Grave Stories - Come with me into the graveyard, all human life is here

Of course I did not have high expectations of the new government. Labour in name only now, the party has moved, save for brief anomalies under Michael Foot and Jeremy Corbyn, steadily further towards the right since the post war years of the Atlee government. Blair jettisoned the party’s socialist past when he rewrote Clause Four, ending the historic commitment to common ownership of industry, passively accepting the results of Margaret Thatcher’s contemptible sale of shares in privatised utilities. With equal passivity the Starmer government has accepted the results of the 2016 referendum on the EU despite the lies told by the Johnson administration to promote Brexit. There is little sign of any attempt to tackle inequalities of wealth and income, save a half-hearted commitment to end the use of offshore trusts to avoid inheritance tax. Blair lied in Parliament and to the public, claiming that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, to justify his decision to invade. The current Labour government has been at best equivocal over Gaza: in an early interview Starmer argued that Israel had the right to cut off necessities of power and water in Gaza. 146 countries recognise the existence of Palestine – Britain is not one of them. 137 member states of the United Nations recognise Palestine – Britain is not one of them. Instead, Britain is the only permanent member of the UN Security Council apart from the USA not to support Palestinian membership of the UN. Starmer was even slow to join countries calling for a ceasefire in Gaza and will not suspend arms exports to Israel. Indeed, arms sales around the world continue to be a pivotal part of the British economy as much under Labour as under Conservatives. In relation to asylum seekers Starmer voices the same “stop the boats” rhetoric as his recent Tory predecessors, only choosing to send them to Albania instead of Rwanda for “processing.” It was not anyone’s enthusiasm which brought this government to power but antagonism to fourteen years of Tory rule, a low turnout, the collapse of the SNP in Scotland, and Farage’s Reform Party taking votes from the Conservatives.

But if all this is enough to drive the iron into anyone’s soul, it is sometimes the relatively trivial which leaves us spluttering with incoherent rage. Having pledged to run a government of high standards, and end cash for access scandals, the Prime Minister, his wife, the deputy prime minister and the chancellor have been accepting freebies from the Labour peer Waheed Ali (appointed a life peer by Blair in 1995). It began with “Passes for Glasses” when Waheed was revealed to have unrestricted access to Downing Street after buying the prime minister £2,485 worth of spectacles. Then followed revelations of £107,145 spent by Waheed on Starmer’s wife’s clothes, £40K on tickets for him to watch the Arsenal football team, and £4k for tickets to a Taylor Swift concert…Starmer declares all this to be perfectly legal since he declared the gifts, albeit belatedly, but even his own MPs have found it morally questionable. Nor did it help when he whined that the security issue meant that he would never be able to go to an Arsenal game again unless he accepted corporate hospitality in a private box. But the utterly risible last word (or probably not) came from Foreign Secretary David Lammy suggesting that the freebie clothes were justified because the Starmers sought to look their best when representing the UK on the world stage.

Anyone incensed by this level of hypocrisy and political idiocy, can do no better than to spend a little time in the empathetic company of the furious, irascible William Cobbett (1763-1835). For no one does splenetic fury like Cobbett, he is never rendered speechless with indignation. Cobbett had little interest in politics beyond England, he was no citizen of the world, but he more than made up for his narrowness of focus with the passion he brought to bear on the question of rural poverty. By the time he published his Rural Rides in 1830 he could not write a paragraph without a vitriolic outburst expressing his utter contempt for those responsible, most notably successive Whig and Tory governments, for the proletarianization of agricultural workers.

William Cobbett did not begin life as a radical. Indeed, as a young man he was conservative to the point of being reactionary, and his later views developed in an idiosyncratic, unsystematic way. The son of a farmer and publican, he received little formal education and began work as a ploughboy before, desiring to see the world, he joined the army and found himself between 1784-1791 in New Brunswick, Canada. He used the time to study English and French grammar. Seeing his senior officers appropriate some of the pay of the common soldiers, he began to question authority, and on his return to England published his first pamphlet exposing their peculations and charging the officers with corruption. In The Soldier’s Friend he described the low pay and harsh treatment of the enlisted men. Then, fearing that he was about to be indicted and imprisoned in retribution, he fled to the USA. And during this period the most unattractive side of Cobbett emerges. He became a rabid British loyalist, an anti-Jacobin critical of Jefferson’s support for the French revolutionary government, a supporter of war against the Franco-American alliance. He denounced democracy and reviled his radical compatriot, Tom Paine. Cobbett was unashamedly xenophobic and bigoted, critical of any country which rivalled Britain, outrageously antisemitic, with a deep-seated loathing of Irishmen and of abolitionists like Wilberforce. When his writing came to the attention of the Tory Prime Minister, William Pitt, he was welcomed back to England, and in 1800 Pitt offered to subsidise his writing as an apologist for the Tory government and a polemicist against radicalism. How then did this monster come to be admired by Karl Marx, Michael Foot, EP Thompson?

Well, he changed: while many people move politically to the right as they grow older, Cobbett moved the other way. At first supporting Pitt, he was nonetheless incorruptible, refusing Pitt’s offer, and publishing his own views in his one-man weekly paper, The Political Register*, produced from 1802 until his death in 1834. And those views became very antiestablishment as Cobbett looked around him at the state of England in the early nineteenth century and saw corruption, cruelty, venality, and injustice. The Register, dubbed Cobbett’s Twopenny Trash by his detractors, a designation which he enthusiastically embraced, became increasingly critical of the war with France, the military, the church, big landowners, rotten boroughs – the “Accursed Hill” as he refers to the notorious rotten borough of Old Sarum – and, the spawn of those rotten boroughs, the Parliament and government at Westminster.

For his pains Cobbett found himself in Newgate prison between 1810-12 after being convicted of sedition. Between 1817-19 he fled to the USA again to avoid a further incarceration as radicals like himself were rounded up. This was a very different Cobbett from the man who had vilified Tom Paine, and when he returned to England, he brought Paine’s bones with him. Paine, once a hero in the USA, had become an outcast on account of his negative views on organised religion. He died in poverty, and his grave had been neglected until Cobbett sought to make amends for the injustice, he had done him. Cobbett wanted to build a mausoleum and memorial for Paine with money raised by public subscription, but Paine’s bones met with the same lack of respect in England as in the USA and the appeal failed. Cobbett kept the bones until his death when they were lost.

Meanwhile Cobbett’s radical beliefs coalesced around the plight of agricultural workers and small farmers. Cobbett loved the rural England he had known in his childhood and youth. He yearned for a golden age when every farmer brewed his own beer and fattened his own hog; when farmers lived, worked, and ate alongside their labourers. But Cobbett was no mere nostalgic dreamer, for alongside his journalism he was a practising farmer. His knowledge of agriculture, crops and soil was encyclopaedic. And between 1821-1826, travelling on horseback round the counties of southern England, he built up a portrait of rural life. He studied the farms, the fields, the crops, the animals, he talked to the farmers and the farm labourers. He visited the markets and fairs. Cobbett published his findings in Rural Rides. He had an emotional link to the countryside and his vivid prose is lyrical and romantic, but it hard hitting too. For Cobbett did not like what he found.

Farm workers had sunk into poverty, their families were starving. Who was to blame? Cobbett was a good hater, a one-man protest movement, and he turned the full force of his anger on those whom he held responsible.

The Enclosures, begun by kings seeking to extend their hunting grounds, and completed following the 1801 General Enclosure Act, which enabled big landowners to enclose land without a Parliamentary Act, left agricultural workers deprived of common lands and grazing. Small farmers could no longer afford to pay their labourers properly.

Then came the “tax-eaters”: after the Napoleonic Wars, Parliament abolished income tax, replacing it with increases in indirect taxes to pay the interest on the national debt. These taxes fell on necessities for which there was an inelastic demand: salt, hops, malt, tobacco, sugar, beer, and tea, shifting the burden of taxation from the middle classes to the poor, with small farmers paying proportionally more tax than higher economic groups and unable now to pay their labourers at all. Their fields were neglected, and crops went ungathered. The decline in production caused higher prices for food. Small farmhouses and labourers’ cottages, whole hamlets, and villages, fell into disrepair. Big “bull-frog” farmers gradually swallowed up the smaller ones. Rapacious landlords evicted tenants. The “bullfrog” farmers, unlike those of old, no longer fed and lodged their workers, for it was cheaper to pay them wages: wages which were inadequate for their basic needs. And such former agricultural labourers who were now unable to find work on the land at all were employed by the parish at stone breaking to build new roads for the benefit of those big farmers and landlords.

Cobbett was not convinced of the need to service the national debt, and he loathed the stockbrokers and jobbers, bankers, financiers, and fundholders, parasites who took everything and produced nothing. Moreover, he noted that taxes were also being used to support the “deadweight”, the “half timers”, army officers on half pay but with no duties, and the standing army which in peace time was used, not against a foreign threat, but against impoverished people seeking redress as at Peterloo:

One single horseman with his horse costs 36s. a week…that is more than the parish allowance to five labourers’ families at five to a family…so the one horseman and his horse cost what would feed twenty five of the distressed creatures… take away the army which is to keep distressed people from committing acts of violence and you have, at once, ample means of removing all the distress and all the danger of acts of violence.

Adding to the “deadweight” were the tax gatherers themselves, the sinecurists with their government jobs, and Anglican parsons. Cobbett did not care for parsons, “sponging clergy”: they took the revenues of their livings, subsidised with tithes and the rent from glebes, but were absentee clergymen, not even living in the parish. Nor did he care for those who issued religious tracts “which would if they could make the labourer content with half starvation.”

And then there were the Corn Laws, restrictions on importing corn and other foodstuffs to protect landowners’ interests, raising the price of bread for an already impoverished population. Potatoes, cheaper than bread under the impact of the Corn Laws, were a particular anathema to Cobbett, as was tea, replacing beer as cottage brewing declined. Potatoes were in Cobbett’s view “debilitating fare” and “soul degrading.” Tea was “a destroyer of health, an enfeebler of the frame, an engenderer of effeminacy and laziness, a debaucher of youth and a maker of misery for old age.” His own preference was for the traditional three Bs – bread, beer, and bacon, and he would regularly set off on his rides with a bacon sandwich in his coat pocket for breakfast. Frequently the bread and meat would be handed over to a hungry soul whom he met along the way.

The Trespass Act and Game Laws, protecting the hunting rights of landowners, also raised Cobbett’s ire. For they forbade the “poaching” of wild animals, even rabbits, on the landowners’ estates thus depriving the local community of food they desperately needed. Moreover, mantraps were set to catch the “poachers” and punishments included imprisonment and transportation.

Cobbett hated the middlemen too, the dealers and shopkeepers who had replaced the old country fairs and markets, and who produced nothing but added to the cost of living.

He yearned for a return to cottage technology independent of wage labour and the capitalist market which saw the accumulation of capital in ever fewer hands. Big farmers and landlords were “conspirators against labour,” capitalist agriculture had proletarianized the farm workers,

Is a nation made rich by taking the food and clothing from those who create them and giving them to those who do nothing of any use? Why should the people work incessantly when they now raise food and clothing and fuel and every necessity to maintain five times their number?

While the poor creatures that raise the wheat and the barley and the cheese and the mutton and the beef are living upon potatoes, all the good food is conveyed to the tax- eaters in the Wen!

In Cobbett’s view London was a sebaceous cyst, a Great Wen, which along with lesser wens was encroaching onto the countryside, and he detested it.

But above all Cobbett hated the Establishment, “The Thing,” which presided over all this, the political, economic, military and church elites, taking the surplus value of the countryside and manipulating the markets to their own advantage. Misgovernment, the unreformed Parliament was the ultimate source of all evil. In the end he hated the Whigs even more than the Tories because their hypocrisy was the greater.

William Cobbett warned that rural poverty would lead to riots, and he defended agricultural labourers who organised public protests. He endorsed the rick burning and machine breaking of the Swing Riots in the 1830s. For why should the near starving labourers “live on Damned potatoes while the barns are full of corn, the downs covered with sheep, and the yards full of things created by their own labours.”

But whilst fully supportive of direct action, Cobbett worked for Parliamentary reform as the ultimate remedy for economic problems: he advocated the abolition of rotten boroughs and the extension of the franchise, so that radicals could be elected to Parliament where they could raise wages, repeal the Corn Laws, lower taxes, and reverse enclosures.

Following the Great Reform Act 1832, Cobbett was elected to a newly created seat in industrial Oldham. His support for the Reform Bill had been a compromise because it still left his beloved agricultural workers without the vote. In Parliament he sought to represent both his northern constituents and the southern agricultural workers. Sympathetic to the Luddites and deeply appalled by the Peterloo massacre, outraged by conditions in the factories, he nonetheless thought that the best recourse was a return to the land and self-sufficiency within an agricultural economy. And if this sounds a little odd today, we should remember that rural workers in 1835 were still the largest occupational group in England.

Cobbett, along with Hume and Wakley, maintained agitation in Parliament, first for the release and then for the pardon of the Tolpuddle Martyrs. He fought the brutal 1834 Poor Law Amendment which replaced outdoor payments with indoor relief: to save money all financial support for the poor was withdrawn and they were discouraged from seeking any help since their only recourse under the new system was to the workhouse, where children were separated from their parents and wives from their husbands.

But his time in Parliament was short lived; he died in 1835 and was buried in St. Andrew’s churchyard in Farnham, the Surrey town where he was born. The following year John Russell announced an official pardon for the Tolpuddle Martyrs. The Poor Law system was not officially abolished until 1948.

Located in St. Andrew’s Churchyard, Farnham, Surrey

It may be impossible not to smile at Cobbett’s dyspeptic outbursts against tea, potatoes, and the Great Wen. And he was no revolutionary, he had no problem with hierarchy so long as workers were fed, accommodated, had their fairs, sports, and harvest homes; his belief in noblesse oblige sits a little uncomfortably today. In the words of GDH Cole, “he was a conservative in everything except politics,” but what a magnificently angry, opinionated, choleric thorn in the side of the self-serving establishment he was.

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From 1803 Cobbett was also the first person to collect and publish all parliamentary debates in Cobbett’s Parliamentary Debates. His printers were Luke Hansard and his son Thomas, who also did work for the House of Commons. In 1812 Cobbett, overwhelmed with fines for seditious behaviour, sold the publication to the Hansards who renamed it. “Hansard” remains the title of the official record of parliamentary proceedings although the family connection ended in 1889.

Memorial to Luke Hansard, Many Years Printer to the House of Commons, St. Giles in the Fields, London

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William Cobbett, Rural Rides, Penguin Classics, 2001. First published 1830.

Dylan Thomas: Poems of Life, Death, and Mortality.

By Gravedigger

On September 15, 2024

In Writers

Last week I attended the memorial service of a dear friend and former colleague. A Welshman with a great love of literature, he had shared his passion with his children, and they read extracts from two of his favourite books: Richard Llewellyn’s How Green Was My Valley and Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood.

During the summer holidays, some years ago, my friend and I had gone together one day to Laugharne, the small town where the river Taf flows into Carmarthen Bay, and where Dylan Thomas lived from 1949 until his death in 1953. It is believed to be the inspiration for Llaregub, the village in Under Milk Wood. We visited the Boathouse, with its views out over the estuary, where Dylan and his wife Caitlin had lived; the old garage near the house which he had turned into a writing shed; Browns Hotel, where he spent so much time drinking that he used the bar’s telephone number as his own; and the graveyard of St. Martin’s church where he is buried. And there my friend spoke from memory his favourite lines from the “play for voices,” Reverend Eli Jenkins’ morning verses:

Dear Gwalia! I know there are

Towns lovelier than ours,

And fairer hills and loftier far,

And groves more full of flowers,

And boskier woods more blithe with spring

And bright with birds’ adorning,

And sweeter bards than I to sing

Their praise this beauteous morning…

…A tiny dingle is Milk Wood

By Golden Grove ‘neath Grongar,

But let me choose and oh! I should

Love all my life and longer

To stroll among our trees and stray

In Goosegog Lane, on Donkey Down,

And hear the Dewi sing all day,

And never, never leave the town.

And his sunset poem:

… every evening at sun-down

I ask a blessing on the town,

For whether we last the night or no

I’m sure is always touch and go.

We are not wholly bad or good

Who live our lives under Milk Wood,

And Thou, I know, wilt be the first

To see our best side, not our worst.

O let us see another day!

Bless us all this night, I pray,

And to the sun we all will bow

And say, good-bye – but just for now!

The radio play was Dylan Thomas’ last work, completed only months before his death in New York in 1953. Recounting twenty-four hours in the life of the town and its inhabitants, it reads like a fairy tale, at one moment all bawdy, exuberant Chaucerian humour, the next tender, melancholy and lyrical. The torrent of language and imagery, the alliteration and assonance, is unequalled. And the grace and humanity of the acknowledgement that “we are not wholly bad or good” is a sentiment which I know appealed to my friend whose inclination was always to see the best side of anyone.

The transience of life, death, and mortality, were recurring themes in the poetry of Dylan Thomas, and while Eli Jenkins prayed for another day, an earlier poem, And Death Shall Have No Dominion, published in 1933, described death as part of Life’s Cycle:

And death shall have no dominion,

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though loves be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

Physical bodies may perish but they become one with the cosmos, moving into a future beyond death as part of a life force, embedded in plants or the sun, at one with the wind and the moon, with nature, the stars and the sea, so that death is a union rather than a division, in fact life only gets meaning from death, with death a guarantee of immortality.

In his 1946 collection of poems, Deaths and Entrances, Thomas returned to the same theme with his Poem in October, recounting the walk he took on his thirtieth birthday: “It was my thirtieth year to heaven.” As he describes his physical walk along the shore and up the hill, the seasons shift, and he recalls his childhood and youth. Ageing then is not a matter of getting older and mourning for a lost youth, not a one-way journey to death, but a chance to revisit the past and be enriched by it, rediscovering a child’s sense of wonder and an intimate connection with all of nature and life. Life is impermanent but humanity and nature are woven together, and individuals ultimately become part of the natural order.

But it is another of Thomas’ poems, the villanelle, Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night, containing a rather different message, which is frequently read at funerals and memorials.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Published in 1951, the poem is commonly interpreted as a call to defy death and not to waste any opportunities, live life as best you can before it is too late. Moreover, although death is inevitable, life is precious and worth fighting for, death should not be accepted passively or in a spirit of resignation, rather we should resent and abjure death, resist our fate, and fight to live. But if the poem were merely flailing against the inevitable it would be an odd choice for funerals when it is too late for resistance or indeed for correcting life’s errors and omissions. The burning anger, the rage, is surely that of those who are left behind when those they love die. In the last stanza Thomas drops the discussion of mortality in general and the poem moves to his father’s imminent death, and a more personal expression of grief. Here is the personal despair, the desperate visceral plea, – don’t go, don’t leave me:

And you my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

Different poems speak to different people: though I admire the writing, I am uncomfortable with the sentiments of And Death Shall Have No Dominion and Poem in October, for they sound like sophistry to me, desperate attempts to deny death without recourse to conventional religion, but no more credible than the latter. I prefer the frank and simple honesty of Eli Jenkins, who for all his belief, longs and begs for one more day. And it is with the hopeless rage at the dying of those we have loved that I empathise most strongly; it may be a little odd to ask people, when they are old or ill, tired and wanting to rest, to keep up the fight, a little selfish, but understandable.

Dylan Thomas himself was only thirty-nine and on his fourth reading tour in the United States when he died from a cocktail of bronchitis, pneumonia, emphysema, and asthma exacerbated by heavy drinking- though his widely quoted claim to have “just drunk eighteen straight whiskies” was questionable. His body was shipped home to Wales to be buried in the churchyard at Laugharne.

Grave of Dylan Thomas, St. Martin’s churchyard, Laugharne

Caitlin Thomas, remembered on the reverse side of the same cross.

The estuary at Laugharne viewed from the Boathouse where Dylan Thomas lived

Afterthought

If too much reflecting on death has engendered a little despondency, let me cheer you up with the response of Kenneth Tynan, not a man who was easily impressed, to early critics of Under Milk Wood. He delineates the charges made against the play: “that it approaches sex like a dazzled and peeping schoolboy. And that Llaregub, so far from being a real village, is a “literary” village that Thomas had adorned with a false moustache of lechery – “Cranford” in fact, with the lid off… To all these accusations Thomas must plead guilty. Yet we, the jury, rightly acquit him. He talks himself innocent: on two dozen occasions he gets past the toughest guard and occupies the heart.” Tynan went on to praise the “manic riot of his prose,” and, in quite a manic riot himself, continued, “He conscripts metaphors, rapes the dictionary, and builds a verbal bawdy-house where words mate and couple on the wing, like swifts. Nouns dress up, quite unselfconsciously, as verbs, sometimes balancing three-tiered epithets on their heads and often alliterating to boot.”

Kenneth Tynan on Under Milk Wood: a true comedy of errors, reprinted in The Observer 28 February 2014, originally published 26 August 1956.

Gods of Small Things:Thomas Carr, Thomas Gadd Mathews, Robert Recorde, Richard “Stoney” Smith, Jethro Tull, Frederick Wolseley

By Gravedigger

On September 1, 2024

In Inventors, Industrialists and Innovators

With which inventions do you associate the above names? None of them appear on those ubiquitous lists of A Hundred Inventions which Changed the World, but they all made a significant impact in their own spheres.

Thomas Carr (1824-74)

Thomas Carr was responsible for The Disintegrator. A catalogue from the London Exhibition of 1862 describes this wonderfully named machine as “capable of pulverising various unfibrous materials, whether hard or soft, such as artificial manures, coprolites, zinc ores, rock asphalte, peat, cement, and fire clays.” Between fifty and two hundred tons per day of these materials could be reduced to a granular powder. Different size machines were sold around the world to grind guano rocks, bone, chemicals, and to pulp fruit.

While coarse grinding machines served the pharmaceutical and chemical industries, Carr wrote with particular affection of his grain milling machine:

“The Disintegrator is Contrasted with and Proved to Bear No Resemblance Whatever to Other Mills, Ancient or Modern…it is the Most Novel Discovery and Invention in Mills, the Most Versatile in its Applications, and for Many Purposes the Most Efficient Also, Since the Invention of the Flour-mill Stones Upwards of Thirty-three Centuries Since.” (Thomas Carr, Grain Milling, 1866.)

Circular discs of metal were set face to face and studded with alternating circles of projecting bars. The discs rotated in opposite directions and the grain passing through was shattered and reduced to flour. Carr estimated that one of his machines could do the work of twenty-seven pairs of millstones.

Thomas Carr is buried in Arnos Vale Cemetery, Bristol. At the base of his grave marker is a stone reproduction The Disintegrator.

Grave of Thomas Carr in Arnos Vale, Bristol

Thomas Gadd Matthews (1802-1860)

Also in Arnos Vale lies Thomas Gadd Matthews, another man with an enthusiasm for grinding things down. In 1840 he took out a patent for a machine which reduced wood, bark, and leaves to the fine powder used by dyers and tanners. His most successful product was made from indigo leaves imported from the West Indies. His customers boiled and fermented the powder he supplied to obtain the dyes used in the manufacture of clothing, particularly in the production of naval uniforms.

This must have been lucrative, for in addition to a house in Bristol and a summer villa in Portishead, Matthews bought shares in the newly formed Bristol General Cemetery Company and had a grade 2* listed tomb built there for himself and his wife. Since he was a member of the Church of England while she was a Congregationalist, the tomb was built straddling the consecrated and the unconsecrated parts of the cemetery so that they could be buried together but according to the rites of their respective churches.

Tomb of Thomas Gadd Matthews, Arnos Vale

The tomb straddles the consecrated and unconsecrated sections of the cemetery to accommodate the differing religious affiliations of Matthews and his wife

Robert Recorde (1510-1558)

Robert Recorde was a Welsh physician and mathematician.

In 1557 he wrote The Whetstone of Witte, a treatise on algebra, while composing which he invented the equals sign. He realised that he could avoid the constant repetition of the words “is equal to” by replacing them with two horizontal parallel lines, chosen “bicause noe 2 thynges can be more equalle,” for if necessary, they could be drawn all the way around the globe and still not join together.

But in addition to practising medicine and teaching mathematics, Recorde had also acted as Controller of the Royal Mint. In this capacity he refused to divert money to support English troops engaged in suppressing the Western Rebellion, a rising in Cornwall and Devon against the Enclosures, the poll tax on sheep, religious change, and the threat to the Cornish language. As a result, William Herbert, the first Earl of Pembroke, accused him of treason. When Recorde in turn accused Herbert of malfeasance in his role as Commissioner of the Mint, Herbert conducted a successful libel suit and Recorde was faced with a massive fine. Unable to pay it he was arrested for debt and died in the King’s Bench Prison in Southwark.

His burial place, probably an unmarked, communal grave, is unknown but there is a memorial to him in St. Mary’s church in his native Tenby.

The equals sign was not generally adopted until after 1700.

Memorial to Robert Recorde, St. Mary’s, Tenby

Richard “Stoney” Smith (1836-1900)

I came across Richard “Stoney” Smith serendipitously in Highgate. As his gravemarker details, he came from Stone in Staffordshire, later moving to Macclesfield in Cheshire, and then to London. Born in the Mill House, he became the third generation of his family to work as a flour miller.

Traditionally the wheatgerm had been discarded when making flour to prevent the bread from going rancid. Stoney perfected a method of steam cooking the wheatgerm, to prevent rancidity, without destroying its nutrients. He then blended it back into the flour, resulting in a brown bread rich in vitamin B from the germ, with a unique nutty taste, and without the grittiness of other wholemeal breads.

In 1887 he trademarked his new product as Smith’s Patent Germ Flour. He launched a national competition to find a new name for it – perhaps the connotation of “germ” seemed ill advised in association with a food product. The £25 prize which he offered for the winning entry was won by an Oxfordshire schoolmaster who proffered “Hovis” from the Latin phrase hominis vis (strength of man).

Such was the popularity of Hovis loaves that by the 1930s pubs and teashops frequently displayed signs advertising “Teas with Hovis.” The company coined the catchphrase “Don’t just say Brown, say Hovis,” as part of a successful advertising campaign. Even more profitable was the nostalgic television advert launched in 1973: set in the early twentieth century, a boy pushes a delivery bike laden with Hovis loaves up a steep cobbled hill as Dvorak’s New World symphony, rearranged for brass, reaches a crescendo. The loaves delivered, the boy free wheels back down the hill as a voice-over, the boy in old age, reminisces:

I knew baker’d have the kettle on and doorsteps of hot Hovis ready. ‘There’s wheatgerm in that loaf,’ he’d say, ‘Get it inside you boy, and you’ll be going up that hill as fast as you came down.’

The advert ends with the aphorism, “Hovis, as good for you today as it has always been.” Repeatedly voted the nation’s favourite advert, it was digitally remastered and rereleased in 2019 once again boosting sales while delighting its many fans. Sad that Stoney was not around to see it.

The inscription reads: After years of patient investigation he patented on 6th Oct. 1887 his improved treatment of the wheatgerm and broken wheat which made the manufacture of Hovis bread possible.

Although the famous Hovis advert was supposedly located in a northern town, it was actually shot in Shaftesbury in Dorset. The boy pushed his bike up the steep incline of Gold Hill, now often described locally as Hovis Hill.

Shaftesbury has embraced the association, capitalising on it to with a giant Hovis money box at the top of Gold Hill raising money for local charities

Jethro Tull (1674-1741)

Jethro Tull is probably the most well-known of these inventors, forever rubbing shoulders with Turnip Townshend in school texts on the Agricultural Revolution, and further immortalised by the eponymous rock band. The latter were given the name by their agent, a history graduate, just at the time when they were finding fame with a week’s residency at London’s Marquee club.

At his Berkshire farm, the original Jethro Tull invented the mechanical horse drawn seed-drill, acclaimed as the first agricultural machine with moving parts. Seed had for centuries been broadcast by hand leading to much waste. Tull devised a system whereby the seed was stored in hoppers, and fed by rotating, grooved cylinders into a funnel which directed it into furrows at the correct depth and space. The furrows were dug by a drill plough moving in front. A harrow moved at the rear to cover the seed. Later Tull also devised a horse drawn hoe to remove weeds and loosen the soil around crops preventing compaction.

Tull’s gravestone, in St. Bartholomew’s churchyard, Lower Basildon, Berkshire, is a replacement for the original, but it too has become difficult to read on account of the lichen. Fortunately the delightful bas relief of a horse drawn seed drill can still be distinguished.

To the Memory of
JETHRO TULL,
Pioneer of Mechanised Agriculture,
Author of Horse-Hoing Husbandry.
Baptised in this Church
30th March 1674
Buried here 9th March 1740

Frederick Wolseley (1837-1899)

When he was seventeen years old the Irish born Frederick Wolseley left home for Australia where he worked on a sheep station near Melbourne. Subsequently he acquired extensive properties of his own, and in 1884 he took out a patent for his invention, the first sheep shearing machine. The device had a power source originally driven by a horse gin, later replaced by a stationary engine, which was connected by belt, pulley and drive shaft to the handpiece held by the shearer. It clipped wool relatively quickly, and at its full length, doubling or tripling its value. And while traditional shears had clipped the fleece it into small pieces Wolseley’s machine removed the whole fleece. From the sheep’s point of view, it had the added advantage of reducing the number of cuts they received. Wolseley established the Wolseley Sheep Shearing Company in Sydney, and opened a branch in Birmingham, England.

Herbert Austin joined Wolseley’s company as chief engineer, taking over the management of the company when Wolseley resigned owing to ill-health in 1894. Two years later Austin began to design cars alongside the sheep shearing machines to stabilise a business at risk of seasonal fluctuations. This sideline was soon abandoned in Australia, but Austin purchased the car building activities of the business and moving to England established the Austin Motor Company at Longbridge near Birmingham. There he produced some of Britain’s first cars, still bearing the Wolseley trademark, so that for most of us the name is more associated with the car than with Wolseley’s own invention. In 1922 the incomparable Austin 7 also emerged from Longbridge, but that is another story.

Wolseley visited England for cancer treatment in 1894, and never returned to Australia. Dying in Surrey in 1899 he was buried at Elmers End Cemetery in SE London.

Frederick Wolseley, Elmers End, SE London. Reflections in the shiny black marble give the grave a rather spooky appearance

The enthusiasm of the Wolseley enthusiasts is somewhat misplaced, for it was Austin who developed the cars albeit under the Wolseley trademark.

Gods of small things only maybe, but they have all left their mark.

Le Corbusier: A Great Architect; A Disastrous Urban Planner; An Implacable Male Chauvinist.

By Gravedigger

On August 18, 2024

In Architects and Engineers

Though I have chosen to live in a quirky old house in an English village, yet I am susceptible to the attractions of a minimalist, modernist, city apartment. So I was eager, when on holiday in Marseilles, to visit Le Corbusier’s Unité d’Habitation.

Le Corbusier was the pseudonym Charles Edouard Jeanneret (1887-1965), architect, urban planner, painter, writer.

Le Corbusier had a great deal of confidence, boundless energy, and a talent for memorable epithets. “A house is a machine for living in,” he declared and set about creating houses and apartments in accordance with his dictum. Buildings he reasoned should be purely functional, with form following function. (This would appeal to my friends in the museum world who rail against architectural egos failing to consider the needs of their exhibits.)

In Vers Une Architecture, a polemical collection of essays from the 1920s, he elucidated the approach of the Modern Movement, outlining his Five Points of a New Architecture, enumerating the principles on which his designs were based. His houses were to be lifted off the ground with pilotis – slim, reinforced, concrete columns – bearing the weight of the structure, allowing free circulation at ground level, and avoiding dark and damp parts of the building. There should be a flat roof terrace with potential for a garden. The façade should be free of decoration, without ornament: dismissing the then popular eclecticism and art deco, he argued that “modern decoration has no decoration.” Ribbon windows should run the length of the building to provide light and views. There should be an open floor plan with no load bearing partition walls.

For his materials, Le Corbusier embraced glass, steel, and concrete, in pursuit of stronger, lighter buildings.

Contending that houses should be built on a human scale, he developed his Modulor Man to determine the ideal amount of living space required. The Modulor was an anthropometric scale of proportions based on the human body, specifically that of a six-foot-tall (1.83m) man with his arm raised to a height of seven feet and four inches (2.26m), segmented into the golden ratio (1. 61) and scaled up or down using the Fibonacci series. This universal system of proportions, he inferred, would reconcile mathematical order and human function, bringing rationality and harmony not just to buildings but to all aspects of design from doorknobs to cities. Critics have pointed out that the height of six feet was a rather arbitrary choice and Le Corbusier did not deny this, joking that he had chosen that specific height because “in English detective novels, the good-looking men, such as policemen, are always six feet tall.”

Le Corbusier’s early commissions were private houses for wealthy individuals, but in 1947, Raoul Dautry, the Minister for Reconstruction and Town Planning, commissioned him to create an apartment block in Marseilles. Completed in 1952, the Unité d’Habitation, better known as the Cité Radieuse, is the embodiment of the five points of modern architecture which he had outlined twenty years earlier: it is elevated above the ground with pilotis; on the flat roof is with a running track and a small theatre; there is a free facade; and uninterrupted banks of windows form a horizontal band around the building.

Into this béton brut (rough cast concrete) framework Le Corbusier slotted his modules “like wine bottles in a rack.” Each module was three stories high and contained two apartments, both with dual height living space, interlocking around a corridor, so that corridors were only required on every third floor. Every apartment was dual aspect, running the full width of the building, with its own terrace and brise soleil. Residents had a choice of twenty-three different interior configurations for their units, which ranged from one person to family sizes. The open floor plan came with steel columns which could be moved and removed, to form partitions. Two double width corridors like interior streets ran the length of the building, with shops, eating places, a hotel, an art gallery, nursery, and recreational facilities.

Le Corbusier designed all the furniture, fittings, carpets, and lighting for his apartments. The kitchens were equipped like laboratories. The furniture was mass produced, for he embraced Fordism. Leather chairs were made with a tubular steel frame, they were not decorative, but “useful tools.” Deploying his habitual bombastic maxims he proclaimed, “chairs are architecture, sofas are bourgeois,” and favoured “objects which are perfectly useful, convenient, and have a true luxury which pleases our spirit by their elegance and the purity of their execution and the efficiency of their services.”

And if his hortatory writings are a little wearing, still there is no question that more than seventy years since its inception this building remains a delight with its light filled apartments, labour saving devices and clever minimalist furniture. It comes as no surprise that though they were designed as affordable housing, the apartments today are mainly occupied by long-term middle-class residents who are passionate about their vertical garden city.

Roof with ventilation shaft like the funnel on a liner

View from the roof towards the Mediterranean

And yet, while I delight in this architectural gem, with its views of the Mediterranean from the roof, and at its feet a verdant park, I would not live there, for it is in suburbia, surrounded by dull streets far from the glamorous, edgy beating heart of Marseilles. Offer me the Barbican, gloriously ensconced in the very heart of London and I would wave my rural life goodbye without a backward glance, but not for dreary, unnatural, stifling suburbia.

Small wonder then that Le Corbusier’s work as an urban planner holds none of the allure for me that his architecture does. He may have had the laudable aim of improving living standards in overcrowded cities by providing cheap public housing, but his planned cities repel me. In 1922 he presented his model Ville Contemporaine, an imaginary city for three million inhabitants who would live in identical sixty storey apartment blocks, a “city in the sky.” He envisaged zoning with strict divisions of the city into commercial, business, entertainment, and residential areas. In 1925 he elaborated on this with his Plan Voison for the redevelopment of a large part of Paris. He planned to bulldoze the narrow streets, monuments, and overcrowded houses in the working-class neighbourhoods, replacing them with giant towers, symmetrical, standardised skyscrapers, uniformly laid out in regimented settings in an orthogonal street pattern, with wide traffic corridors running between the vertical architecture. Absurdly he asserted that “a curved street is a donkey track, a straight street a road for men.” Again, zoning and the separation of activities was at the heart of his plan. Happily, neither model was ever realised.

He was able however to implement his city planning ideas on a huge scale when, after Indian independence, Nehru invited him to design the new city of Chandigarh. There, putatively seeking to raise the quality of life for the working class, he built his city with segregated residential, commercial, and industrial areas, government buildings and parks. These disconnected rectangular sectors separated by broad streets and fast-moving traffic are bleak and depressing. Moreover, he consciously isolated poor communities displaying casual contempt for the people he was supposedly helping: “The technocratic elite, the industrialists, financiers, engineers, and artists (will) be located in the city centre while the workers (will) be moved to the fringes of the city.” There are individual treasures in Chandigarh, not least in the Capitol Complex, but the housing projects are regimented and inhuman with no reference to local tradition, and the overall impact is one of sterility.

Of course, a lack of enthusiasm for his urban planning did not deter me from seeking out Le Corbusier’s grave. He is buried in Roquebrune in a cemetery overlooking the Cote d’Azur where he bought a plot when his wife died in 1957. He designed a grave for them both, and it comes as no surprise to find a béton brut slab sitting alongside a cylindrical plant holder of the same material. A blue and white enamel plate, the blue representing the sea, commemorates his wife. A second plate in yellow and red, representing sunlight and sky, records his own death in 1965.

The graveyard looks out over the Mediterranean

But behind his presence there in Roquebrune lies a story which does not present him in a very edifying light.

Eileen Grey, the Irish architect and furniture designer, had designed a villa, E-1027, at Roquebrune Cap Martin in 1929 for herself and her then lover Jean Baldovici. When they separated Baldovici kept the house and invited his friend Le Corbusier to make use of it. While he was there in 1938-9 Le Corbusier, without seeking permission, painted eight murals over the white walls of the villa. For Grey this was an act of vandalism, a violation of her creation.

Ironically Grey’s villa was much like Le Corbusier’s own early works, a modernist building raised on pilotis, with a roof garden, horizontal windows, and a free façade. Originally, Le Corbusier had admired it, and Grey had been gratified by his praise. But the architectural critic Rowan Moore suggests that Grey’s work was superior to that of le Corbusier, with a softer, more naturalist interior making the home a living organism as opposed to the colder, harsh, angular lines of his machines for living. Moreover, Moore describes Le Corbusier’s murals as crude and garish with sexist undertones making snide references to Grey’s bisexuality and relationship with her ex-partner. He suggests that Le Corbusier was outraged that a woman could create work in the style he considered his own and, “seemingly affronted that a woman could create such a fine work of modernism…asserted his own dominion, like a urinating dog over the territory.” “As an act of naked phallocracy Corbusier’s actions are hard to top,” Moore avers. Others have suggested that the murals reflect a psychosexual obsession with Grey and Corbusier’s frustration at being unable to possess her. Certainly, he was disturbingly obsessed with the house making repeated attempts to purchase it. When this failed, he bought land right up against the boundary wall of E-1027 and built his own cabanon de vacances there, overlooking the villa. He visited every summer from 1953-65, swimming every day beneath the house. Indeed, it was while swimming there that he died of a heart attack.

When I visited, attempts to restore E-1027 after years of neglect had been unsuccessful and there was no access to it. One of the white walls can just be seen behind the trees. But it is possible to see Le Corbusier’s Cabanon encroaching as far as it can.
In 2021 a restoration of the villa was completed.

Eileen Grey chose to locate her villa in a remote, private spot. Much has changed today, but Le Corbusier violated the privacy long before the rest of the buildings arrived. The red arrow points to the location of E-1027 and the Cabanon.

Ici repose Le Corbusier, architect and urban planner

Le Corbusier, Vers une Architecture (first published 1923)

Rowan Moore, Eileen Grey’s E- 1027 in The Guardian, 30 June 2013, and 2 May 2015

The Matthews Family: Past Times in Norton Saint Philip

By Gravedigger

On August 4, 2024

In Children, Work and Play

At the end of my street stands Church Farm House. There is no farm today, but in the late nineteenth century John William Bissie Matthews was the third generation of his family to grow crops and keep livestock on the surrounding fields. John and his wife Emily Etta Matthews lived with their eight children in the four bedroomed house. Attached to the house was a cottage to accommodate farm labourers, and behind, surrounding the yard, were byres, stables, a coach house, a three storey malthouse, wash house and woodshed. Beyond lay kitchen and flower gardens.

Church Farm House and the attached cottage, today a separate residence

Two of the Matthews children, Ida (b.1891) and Gwen (b. 1901), recorded their memories of their childhood and early adulthood on the farm and in the village of Norton Saint Philip.

They attended the village school, which children left at fourteen, or more commonly at twelve when their labour was needed. Their play area was beneath a tree on a small green between the school and the church. Ida remembered the school closing in 1900 to celebrate the Relief of Mafeking. Gwen recalled her misery at being set to knit kettle holders and socks, and to sew aprons which were sold once a year around the village. When their brothers, who had to take the cows to the fields before school, arrived late they were caned. Children coming from the hamlet of Hassage walked two miles each way across fields and along a sunken lane bringing their lunch with them.

The same school building is still in use today for infants and juniors. It has its own playing fields, its gates are firmly locked, and the green where Gwen and Ida played is eroded by the twice daily assault of a crush of cars as parents convey their children between home and school.

The village school, built in 1827. In front is the green, where the Matthews children played under the tree, recovering a little during the summer holidays from the term time assault by cars.

The sunken lane along which the Hassage children walked to school

Monday at Church Farm was washday, when the wife of one of the labourers would light the boiler to heat water from the rainwater tank if it were clean enough or from the well outside the backdoor. She would boil the whites and scrub other washing on a board. After rinsing the laundry by hand in a tin bath she rung the wet clothes through the mangle before hanging them out to dry in the garden. It was a full day’s work.

According to their age the children had their own weekly tasks: milking cows, scouring milk pails, straining the milk through muslin cloth, scrubbing tables, cleaning knives, polishing brass, peeling potatoes.

“On the milestone near our house was “London 108 miles” and I wondered if I would ever get there,” wrote Gwen. It must have seemed a world away to most of the villagers, when even trips into Bath, a mere seven miles away, were rare. John Matthews drove a horse and cart into Bath every Friday taking produce – eggs, cheese, bacon – from the village farms to sell in town. While there he would shop for his neighbours’ needs, including the weekly delivery of newspapers for the rectory. Gwen was charged with delivering the latter and describes a household where the cook, boots, or one of the housemaids would take her to the kitchen for milk and cake.

The milestone which Gwen knew is still in place but either London has come a little closer or she misremembered the exact distance.

When the first motor bus arrived in the village, a double decker with no roof, the children were taken from school to see it. Ida and her friends rode it to the neighbouring village of Hinton Charterhouse…then walked back again. The bus plied between Frome and Bath but lacked the horsepower to convey its passengers up Midford Hill where they had to get out and walk. When they left school, Ida and another sister, Dora (b.1896), were apprentice milliners in department stores in Bath but the bus service was not frequent enough for them to use it, and they lived at the YWCA in Bath during the week, cycling home on Saturday afternoons and returning on Sunday evenings.

That first open top bus in Norton High Street

Yet if there was little contact with the wider world, the village itself throbbed with activity. Though most of the population worked on the land, there was also a corn mill and two sawmills, and Gwen enumerates two cobblers, three bakers, a policeman, a blacksmith, a wagon builder, an undertaker, a butcher, cheese and cider makers, a post office and two grocery shops. Today we count ourselves fortunate to have a Co-op store incorporating a post office counter.

The doctor, who lived in the neighbouring village of Beckington covered five villages on horseback until he acquired the first motor car seen in the area. On call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, he held his Norton surgery in Mrs. Millet’s coffee house and shop on the Plain, made house calls, and dispensed his own medicines.

When I first came to the village in 1998, the last vestige of this service survived with a partner from the Beckington practice holding a surgery one morning a week behind the stage in the village hall. There was little question of any confidentiality, but since ailments were discussed freely and loudly in the waiting area this was immaterial. Now there are eleven doctors and a wealth of other staff in Beckington… and requests for telephone consultations may be submitted online.

Most of the village buildings which the sisters describe are still in existence albeit modified to suit new uses. On Sundays the Matthews family would fill their pew in the church, the girls peering round to compare their outfits with those of their neighbours. Externally the church is unchanged but the pews which held the Matthews and other large families are gone, replaced by a flexible, central space to accommodate meetings, concerts, playgroups.

The Old Rectory is now a private residence, with a new extension, “The West Wing.” Today’s rector is housed in a modern bungalow. There is no policeman in the Police House nor any sign of teachers in the Old School House. Manor Farm, once the grandest in the village, boasting a large staff, carriages and shire horses, has been converted into holiday lets, its barns and other outbuildings into private housing.

The Plain. Somewhere here Mrs. Millet had her coffee house and shop, and the doctor held his surgery. Today it is an annex of The George Hotel.

In the church the pews which served the Matthews and other large families have disappeared

The Old Police House, today a private house

The Old School House, today a private house

Outbuildings of Manor Farm, now private housing

The Matthews knew the two pubs which still serve the village. Ida describes how “when sent on an errand we used to hold hands, hold our breath, avert our eyes, and hurry past the Fleur de Lys, an ale house on one side of the road, and the George on the other – in case we saw a drunken man because the casual labourers drank strong cider.”

More attractive to the Matthews children was Tom, the last of the heavy horses kept at the George to haul weighty loads up Bell Hill. A rope ran from the foot of the hill to a bell in the courtyard of the George. When it rang Tom would make his way unaccompanied down the hill, draw up the heavy load and return unescorted to his stable. Those using the service placed the payment of 3d in his pouch.

Recently refurbished the George now offers boutique rooms, fine dining, and a much reduced bar area, but not too many drunken men.

The George Inn, boutique rooms rather than drunken labourers

From the back terrace of the George the view across a field towards the church remains almost unchanged. Until well into the twentieth century cows grazed in the field, but nonetheless Gwen reports the presence of a cricket square. Today the Mead it is used purely for recreation: the cricket square is still there in summer, the bonfire in November, children play on the swings, and dogs chase balls.

View from the terrace of The George across the Mead to the church

Ida recalls gathering Bath asparagus in Wellow Lane and listening to nightingales there in May. There is still Bath asparagus, but even during the Covid lockdown when the village became again a place undisturbed by either cars on the roads or planes in the sky, and when I regularly met hares and deer strolling, almost tame, down the lane, and when the spring birdsong burst from the trees with no competition, I never heard a nightingale. Though I once met an old lady who told me that during her courting days she and her future husband would take blankets and lie in the fields listening to them.

At one of the periodic re-enactments of the Battle of Norton Saint Philip, the last victory for Monmouth’s rebel forces against the king in 1685, Ida was terrified by the noise and the sight of soldiers on horseback with steel helmets, waving their swords as they advanced down Chevers, locally known as Bloody, Lane. Having witnessed a similar re-enactment I can vouch for the irrational fear which even a playacting army can engender as the sound of drums and marching draws closer, and the first troops appear over the hill.

Chevers, aka Bloody, Lane, peaceful on a summer evening, but once the site of a violent battle.

But in 1914 there was no playacting, and the Matthews time at Church Farm was ending. The two oldest brothers, Bertram (b. 1892) and Sydney (b. 1890), had emigrated to Canada but both signed up with the Canadians to fight in the First World War. They were killed within three days of each at Vimy Ridge in 1917. The younger brothers, Cyril (b. 1894) and Leslie (b. 1899) also signed up. Cyril was taken prisoner and Leslie was injured. There were no celebrations at Church Farm when the war ended.

Cyril found his way home: Gwen wrote, “Now when I look back, I think how casual we all were. Cyril came home, just walked in the back door…mother asked how he had got on to which the answer was “Alright”. Years later we learned that he had walked miles across Germany before being picked up.” Leslie was discharged from a hospital in the north with shrapnel in his foot.

Ida had married and moved to Wales before the war began. Dora married and went to live at Row Farm in Laverton in 1920. Cyril became a farm manager in Portishead. Ethel (b.1888), the eldest sibling, who had trained as a teacher, died at home of tuberculosis in 1924. Gwen, only thirteen years old when the war broke out, had driven a lorry with two horses throughout the war years, carrying twenty churns of milk every day from Norton Dairy to Trowbridge for the London train. After the war there was no job for her.

In 1927 John Matthews retired to Wellow with his wife and Gwen. Leslie, the youngest son took over the farm for a few years before moving to another in Woolverton. Gwen married and left Wellow for Oxford in 1936.

There are no farms in the heart of the village now, cars not cows move along the High Street and Church Street. Though as summer turns to autumn the combine harvesters from the outlying farms briefly dominate the roads, processing through the village with a stately, proprietary air. And the Matthews still have a presence in the village. In the churchyard Bertram and Sidney are remembered on the war memorial, while Ethel, her parents, and Dora are buried together. Viewed from where they lie, beside the church and looking across the Mead towards The George, their village is not so much changed.