A Bent Copper

What, you may ask, is so interesting about this 1898 photograph? It's just a Victorian woman crossing a road with a dog.

The answer is that it was taken by Zola, when he fled to London during the Dreyfus Affair. We see lots of photos of authors, but this is the first I can think of that is by one. I've tried to find other examples, but Google has drawn a blank.

I don't know whether Zola employed any domestic staff during his stay in London, but he may have perused these advertisements:

I'm intrigued by the stipulation of "no fringe" in a couple of adverts and the promise of beer in others.  Can anyone enlighten me about the fringe issue? Are fringes a sign of bad character?

Talking of bad characters, another gem from the 1890s I found recently is a memoir of policing in Victorian Manchester. The book looks like a good read, but the main attraction is the author's name:

I don't know if this joke travels well. Do they have "bent coppers" outside the UK?

I expect that Superintendent Bent would have been able to quickly identify the ne'er-do-wells in this 1892 photo. My money's on the boy with the peaked cap, who looks as if he's contemplating an illegal act.

I'm sure the sight of the Superintendent would have been enough to strike fear into the hearts of most criminals. Just look at him:

Only these habitual bad'uns would have been impervious to the long arm of the law:

But in spite of Bent's stern countenance, he was a compassionate man whose sense of justice included a committment to improve the living conditions of the poor. Today, in Trafford, there is a blue plaque that reads:

"Superintendent James Bent established a soup kitchen in this vicinity in 1878 feeding thousands of people and potentially saving them from starvation."

Bent coppers aren't what they used to be.

Finally, a frontispiece illustration from an annual that has nothing to do with the 1890s, but I like the image:

Don't you?

Rambling

My oldest son's favourite new word is hypocrite and it's usually levelled at me. Most of the time he's confusing flexibility with double standards, but sometimes he's spot on. I was a complete hypocrite last week, when I took my sons to a 'drive-thru' McDonalds, after years of condemning the company's food and working practices, but I knew that they'd love it.

On the way back to Lewes, my younger son said that he felt sick and I pulled over into a side road,  where we found ourselves next to a church in a small hamlet.

There are quite a few churches in England that sit in isolated places and don't appear to serve any community. Some villages never recovered from the Black Death, whilst others simply withered over time.

We got out and walked around, hoping that fresh air would help my son. On a nearby tree, we found this:

It reminded me of the film The Longest Day. I've no idea why the teddy bear was caught in a tree.

The church, surrounded by daffodils, recalled the rural idyll that appeared on my parents' 'This England' calendars. But as we approached the church, we found something rather unpleasant:

Once we were back in Lewes, I began sifting through boxes of secondhand books. I rarely find old photographs since I became self-employed, so I was delighted when I found these:

As usual, there were no names or dates. It's frustrating, but also tantalising.

The same pile of books also yielded this early colour plate from a 'penny dreadful' published by the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge. The SPCK must have published thousands of novels for younger readers, as I always find several a day. Like Mills and Boon romance novels, they follow a strict template and I've noticed that temperance is a recurring theme.

Alcoholism appears to have been a big issue in the 1880s and 90s. My great-grandfathers on my mother's side were both late Victorian drunkards, with numerous illegitimate children. My mother remembers her long-suffering grandmother saying "When 'ee dies, I want to 'ave three years to meself."

Her wish came true. The husband died in the early 1940s and my great-grandmother was determined to have her three years: "Hitler's not gonna get me. I'm 'aving me time." She survived many air raids and died just over three years to the day after her husband's death.

The culture of self-improvement and temperance appears to have had a strong influence on the following generation, as my mother's parents (and many of their peers) were strict teetotalers.

In the history of our family, I see myself as a Charles II figure, restoring the traditional merry-making after a period of austere puritanism. But without the illegitimate children and gambling.

The following day, I worked through another collection of books and found this touching note, written by a young girl:

"I am going to save up for a 1/2d light colourd lipstick and a small box of Ponds Powder if mummy will let me, a small scotch red purse for my red handbag and the Penguins Club badge before it starts again."

I hope that I'll find more notes and photographs in books. but failing that, I can look in other places, like this wall in Ilfracombe:

I'll take their word for it.

Found and Lost

I never find it easy revisiting old workplaces. Even when I've left under amicable circumstances, there is always an underlying awkwardness; almost like a meeting between former lovers. Behind the broad smiles, there is a subtle game of one-upmanship, with each party trying to demonstrate how much they've thrived since the split.

A few weeks ago I returned to my last workplace to collect some stock. The department I'd created had now moved to a separate building and apart from one familiar face, the staff were all new. I felt as if I'd been erased from history.

I wondered why the managing director had offered me my old job back a few months ago. The new building appeared to be well-organised and the staff seemed more industrious than ever. I felt slightly disappointed to see how well they were doing without me.

People looked up with expressions that said "Who on earth is he?" and I couldn't wait to leave, but decided to make some polite conversation first.

Before leaving the job, I'd told my successor about some unique items that we'd found: a 1591 Bible, a box of 17th century books and a collection of Victorian photo albums. I'd been tempted to take one of the albums with me, but it wasn't my property. I'd often wondered how much money the Bible had sold for.

"How did you get on with the Elizabethan Bible?" I asked.

There was an awkward silence for a few moments. "Er...we lost quite a lot of stuff during the move."

It now seems that the 1591 Bible, the Derek diaries and the Victorian photo albums weren't saved from oblivion after all. They merely enjoyed a brief reprieve.

I'm sure you can imagine how I felt.

I'm relieved that I made some high quality scans of the best of the photos. Many of the images have been shared on a number of websites, so the album survives, in a way. You can see the original blog post here and the full album is on this Flickr page.

Sadly, poor old Derek hasn't been so lucky. His countless foolscap binders of carefully typed A4 diaries have been largely consigned to oblivion.


I say largely, because I do have a little of Derek in my attic. I felt able to keep some of his diaries because they had no financial value, so there is probably one more Derek post in the pipeline. I owe him that.

I feel haunted by the loss of the Bible and although I'm glad that I scanned the Victorian photographs, they feel anchorless without their original album. As for Derek, I'm sure that his complete diaries could have been turned into a good book by an experienced editor (however, I should add that finding the extracts I published was rather like panning for gold).

Ironically, I now have enough storage space for thousands of Dereks, but hardly ever come across gems like these any more. Perhaps that will change when I find new suppliers.

There are dozens of recycling companies all over Britain, largely staffed by people on minimum wage, working at great speed. They don't have the luxury of stopping to look properly at the tonnes of sacks and crates that arrive daily. If it's a book, save it. If it isn't, chuck it.

I try not to think about the things that are thrown away. One day, when my business is on a more secure footing, I hope that I can devote more time to saving some of this ephemera, making the best of it available online.

People's lives shouldn't be casually thrown into a skip.

The Enigma Variations

I found this photo at work yesterday and almost threw it away, but there was something intriguing about the scene. Who was the mysterious figure in the centre who had drawn such a large crowd?

The image was of a fairly poor quality, but I hoped that a high resolution scan might resolve the enigma.

I scanned the image at 1200 dpi, which is more than adequate for most old photographs, and let Photoshop work its magic, enlarging different sections.

Here are the results:

This is the full photo after the colour balance and contrast have been improved (apologies to all fans of sepia). There is a greater clarity, but the figure in the centre remains tantalisingly elusive.

Now everything becomes much clearer, apart from the blurred figures of the men at the front. Is that who I think it is?

A further zoom has expanded the crest above the woman's head to a resolution where some of the writing is legible.

It is, of course, the Royal Coat of Arms, with its motto Dieu Et Mon Droit. I can only assume that it is Queen Victoria who has drawn such a large crowd on a rainy day.

I have no idea where or when this picture was taken. Queen Victoria is wearing black and given that she went into a prolonged period of mourning after Prince Albert's death, this must be the late 1860s, at the very earliest.

Perhaps someone who knows about fashion will be able to determine which decade this photograph was taken in. I would certainly like to know about the significance of these hats:


Scanned at 1200 dpi, the enlarged sections look like a monochrome, pointilist crowdscape by Seurat. Most of the people have their backs turned to us and the few faces we can see are blank and expressionless.

All apart from one - the woman on Queen Victoria's right. She appears to be looking down, in deference to the Queen.

Of course I may be completely on the wrong track. Someone might recognise the enigmatic figure as 'Big Bertha' McMahon, the famous Victorian female heavyweight wrestler, or Dame Cynthia Partington-Ffoulkes, whose Temperance League speeches terrified pub landlords from Portsmouth to Perth.

It could even be an author signing session, perhaps by Mrs Henry Wood, if they did things like that in the nineteenth century.

However, I'm fairly confident that I've discovered a photograph of Queen Victoria.

If anyone has any observations or insights about the time and the place, I'd be very grateful. I would love to know more about this mysterious image.

More Victorians

Yesterday another Victorian photograph album appeared on my desk at work, rescued by someone in the warehouse. Sadly, it wasn't as fascinating as this album, which I found last year, but there were a few portraits which I thought were worth sharing:

I'm not quite sure why this photograph of a Spike Milligan lookalike and his wife was taken at such a jaunty angle.


The boy's face is slightly blurred because he didn't remain still, but the dog was clearly an experienced sitter.

A wonderful, strong face

The husband in this couple from Oban looks like a formidable character

The one intriguing thing about this album is the variety of locations that these photographs were taken in: Cardiff, London, Oban, Birmingham, Aberdeen and Leamington Spa - if this is a family album, they were clearly a product of the huge migration that took place during the early Victorian age, when people left their largely rural homes in search of work.

When he retired, my father traced our family tree and got back as far as the 1740s. The death certificates showed that when they lived in the rural Kentish village that had been their home for generations, my ancestors lived to a ripe old age. Then one of them moved to London and became a cab driver.

Both he and his son died in their early 50s.

From the 1980s to the 1880s

It has been a quiet weekend. On Friday night I reluctantly agreed to go to an 80s disco, which I mistakenly assumed had something to do with the Royal Wedding, but turned out to be a fundraising evening. There wasn't a single person there under 30, apart from a brief moment when two teenagers walked in, took one look and immediately left. I knew how they felt.

It was the quinteseential 80s disco: the music was rubbish, I didn't cop off with anyone and the DJ refused to play The Smiths. I'd forgotten how much I hated evenings like this.

My mother-in-law thinks that the great tragedy of my life was that I was born in the wrong century and that I should have been a country parson in the Victorian age. Sometimes think she's right.

However, I drank a magic potion that enabled me to travel through time (a la 'The Amazing Mr Blunden') to the late 20th century and within an hour I was on the floor dancing (albeit like someone with a slipped disc) to Run DMC, probably cramping Mrs Steerforth's style. Further drinks bought out the inner Travolta and the evening turned out to be almost enjoyable.

Naturally I suffered the next day and rather than go out, decided to spend my time sorting through a new album of Victorian photos that arrived at work last week.

It's a strange album. The photographs have been taken all over the place, including one from Sydney, so it's hard to tell where the family came from. One picture is dated 1881 but I suspect that some may be older, if the fashions are anything to go by. I have included the original captions:

'Great Uncle Brindley, Sydney' - the first Australian studio portrait I've come across. This would have been taken around the same time as Marcus Clarke published 'His Natural Life' - one of the first 'Australian' novels (and a gripping read if you haven't come across it).

'Mrs More' - why isn't the gentleman named?

This group of 'striking' looking people are sadly unnamed

This woman is also unnamed, but she looks uncannily like an ancestor of Cherie Blair

'Aunt Ruth and Aunt Mary' - I don't think that it would be entirely unfair to suggest that Aunt Ruth might have had a few 'issues', if that scowl is anything to go by.

There is clearly no doubt surrounding the paternity of this young girl

'Cecil, Winnie and Irene' - I wonder when these names will come back into fashion?

I shall refrain from passing comment

I like the woman's quietly determined expression

'Grandfather Moore'

'1881'

Undated

These last two photographs are also unnnamed and undated. Are the mother and daughters in mourning?

Finally, three plates from a Victorian children's book published in 1881:


At work, we have a growing archive of colour plates from the ninetenth century, but the novelty value still hasn't worn off and I feel excited whenever I find one.

Maybe I need to go to more discos.