been obtained from the Principal, we threw aside books and pens,
and stood under the trees at the foot of the garden awaiting the august
arrival. The cortege consisted of seven carriages. As Her Majesty
slowly passed, we girls curtseyed low, and were much gratified by her
responsive smiles and bows. Being quite close we saw distinctly the
features and attire of the chief lady. She wore her hair, tinged with
grey, in flat curls; the bonnet, huge in proportion, was what was
called a drawn-bonnet after the fashion (as regards the drawing) of the
hat on the table, and from it depended a black lace veil of the size of
those lying before me; the shawl, worn au naturel, was of a rich
cashmere. A guard of honour was formed by a detachment of the 3rd
Dragoons, which conducted the cortege as far as Wollaton Hall, where
the Queen Dowager called on Lady Middleton.
The mention of curtseying brings me to the subject of children's
manners, a matter of no mean importance in my young days. Our education
included dancing and deportment — deportment not for company alone, but
for behaviour in daily and domestic life. To enter or leave a room
where our parents or elders were sitting, without curtseying at
the door was deemed very bad manners. Unquestioning obedience to their
wishes was the rule; and a certain kind of deference, now rarely seen,
showed itself in the way we answered them. To reply with a bald "yes",
or "no" would have been the height of rudeness; and it was always "Yes,
father", or " No, mother", as the case might be.
VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA
The visit of the Queen regnant was a much more important event. On her
way from Chatsworth to Belvoir our late beloved Queen came by train to
Nottingham old station, now the Midland Goods station much enlarged.
There the carriage was in waiting to conduct her and Prince Albert
along a road just completed in the West Croft enclosure, which in
honour of the occasion has received the name of Queen's Road. It must
be remembered that there were no houses in the Meadows; no railway
extension eastwards; no Arkwright Street, nothing but a vast stretch of
beauteous meadow land between the Park and the Flood Road, athwart
which flowed the Leen's tributaries and the Tinker's Leen — a lovely
sight, especially in early spring, when the purple crocuses in rich
profusion lent an annual charm. December 4th, 1843, was the date of the
Queen's transient visit. Brilliant were the skies, generous the
sunshine — more like May than December — as befitted so august an
occasion. Triumphal arches were erected at intervals along the new road
and the Flood Road to Trent Bridges. All along the route raised seats
were temporarily provided for thousands of spectators. From the bench
my people and myself occupied I had a perfectly distinct glimpse of
both Queen and Prince. The distinguished look of the Prince was
enhanced to my girlish eyes by the moustache he wore, a labial ornament
I had never seen except in the instance of Signor Assolari, our French
and Italian master. It may interest my lady listeners to know that the
Queen's luxuriant fair hair was simply braided; the bonnet was of white
straw, trimmed with blue ribbon and white feather; within the brim was
a border of tulle interspersed with bits of baby ribbon matching the
colour outside. I also noticed she was "overhung" as in her early
portraits, the two front teeth showing slightly.
ELECTION FERMENTS
You would expect that in a town like Nottingham there would be fierce
fights before the introduction of the ballot and its undoubted
benefits. In 1841 occurred the most notable contest of my early years.
Sir John Cam Hobhouse and George de H. Larpent were the candidates who
won on the Whig side in opposition to John Walter and T.B. Charlton of
the Tory camp. In those days the canvass previous to the polling lasted
long, during which the greatest excitement prevailed; everybody wore
either the Whig yellow or the Tory blue; bands of music patrolled the
streets continually; devices, some clever and witty, but mostly
scurrilous, adorned and disfigured walls and other bare spaces; the
speakers from the hustings in front of the Exchange were often assailed
with opprobrious remarks, or pelted with rubbish. When the election was
over the last act partook of the nature of a brilliant pageant — for
then came the chairing. I suppose originally the candidate would be
carried in a chair hoisted on men's shoulders, hence the term; but the
chairing I saw in 1841 (the last of the kind, I believe) consisted of a
carriage drawn by four grey horses, in which sat Sir John Cam Hobhouse,
and George de H. Larpent, afterwards Sir George Larpent, completely
embowered in evergreens and flowers. From an upper window on Timber
Hill, as that part of South Parade near Messrs. Lamb's corner was
called, we surveyed the scene. The people's good humour had all come
back as the acrimony of party spirit subsided, and all joined in the
vociferous cheering as the carriage slowly proceeded round the Market
Place. Dense was the mass, great the enthusiasm, beautiful the colours
and devices of flags, banners, and waving handkerchiefs under the
brilliant sun of a July afternoon.
Sir John Cam Hobhouse was the friend and companion of Lord Byron in the
poet's first visit to Greece. A letter of his lies on the table. I have
brought it to shew you the kind of letter sheets employed before the
penny postage led to the use of scrappy letters and envelopes; as well
as to furnish an instance of the system of franking — a system swept
away with the introduction of cheap postage.
The year 1845 is memorable as the year of the railway mania; hundreds
of lines were projected; speculation ran riot; all classes became eager
for shares, especially in the autumn, when the fever was at its height.
The mania might be likened to the South Sea Bubble of the preceding
century in its inception, progress, panic and ignominous close.
THE REPEAL OF THE CORN LAWS, 1846
The repeal of the Corn Laws is an event connected in my memory with
public rejoicings through the length and breadth of the land. With the
gradual acceptance of free trade, the bettering of the middle and lower
classes slowly proceeded. And yet to what taunts and gibes and insults
was Sir Robert Peel, the father of the measure, subjected? He was
lampooned by the wits of the day, caricatured mercilessly, and of
course our facetious friend Punch had something to say respecting the
turn-coat. The cartoon of June, 1845, on the table, represents Sir
Robert wearing a new wig at the Queen's Costume Ball in derision of his
change from Toryism to Whiggism. The ringing of the bells on that
summer day in 1846 accorded well with the joyous harvest prospects on
every hand. Never had there been a more bountiful outlook than in this
glorious summer following the mildest winter I can remember. None too
soon was this measure introduced! And most welcome was that harvest!
Great Britain needed plentitude for the distress in the Sister Isle,
after the failure of the potato crop, and the subsequent famine. Sir
Robert Peel proved himself a true hero by sinking the interests of
party to what he conceived to be the voice of duty calling him to
free the commerce of the country from the fetters that cramped her
activities. He had fully counted the cost to himself — the torrent of
obloquy, the falling off of friends; yet he bravely persevered till his
great scheme found accomplishment. It is sad to recall the bitterness
of his friends. No sooner had his measure — helped on by the Anti-Corn
Law League with Cobden and Bright as its exponents — become law than
the storm of vengeance broke over him. His friends, became his enemies,
seeing their opportunity on the Irish question succeeded in ousting
him. He never re-entered Parliament, but the signal honour belongs to
him of sacrificing a party to save a nation.
I have dwelt for a few moments on this great event, for from it dates
the improvement in the condition of the people. You cannot hark back,
as I do, to note the difference. When the four-pound loaf was cheap at
8½d and 9d, when tea was 6s 6d to 7s per lb, sugar 8d and 9d,
all clothing fabrics proportionately dear, the country went wild over
the prospect of untaxed corn. In the delirious joy of the time people
were apt to forget two beneficent laws in the early forties; the one in
1844 regulating the working hours in factories, and the earlier one of
1842 whereby women and girls were forbidden to work in mines. The name
of Lord Ashley, better known as Lord Shaftesbury, will ever be
gratefully associated with the latter Act. It seems hardly credible
that such degradation could have existed: that women and girls,
unclothed, unwashed, should be harnessed like beasts, with a girdle
round their waists, to wear out underground their miserable lives.
The year 1848 is to be remembered in Nottingham as one of much anxiety
on the part of all law-abiding people. The tide of revolution which had
swept over the continent, toppling down thrones, removing landmarks,
and changing geographical conditions, threatened to touch our "tight
little island". In view of the danger of a Chartist rising the
authorities in Nottingham took measures betimes. By augmenting the
military strength at the barracks, by calling out the Yeomanry and
swearing in many hundred special constables the danger was averted. The
malcontents, surprised apparently at the determined attitude of the
Corporation and people, slunk away, and nothing happily came of their
disaffection.
Not long ago a gentleman remarked in my presence how poor
Nottinghamshire was in historical interest compared with some counties;
whereupon I fired up. Had he never heard of Scrooby (one of the most
northerly places in Notts), the cradle of the great American race —
Scrooby, deemed worthy of a pilgrimage by the hundreds of delegates
from America at the International Congress of 1891? To the handful of
religiously loyal men who braved numberless dangers and privations ere
they made good their escape to Gainsborough, thence to Holland, much
later on to Plymouth; whose voyage in the Mayflower, as the Pilgrim
Fathers, has been subject enough to inspire poet and painter — to these
men and their steady efforts in the cause of freedom their descendents
are indebted for the priceless boon of religious and political liberty.
Had he never heard of Scrooby ?
Going farther back, was it not the love of liberty, the hatred of
feudal oppression, that drove Robin Hood and his merrie men to Sherwood
Forest, where true to their conviction they made it their business to
defend the poor against the tyranny of their masters? Is not Wollaton
Hall in this neighbourhood deserving of mention — the most perfect
example of Elizabethan architecture the country possesses; of
historical interest too, for it was here the first Arctic Expedition
was planned by Sir Hugh Willoughby and his companions for the discovery
of a north-east passage to China? Was not our county further
distinguished by the invention of the stocking frame, and subsequently
by the adaptation of bobbin net to the frame by Heathcote and others,
whereby the beautiful lace fabric became the staple manufacture of our
town, giving employment to thousands, and making the fortunes of
hundreds, until workmen's strikes succeeded in crippling its prosperity?
Was it not in Nottingham that the first Missionary Sermon was preached;
when at that little chapel in Park Street (now a furniture shop near
the almshouses) more than a hundred years ago Carey gave as his text,
"Expect great things from God; attempt great things for God?"
And have we not a galaxy of distinguished names to adorn the county's
records, whether in history, poetry, painting or general literature? We
have as local historians Thoroton, Deering, Throsby, Blackner, Bailey
and others. In poetry we claim Byron, Philip Bailey (the illustrious
author of Festus, till lately among us), Kirke White, Ichabod Charles
Wright, the translator of Dante and Homer, Henry Sutton, Millhouse, and
others. In painting there is Richard Parkes Bonnington, whose genius
demands unstinted praise. His works are very difficult to meet with,
for they adorn private galleries and seldom change hands; he is
represented by one or two pictures in the Louvre, by the same number in
the National Gallery, and by many in the Wallace Collection. Paul
Sandby, the inventor of water-colour painting, was a Nottingham man;
Henry Dawson, though not born in Nottingham, spent the greater part of
his professional life here; as did Smythe, the artist of those
oil-paintings before you representing Nottingham Castle, the windmills,
the meadows, etc, etc.
As preachers of the Gospel we have Andrew Kippis, Gilbert Wakefield,
Erasmus Darwin, Dr. Sterne, Whitlock, Reynolds, Barrett, and others
among the various denominations who suffered for conscience' sake at
the passing of the Five Mile Act. And shall we not mention William and
Mary Howitt, beloved of young people for the many charming books from
their pens illustrative of English rural life, as also for their tales
picturing the home of the prosperous twist-hands of their day? Little Coin, Much Care, a book long
out of print, gives us a better idea of the Nottingham working classes,
of their unexampled good wages and improvidence, than any account I
have ever heard or read.
The first illustrated newspaper proper was projected by a Nottingham
man, Herbert Ingram, who brought out the Illustrated London News.
Huntingdon Shaw, of Narrow Marsh, the famous smith who wrought those
beautiful iron gates so long exhibited at our Castle Museum is one
among many another I ought to mention, but I forbear.
CONCLUSION
And now I must close. If I have succeeded in these imperfect sketches
in giving you a glimpse of the Nottingham of my earlier life you will
understand my passionate love for and loyalty to the Queen of the
Midlands. How often has the useless desire arisen that my children
could have seen her picturesqueness and enjoyed the breezy freshness of
her surroundings! If the comeliness survives in a
newer form, the picturesqueness has all but gone. No convenient
country-lane walks can now be had. Much further afield must we go by
cycle or rail or carriage, for the narrow ivied lanes, the scented
fields, the misty glens of long ago. Let me offer one parting word to
those of you in authority, whether in City Council or the various
Committees of Management; aye, and to parents and teachers also.
Cultivate in yourselves the spirit of reverence for what is honest and
beautiful. Architecture, for example, may not be ornate; but if a
structure has a dignified mien, the dignity arising out of solidity and
good proportions, and if the workmanship betrays truth and honesty in
its aim and execution, such a building should evoke respect, even when
falling short of admiration. So with the open spaces left to us. Teach
children's hands to refrain from disfiguring them by the wanton
destruction of anything they can clutch at — over-hanging branches,
wandering ivy, mosses, emerald patches on wall coping and the like;
their feet from spoiling grass borders; from digging holes with their
heels in the too-often be-papered and bebottled sward. In my small
way I am constantly working in the direction of preservation of what is
worth preserving. I rarely stir out without having to harangue children
and even grown-ups, in groups or singly, upon the folly, the
wrongness, of exercising their destructive powers on lovely things
not their own. If they cannot contribute to the beauty of the world,
they can at least let it alone. If we all recognised the source of
beauty, reverence for it would spring up unbidden. The beauty of a tree
or blossom, what is it but a revelation of something in the mind of its
Creator? In the countless forms of floral loveliness and the glorious
tints that brighten them, God shows He takes pleasure in beauty for its
own sake. As some one has finely put it, "beauty is
the hall mark of God, the very signature of His hand."
The same care that is expended over personal beauty to guard it against
the ravages of time, if exercised with regard to our surroundings would
result in the perpetuation of an ever beautiful world. But alas!
commercial interest overrides everything, and the instinct for beauty
is quenched. This ought not to be. Human faculties were not bestowed
that some should tyrannise over others, but that each should have its
rightful exercise, and that all should work harmoniously together. But
if the aesthetic sense among some of us is poor, and consequently the
appreciation of beauty feeble, we can retire upon a lower plane, that
of order, and thus testify to our belief that one element of beauty —
Order — "is Heaven's first law".
Notes
The author, Annie
Gilbert (nee Gee), was born in Nottingham on July 11, 1828,
daughter of Thomas Gee and Hannah Moseley, and died at New Barnet on
May 27, 1908. In 1851 she married Isaac Charles Gilbert (1822-1885),
son of the
noted writer of children's poetry and other works, Ann Gilbert
(Taylor), and the Rev Joseph Gilbert of the James Street Independent
chapel. Annie Gilbert also wrote Remarks
on Botany for Beginners (about 1892). She was a school mistress.
Annie
Laurie Gilbert (1851-1941) was the daughter of Annie Gilbert,
author of Recollections of Old
Nottingham.
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