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‘Greenwich Park or EASTER Monday’ is a print published by John Marshall & Co around about 1800 in which we see displayed all the fun of the fair at a time before the ‘chicks and chocs’ of the modern-day experience formed our vision of the occasion.

Here then is a picture of all and sundry, high and low, relaxing and recreating together. The rigours of winter were over, the denial of Lent and the solemnities of the Passion were done with, and it was time to roll away the stone.

Traditionally, two separate festivities were held in Greenwich each Spring, one at Easter, (whenever it fell), and the other at Whitsun. The Greenwich Fair depicted here and the one Dickens described in his ‘Sketches by Boz’ some thirty years later may seem the same, but are quintessentially different. By Dickens’ time a re-branding of the event had happened. The days of an archaic pre-industrial calendar festival were numbered.

In his essay, ‘Greenwich Fair’, (published in Transactions, Vol. VII, No4, 1970), Ronald Longhurst reminds us that, “the origin of [Greenwich] fair is rather obscure … and it seems unlikely that as a sizeable event it dated from earlier than the eighteenth century.” Greenwich Fair was never a chartered market for the buying and selling of produce, livestock and the hiring of labour. Its original intent was solely to provide amusements. The earliest reference dates from 1709.

Celebrations opened on Easter Monday. Visitors would arrive in Greenwich, either up from the country, or down from town; either way they were bent on pleasure and recreation. (Think of it as a bit like a few days at Glastonbury or Reading).

Those coming from the Metropolis would be best to have travelled by water as coming by land would have presented them with particular difficulties. They might have got into the town via Deptford Bridge and from thence along the London Road (nowadays Greenwich High Road). Until the early 1800s there was no bridge across the Ravensbourne on Creek Road (as we know it today) to carry them over. Those up from Kent would probably have come in over Blackheath or by Woolwich. Any road up, they would have been greeted by stalls offering an assortment of sweet-meats, trinkets, tricks and treats. They would make their way through town because as Greenwich Park was the ‘fairground’. Before 1830, the park was essentially a private space and only opened to the general public on special occasions like these. It beckoned them with fresh air and space and so offered – in good weather at least – the opportunities to sport, picnic and gambol and dance. In short, to turn the world upside down.

Much of what can be seen in the image is described in this cutting from The Star (London) of Tuesday 20 April 1802. Referring to the previous day, it reported that:

“GREENWICH HILL was … thronged with its annual visitants, and the delightful walks in the Park covered with gay fantastic groupes of Holiday-folks, resolved to be merry, displayed a scene pleasing, animated, and picturesque. Care, frightened by the voice of Cheerfulness, fled the spot, Pleasure sparkled in each eye, double reflection stood suspended, and nought was heard but playful repartee, roguish tittering from the cherry – cheeked damsels, and hearty peals of laughter from their hail admirers. The fineness of the weather tempted numbers of adventurous Fair to a tumble down the hill, persuaded no doubt that in the eyes of their Adonis, a ‘green gown’ would prove the most inviting attraction, and determined, from a principle of national pride, to afford convincing proof that British Females possess a perfection of shape and symmetry of limb rivalling, if not surpassing, the boasted beauties of Greece or Rome. Various sports succeeded, to the approach of evening forbidding the continuance of Rude Amusements, the jocund party separated to conclude their pleasurable day, as Fancy might dictate.”

‘Green gowns’? ‘Tumbling’? Shall we join the dance?

This is ‘Kiss-in-the-Ring’ – a game involving elaborate manoeuvres, but which eventually, after lots of ins and outs, twists and turns, had its own reward …

… over to the left, (though apparently of little interest to the courting couples in the foreground) is a boxing-ring where a bare-fist fight is taking place …

… This sailor-boy and his lass engage at close quarters of their own, whilst just to their right, a respectable couple saunter by rather aloof to it all: good luck to them! On 7 April 1763, The Derby Mercury reported that: “On Monday last a gentleman and his spouse walking in Greenwich Park, the rabble catched hold of her leg, dragged her down the hill, and tore almost all the cloathes off her back, during the transaction she lost her shoes and silver buckles, and continues so ill of the fright that her life is despaired of”…

Aha! There’s some refreshment to be had. Very likely, after the long trek visitors would be ready for a drink, (and no doubt the longer the day wore on, the stronger it got). Most sources mention a penchant for gin, and a nip of ‘ruin’ is probably what this lady is doling out here to the Greenwich Pensioner and his friend from Chelsea. Behind her a cheeky chap gets his by more nefarious means. And, oh, whose is that badly brought up little dog? For goodness sake. Decorum, please!

But it’s up on the Hill itself where the real action is at. The great ‘sport’ on these occasions was for the young blades to coax the girls up the hill and then to run, roll and tumble down together. ‘Tumble’ is a word to look up in Grose’s Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue. There you will find its other definition, but perhaps you guessed its connotation already …

… the participants landed in a dishevelled heap at the bottom! And very likely it was a spectator sport too, what with the a glimpse of an ankle, perhaps an uncovered calf, even a bare bum.

Such pleasures and pastimes conjure up a golden age full of innocent fun. However, scratching and sniffing the image with the nose of a modern sensibility gives rise to suspicion and the rosy scent soon wears away. But don’t entirely let go of this lovely illusion. This picture still evokes a particular moment which may perhaps have marked the heyday of Greenwich Fair.

Shortly after this print was published something changed. And it was a visible shift. In 1814 the Hospital Commissioners granted the piece of land between the park wall and Romney Road for use by the fair . It was an attractive proposition to the travelling showmen Richardson, Wombwell, et al., who soon moved in and rapidly spread through the town as far as Deptford Creek, establishing what one Mission pamphlet in 1837 described as “the greatest Carnival this side of the bottomless pit”.

The steamboat companies, and after 1840, the new railway, multiplied the number of visitors, bringing in far more than the town could cope with. Nor were they quite the same folks who had frolicked about in Marshall’s quaint depiction. These were a new kind of working people, wage slaves working in factories, some of whom used the occasion, not just as a recreation, but as a release from the sordid conditions they endured. Their intent on enjoyment was fuelled by alcohol if the newspapers and other accounts are to be believed.

Complaints began almost immediately. Then, in 1825, St Mary’s was established as a ‘chapel of ease’ to St Alfege church just below the park gates at the top of King William Walk. Perhaps this acted as a catalyst to the groundswell of opinion: It was inappropriate to have these anarchic revelries going on to the detriment of the peace and morality of the town.

The gist of this opinion was expressed in this quotation from the petition delivered to the Justices of the Peace by the Vicar of St Alfege, his Churchwardens and Overseers, Governors and Directors of the Poor in April 1825:

“That of late years … the whole scene has been materially changed, that the profligate numbers of the lower orders have been increased, that the money heretofore spent in the Town, and to the benefit of the Tradesmen generally, is now almost entirely squandered in the numerous Booths and Shows … and that a very great addition is made to this evil by the increased – the open and powerful – incentives to licentiousness among the middle and lower orders of the community, that the hours kept by these booths are in direct violation of the laws of the land, and the scenes to which they lead are offending against the best feelings of Christian morality”.

The showmen were given notice to quit, but even then they were an a most unconscionable time packing up their tents and booths. It did not finally close until 1857.

Poor old Greenwich Fair: gone, but not forgotten – and as Punch quipped sardonically, “… Not a bit lamented, pickpockets and gents alone excepted”.

Happy Easter Monday!

The action of Pool of London, Ealing Studios’ great film noir released seventy years ago this week, takes place over a London weekend. “The Dunbar out of Rotterdam bound for the Pool” passes through Tower Bridge on a Friday afternoon and the events that follow revolve around merchant seaman Dan (Bonar Colleano) and his Jamaican shipmate Johnny (Earl Cameron), the genuine affection of the friendship between them is established from the outset. Petty smuggling swiftly escalates to a diamond robbery and is played out against a background of real locations that give the film its authenticity and subsequent importance as a record of a lost London. This continued the highly successful approach Ealing established with Hue and Cry (1947), the definitive cinematic representation of bombed London, and followed with It Always Rains On Sunday (1947), Passport To Pimlico (1949) and The Blue Lamp (1950).

As Johnny unwittingly becomes embroiled in Dan’s misadventure, he experiences racism along the way but in each case these encounters serve to illustrate the ignorance and ugliness of the perpetrators: the hostile theatre Commissionaire (Laurence Naismith); the parasitic denizens of an all-night drinking dive, and Dan’s fair-weather girlfriend Maisie, a highly polished performance of brassy self-centredness by Moira Lister. Maisie’s venomous relationship with her younger sister (Joan Dowling) transcends sibling rivalry into undiluted hostility. When Maisie trips over her sister’s discarded footwear her complaint “Why don’t you put your shoes away? I nearly fell.” is met with the lightning riposte “Won’t be the first time!” In direct contrast is Sally (Renée Asherson) the wistful secretary at the Steamship Office, unlucky in love, who provides the film with its moral compass.

The early scenes on shore depicting the stage act of Vernon the Gentleman Acrobat (the incomparable Max Adrian) were filmed at the Queen’s Theatre in Poplar High Street. Millicent Rose provides a vivid record of a real performance at this theatre in The East End of London (The Cresset Press, 1951) observing that the aisles were strewn with peanut shells for “it is a long-established custom to crack and eat peanuts throughout the performance, and coming to the second house on a Saturday night, one finds the circle already deep in husks.”

Johnny strikes up a friendship with Pat (Susan Shaw) the cashier at the theatre box office, two lonely people thrown together by chance. Pat appears to be the least complicated and happiest of the female characters and her role is pivotal to the film’s significance as theirs is the first inter-racial relationship to be depicted in a British film. She and Johnny are undoubtedly the most attractive people in the film, providing the focus of its warmth and humanity and offering a ray of hope in the humdrum drabness. After an evening at the dance hall they spend Sunday sightseeing. Initially at the Stone Gallery at St Paul’s Cathedral, placing them in the City at the time of the robbery: “Look! Isn’t that a man climbing on that roof?” Afterwards they take the boat to Greenwich and we see them in the cavernous wonder that was the National Maritime Museum’s lost, lamented Neptune Hall (demolished 1996) providing an exhilarating reminder of what a proper museum once looked like. This cabinet of nautical curiosities is crammed with glass cases, ship models and binnacles and the location is deliberate chosen to reveal Johnny as a romantic philosopher, steeped in the lore and traditions of the sea, emphasised by a close-up of the towering baroque magnificence of the figurehead Ajax (1809). Passing through the colonnades of The Queen’s House, with the Naval College behind them, they walk up to the Observatory. The domed onion roof of the Great Equatorial Building is seen as a bare iron skeleton as its papier maché covering was destroyed when a V1 flying bomb fell on Greenwich Park in 1944. Here, with General Wolfe behind them, they muse on the mysteries of longitude and latitude.

“The Greenwich Meridian, but what does it mean?” Pat asks.

“It means that everything starts from here, goes right round the world and comes back here.” Johnny replies, reflecting: “You know, when you’re at the wheel of a ship at night far out at sea and nothing else to do, you think about a lot of things you don’t understand. You wonder why one man is born white and another isn’t. And how about God himself? What colour is he? And the stars seem so close and the world so small in comparison with all the other worlds above you, it doesn’t seem to matter much how you are born.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does you know. Maybe one day it won’t any more, but it still does.”

These were powerful words in 1951 and Earl Cameron’s performance had a profound effect on the distinguished film critic C.A. Lejeune, whose review of the film appeared in The Observer on 26 February 1951: “One thing comes shining out of Pool of London and that is the performance of Earl Cameron… he makes full use of every glancing minute… I can say with truth that Mr Cameron’s touching performance remains for me the best memory of Pool of London, and left me with deeper thoughts about the colour problem than I have ever had before.”

The authenticity of Johnny’s character can be ascribed to the fact that Earl Cameron was once a merchant seaman himself. Born in Bermuda in 1917, he arrived in London in 1939 experiencing racism whilst attempting to find a job (doors were slammed in his face), until he was eventually engaged as a dishwasher at an hotel, before he found himself on stage, at an afternoon’s notice, in the musical comedy Chu Chin Chow in 1941. Although not a trained actor he worked in the theatre throughout the forties. During this time he was proud to have had the privilege of being taught diction and voice training by Amanda Ira Aldridge (1866-1956), the daughter of the celebrated pioneering African American Shakespearean actor Ira Aldridge (1807-1867) who achieved great success on the nineteenth century London stage. Cameron joked “that some of the colour might have rubbed off a little bit on me”. Pool of London was his film debut and Cameron secured the part after telephoning Ealing Studios to enquire about the possibility of a role in their forthcoming feature Where No Vultures Fly. Instead he was immediately invited to an interview with the director Basil Dearden at which Cameron lied about his age, stating himself to be 26 when he was actually 32, suggesting his moustache made him look older. Dearden was impressed by what he saw, although it took Cameron three screen tests before he was able to tone down the loudness of his declamatory theatrical delivery to suit the more intimate medium of film. Once this was mastered, he proved himself to be a natural film actor and the performance he gives as Johnny is one of great sensitivity.

Pool of London was not Ealing’s first exploration into the issues of race in Britain: The Proud Valley (1940) made a decade earlier is an extraordinary film with a strong political message and a powerful performance by Paul Robeson as a sailor in a Welsh mining village who motivates his community in the wake of a pit disaster. Robeson regarded this as his favourite film and retained a strong bond with the Welsh miners for the rest of his life. Both films are notable as presenting un-stereotypical depictions of men of colour who are accepted within their communities. Cameron stated that generally speaking he had not experienced prejudice whilst working in theatre and film industry in Britain and although the environment at Ealing Studios was entirely white he was treated with courtesy and kindness. He eschewed a career in Hollywood, a place he believed to be far more overtly racist and which he thought would have destroyed him. Cameron received favourable notices for Pool of London, and his roles in subsequent films, including The Heart Within (1957), Sapphire (1959) and Flame in The Streets (1961), form a significant body of work as pioneering cinematic depictions of the experiences of black people in Britain and the problems they endured. Earl Cameron continued working well into his nineties and died in 2020 aged 102. The heartfelt and sincere tributes paid to him recognised his unique position and the importance of his role in the advancement of performers of colour.

The idea for Pool of London came from John Eldridge and the scriptwriter originally assigned to the film was Ealing stalwart T.E.B. Clarke. The film’s original premise concerned the theft of gold bullion from the Bank of England and Clarke hit upon the idea of turning the gold bars into Eiffel Tower paperweights to enable them to be smuggled out of London incognito. Clarke was amused by the comedic possibilities and worked the idea into a three-page outline that radically changed the nature of the film.  When he revealed this unexpected development, asking whether the river aspect of the plot could be dropped, the head of Ealing Studios Sir Michael Balcon erupted in fury. He took Clarke off the project, replacing him with a different writer Jack Whittingham, but allowed him to develop his idea further with the director Charles Crichton. The result, of course, was The Lavender Hill Mob (1951) one of Ealing’s most celebrated comedies for which Clarke received an Oscar for the screenplay. Alfie Bass is the link between the two films, appearing as a member of the gang of criminals in both.

James Robertson Justice plays Chief Engine Room Officer Trotter, resolutely staying aboard the Dunbar by retreating to the safety and seclusion of his cabin in company with three bottles of brandy and The Oxford Book of English Verse. He proffers this damning critique of the Capital he avoids: “You wonder perhaps why I never set foot in this accursed city. Behold from afar it gleams like a jewel, but walk within the shadow of its walls and what do you find? Filth, squalor, misery.”

Despite his denouncement, and notwithstanding the desperation, loneliness and need for self-preservation of the characters represented, London is not as squalid as he supposes. In fact, what is striking is, despite the post war deprivations in the aftermath of the Blitz, just how clean the city is, and it certainly appears to be far better kept than it is today. The water cart dousing the pavements of Tower Bridge at midnight is a visible manifestation of metropolitan ablutions; elsewhere the play of light on the wet cobbles and the light catching the kerbstones give the streets the impression of having been varnished. The gleaming quality extends to the frontage of a pub, the glossy ceiling of the café when the job is planned and the sparkling white tiles in the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

Great credit for the stunning visual appearance of the film must go to its director of photography Gordon Dines who achieved a lustrous luminosity. The documentary technique is employed to great effect, exploiting the aesthetic qualities of cranes and derricks, sails and ropes, barges and lighters and the ever constant movement of the play of the water with its waves, wakes and washes, emphasising that the River itself is to be the true star of the film: the working river, flanked by wharves and warehouses, with Tower Bridge looming large overall. Many scenes are shot in near silhouette and the dramatic shadows cast by ropes and ironwork bear favourable comparison with the photographs of Bill Brandt.

Pool of London was made in 1950 and released in February 1951 yet there is no inkling of the impending Festival of Britain “improvements”. The architectural fabric shown here essentially remains a nineteenth century streetscape, the Victorian survival. For Ealing Studios appreciated (what most politicians and town planners have signally failed to grasp) that London was a vernacular city and authentically represented it as such on celluloid, realising that the shops, pubs, cafes, theatres and back streets of terraced houses, in addition to more set piece locations such as Shad Thames, Tooley Street, and Leadenhall and Borough Markets, were far more representative of its true character and recognisable to its audience who appreciated their familiarity.

For the rooms inside these buildings, the film’s art director Jim Morahan instinctively understood the vernacular interior and his settings are infused with an eye for detail and richness that add great interest and depth, whether ship’s cabin, theatre dressing room or public bar. Nowhere is his artistry more apparent than in Maisie’s kitchen, replete with cast iron range and gas stove, with its peeling wallpaper, washing drying on the airer, milk bottles standing on the dresser, gaudy vases on the mantelpiece and proliferation of crockery and domestic detritus. This is just as it should be, for after all, Ealing invented kitchen sink drama one rainy Sunday in Bethnal Green in 1947.

© Horatio Blood 2021

In September 2018, fifty-five years after the final intake of men completed their National Service, Greenwich Historical Society hosted a very special and memorable evening of shared reminiscences.

Some of Greenwich’s boys of the old brigade gathered together to tell us their experiences of conscription. A contrasting view was presented by a conscientious objector.

It was a powerful, amusing, poignant evening that was curated and introduced by GHS President Anthony Cross. We published the transcript in our subsequent journal but, with the permission of those present, we make available the audio from evening so you can listen again or anew to a very special event.

Please be aware that this audio file does contain some swearing.

00:00 Intro
10:00 David Drummond
19:30 John Cox
33:38 Peter Kent
48:20 Adam Pollock
1:01:19 Ian Gordon

In January 1806, the body of Lord Nelson arrived at Greenwich. Over three extraordinary days – the 5th, 6th and 7th – the body lay in state within the upper chamber of the Painted Hall. Here are the reports from The Times newspaper of those three days.

Day 1

On Saturday the preparations having been completed at Greenwich Hospital, a few personages of high respectability and distinction were admitted, in the evening, to view the body of Lord NELSON lying in state; amongst whom were, her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, and suite, who remained there several hours, in melancholy contemplation of this solemn and affecting scene: and yesterday morning, at eleven o’clock, the Great Hall was thrown open for the admission of the public.

Before eight in the morning, every avenue from the Metropolis to Greenwich was crowded with vehicles of every description till past eleven, exhibiting a scene of confusion beyond description; but the approach to Greenwich hospital Gate, a little before that hour, must baffle the conception of those who did not witness it. When the gate was thrown open, above ten thousand pressed forward for admittance.

After the passage of the outer gate, the entrance to the Great Hall was guarded by a party of the Greenwich and Deptford Volunteer Association, and parties of midshipmen and sailors armed with pikes. With such impetuosity did the crowd rush towards the entrance of the Great Hall, as to bear down all opposition, notwithstanding the guard used every means in their power to preserve order, and to prevent accidents.
The arrangements of the solemnity were as follows:-

In the funeral saloon, high above the corpse a canopy of black velvet was suspended, richly festooned with gold, and the festoons ornamented with the chelenk, or plume of triumph, presented to his Lordship by the GRAND SEIGNIOR, after the ever memorable victory of the Nile. It was also decorated with his Lordships coronet, and a view of the stern of the San Josef, the Spanish Admiral’s ship, already ‘quartered’ in his arms.

On the back field, beneath the canopy, was emblazoned an escutcheon of his Lordship’s arms; the helmet surmounted by a naval crown, and enriched with the trident and palm branch in saltier – motto; “Palman qui meruit ferat.” Also his Lordship’s shield, ornamented with silver stars appropriately interspersed; with the motto – “Tria juncta in uno;” and surmounting the whole upon a gold field, embraced by a golden wreath, was inscribed in sable characters, the word TRAFALGAR, commemorative of the proudest of his great achievements.

The Rev. Mr. SCOTT, the Chaplain of the Victory, and who in consequence of his Lordship’s last injunctions, attended his remains from the moment of his death, sat as chief mourner in an elbow chair at the head of the coffin.
At the foot of the coffin stood a pedestal, covered with black velvet, richly fringed with alternate black and yellow, and supporting a helmet surmounted by a naval crown, ornamented with the chelenk or triumphal plume, with models richly gilt, and his Lordship’s shield, gauntlet, and sword.

Ten mourners were placed three on each side of the chief, and one at each corner of the coffin, all in deep mourning, with black scarfs, their hair full powdered, in bags. These were appointed from the Office of the LORD CHAMBERLAIN, as usual on similar occasions.

Ten banners, elevated on staves, and emblazoned with various quarterings of his Lordship’s arms and heraldic dignities, each bearing it appropriate motto, were suspended towards the coffin, five on each side.

Parties of the Greenwich and Deptford Volunteers attended in the Great Hall, to preserve order and regulate the ingress and egress of the spectators.
A railing in form of a crescent, covered with black, inclosed the funereal saloon from the Great Hall, by the elipses of which, from right to left, the spectators approached and receded from this solemn spectacle, and from the foot of the stairs ascending from the Great Hall.

A partition of boards, six feet in height, covered with black cloth, extended to the entrance, and separated the two avenues. Both the Hall and Saloon were entirely surrounded at the top by rows of silver sconces, each with two wax lights, and between each two an escutcheon of his Lordship’s armorial dignities.

The immense numbers who pressed for admittance, and the earnestness of the officers in attendance to accommodate as many as possible, occasioned the successive parties, who were fortunate enough to obtain admission, to be pushed onward with such rapidity, as to afford none of them the opportunity of having more than a short and transient glance of the solemn object of their curiosity.

Perhaps, it is no exaggeration to add, that above twenty thousand persons were unable to gratify themselves. The doors were closed at four o’clock: they are to be opened again at eight this morning.

Day 2

Notwithstanding the immense number of people who visited Greenwich on Sunday, to pay their tribute of melancholy respect at the temporary shrine of the departed Hero, thousands of who were gratified by admission to the solemn spectacle, and many other thousands of whom went away unsatisfied, as finding an entrance wholly impracticable; still the concourse there yesterday was even greater than on Sunday; and from the first time of opening the side wickets of the great Western Gate, at nine in the morning, through each subsequent opening, until their close, at four in the afternoon, the rushing torrent of the multitude was so impetuous, that numbers experienced disasters similar to those which on Sunday were so numerous, and in many instances so severely unfortunate: many were crushed in a dreadful manner, in the competition for entrance through passages so narrow; others were beaten down by the impetuosity of those who rushed forward from behind, and were severely trampled – in many cases, almost to death.

Shoes, pattens, muffs, tippets, coat-sleeves, skirts of pelise and gowns, without number, were despoiled from their owners, and trampled in the mud; and though the guards were more numerous, more vigilant and peremptory, than on Sunday, still it was scarcely possible to check the impetuosity of the multitude, or prevent the entrances to the Great Hall from being carried by force.Within however, all was conducted with order.The Volunteers posted in the area of the elevated saloon, round the farther end of which the spectators passed to view the coffin, continued to urge onward the multitude at a quick pace; so that none could indulge more than a short and sorrowful glance at that mournful casket which contained, perhaps, the most brilliant of all the gems that ever decorated the naval crown of England.

The distinctions of rank were forgotten in the general avidity to pay the last melancholy honours to the hero’s remains; and though curiosity be the ruling passion of John Bull, it was, on this occasion, marked by feelings that do honour to his heart. The votaries of Saint Monday evinced they were no strangers to “the luxury of exalted woe,” and that they could participate in the sorrow and veneration manifested by their country for the great and justly honoured subject of general regret.Amongst the visitants of yesterday were numbers of high rank and fashion: her Grace of DEVONSHIRE; and many of her noble friends were in the throng. A vast number of Military Officers also attended to pay their last tribute of respect to departed heroism, and to contemplate the noblest stimulus to gallant deeds.

Day 3

Yesterday morning, at nine o’clock, the wickets of the great Western gate of Greenwich Hospital were thrown open, for the admission of spectators to the Great Hall and Funeral Saloon.The many serious accidents on Sunday and Monday, resulting from the want of better system and regulation outside the gates, suggested to the Governors the necessity of adopting some more effectual steps to prevent further mischief; they had, therefore, obtained from London a party of the Kings Life Guards, who were posted in different divisions at the west and South avenues, and rendered very essential service the whole day, in checking the eager impetuosity of the multitude in pressing for admission at the wickets, from which most of the former accidents had proceeded.

The wickets were, as before, opened at successive times, for the admission of fresh divisions of spectators, as the former had been gratified with a view of the solemnities; and though the pressure on those occasions was unavoidably rapid and violent, no serious accident, that we could learn, occurred.The steps leading up to the entrance of the Great Hall, was the principle scene of contest; and curiosity, the ruling passion of the fair sex, rising superior to all the suggestions of feminine timidity, many ladies pushed into the crowd, and were so severely squeezed, that several of them fainted away, and were carried off, apparently senseless, to the colonnade; we were, however, highly gratified to learn, that they were rather frightened than hurt, and that no injury occurred more serious than a degree of pressure not altogether so gentle as could be wished. In general, however, the result of better regulation was obvious; for, although the multitude was even more numerous than on the preceding days, and the attendance of fashionable personages much greater, order was much better kept, and tumultuous violence scarcely anywhere apparent.

Some trivial alterations had taken place in the solemn arrangements of the Funeral Saloon. The sable pall was cast from the coffin, which was fully exposed to view, and upon it was placed the cushion supporting the coronet, with two armorial shields, properly emblazoned. The six mourners, who before were seated at the head of the coffin to the right and left of the canopy, now took their places, three on each side of the coffin, outside the benches, whereon the tressels stood, and facing inwards; the effect was much more solemn and impressive.

This was the only thing novel in the interior arrangements; but a novelty, not without very considerable and forcible impression, occurred outside the Hall, which, as an appendage of the melancholy ceremonies, demands mention.A little before four o’clock, the brig Elizabeth and Mary, from off Chatham, hove in sight, from the Terrace, on the River, having on board a chosen band of Seamen and Marines from the brave crew of the Victory, who are intended to fall into the Funeral Procession.Of their old and gallant Commander. Lieutenant BROWN, their Commanding Officer came on shore, to take orders for their proceeding.

The St. George’s Jack. At the mast-head of the brig, was lowered half mast high, as a funeral salute, which was immediately returned by the colours of all the ships in sight from the Terrace.The Lieutenant Governor of Greenwich then proceeded to inform Lord Hood of the arrival of this brave band: when the gallant Admiral, accompanied by a party of the River Fencibles, armed with their pikes, proceeded to the North –gate, next the River; and ordered the Heroes of Trafalgar to be brought on shore. The brig then hauled up alongside the quay, and the brave tars jumped ashore amidst the warm greetings and grateful acclamations of the surrounding throng. Alas! How different the sensations of those gallant fellows from what they would have been, under the brave NELSON’S eye, in boarding the deck of an enemy.

They consisted of forty-six Seamen and fourteen Marines, each bearing his hammock; and if they were a fair specimen of their messmates in the Victory at Trafalgar, that triumph is the less wonderful; for each seemed a true bred cub of the British Lion, and most of them bore the honourable scars they received on the day their lamented Leader fell in the cause of the country.Upon their passing within the gates, they were ordered by Lord HOOD, who approached them, to stow their baggage in the Royal Charlotte Ward of the Hospital; after which they should be gratified with a view of their heroic Leader’s body lying in state, which, however, he was sure, would be to them no pleasant sight. The brave fellows bowed assent to this remark; they then proceeded to stow their hammocks in the ward appointed, and were afterwards escorted by a part of the military to the Great Hall, when they were conducted to the Saloon, where the remains of their beloved Commander lay; they eyed the coffin with melancholy admiration and respect, while the manly tears glistened in their eyes, and stole reluctant down their weather-beaten cheeks. Strangers were excluded during this affecting scene; and on the return of this brave band to the parade in front, they were again warmly greeted by the multitude; and even the eyes of beauty, everywhere glittering amidst the crowd, beamed on the rough and hardy crew, the radiant glances of approbation and sympathy.

At five o-clock the doors and gates were closed, and this morning the body will be carried to London on its way to final interment. It will be conveyed from the Saloon through the Great Hall, out the Eastern Portal, round the Royal Charlotte Ward, to the North gate, on the Thames, and placed on board the State Barge, which will be rowed by the detachment from the Victory, before- mentioned; and fifty picked men from the Greenwich pensioners, who attend as mourners, will also row in the procession.

By

Elaine Galloway and ORNC ‘Lives of Pensioners’ Research Volunteers

Local resident John Evelyn was born 400 years ago on 31st October, 1620. His diary is less celebrated, and very much less racy,  than that of his good friend Samuel Pepys. However, Evelyn’s does have the advantage that it covers the whole of his long life. Towards the end of that life the scheme to provide a refuge for sailors, which became the Royal Hospital for Seamen at Greenwich, finally got underway. Previously Evelyn had been a commissioner on the Navy’s Sick and Hurt Board, and he had been closely involved in the foundation of Chelsea Hospital.  As a young man on his travels in Europe, and on subsequent jaunts to visit friends in England, he took a particular interest in hospitals and schools for orphans, as this diary entry from the Hague reveals.

19^thAugust 1641. None did I so much admire as, an hospital, for their lame and decrepit soldiers and seamen, where the accommodations are very great, the building answerable; and, indeed, for the like public charities the provisions are admirable in this country, where, as no idle vagabonds are suffered (as in England they are), there is hardly a child of four or five years old, but they find some employment for it.²  

 In February 1695 Evelyn, at the age of 74, accepted the post of treasurer of Greenwich Hospital.

As the following (slightly abridged) excerpt from Evelyn’s diary shows, this was during a hard winter with a smallpox epidemic raging. 

29^thDecember, 1694. The smallpox increased exceedingly, and was very mortal. The Queen died of it on the 28^th. 

13^thJanuary 1694-95. The Thames was frozen over. The deaths by smallpox increased to five hundred more than in the preceding week.

20^thJanuary, 1695. The frost and continued snow have now lasted five weeks.

3^rdFebruary, 1695. The long frost intermitted, but not gone.

17th February, 1695. Called to London by Lord Godolphin, one of the Lords of the Treasury, offering me the treasurership of the hospital designed to be built at Greenwich for worn-out seamen.

24th February, 1695. I saw the Queen lie in state.

5th March, 1695. I went to see the ceremony. Never was so universal a mourning; all the Parliament men had cloaks given them, and four hundred poor women; all the streets hung and the middle of the street boarded and covered with black cloth. There were all the nobility, mayor, aldermen, judges, etc. 

March,1695. The latter end of the month sharp and severely cold, with much snow and hard frost; no appearance of spring.

Spring eventually came and Evelyn attended the first meeting of the Commissioners.  His diary identifies some of those present. 

5th May, 1695. I came to Deptford from Wotton, in order to the first meeting of the Commissioners for endowing an hospital for seamen at Greenwich; it was at the Guildhall, London. Present, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Keeper, Lord Privy Seal, Lord Godolphin, Duke of Shrewsbury, Duke of Leeds, Earls of Dorset and Monmouth, Commissioners of the Admiralty and Navy, Sir Robert Clayton, Sir Christopher Wren, and several more.

The names of the first five can be seen, in letters of gold, on the benefactors’ boards in the vestibule of the Painted Hall (Lord Keeper was Lord Somers and Lord Privy Seal was the Earl of Pembroke) and there were probably others. And of course John Evelyn Esq. himself is there, donating £1000, in a prominent position immediately below Queen Anne. At the bottom of that same board his name appears again, this time as Mr Evelyn, with a donation of £2000. Is this the same man? Or his grandson, who was also John Evelyn, described thus in 1696?

23^rdApril, 1696. I went to Eton, and dined with Dr. Godolphin, the provost. The schoolmaster assured me there had not been for twenty years a more pregnant youth in that place than my grandson.

Evelyn continued to attend meetings during May 1695, although some achieved nothing for want of a quorum.The required quorum was just three commissioners.⁴   He was also part of the subcommittee who went to survey the ground. 

14th May, 1695. Met at Guildhall, but could do nothing for want of a quorum.

 17th May, 1695. Second meeting of the Commissioners, and a committee appointed to go to Greenwich to survey the place, I being one of them.

21st May, 1695. We went to survey Greenwich, Sir Robert Clayton, Sir Christopher Wren, Mr. Travers, the King’s Surveyor, Captain Sanders, and myself.

24th May, 1695. We made report of the state of Greenwich house, and how the standing part might be made serviceable at present for £6,000, and what ground would be requisite for the whole design. My Lord Keeper ordered me to prepare a book for subscriptions, and a preamble to it.

 That subscription book, with its very faded list of amounts and signatures, “I subscribe £500. Pembroke” etc. can be consulted in the National Archives at Kew.⁵

The number of subscribers was impressively large, but in most cases the actual money was slow in appearing.  

5th July, 1695. At Guildhall; account of subscriptions, about £7,000 or £8,000.

11th July, 1695. Met at Guildhall; not a full committee, so nothing done.

By the following year some progress had been made.

4th June, 1696. A committee met at Whitehall about Greenwich Hospital, at Sir Christopher Wren’s, his Majesty’s Surveyor-General. We made the first agreement with divers workmen and for materials; and gave the first order for proceeding on the foundation, and for weekly payments to the workmen, and a general account to be monthly. 

30^thJune, 1696. I went with a select committee of the Commissioners for Greenwich Hospital, and with Sir Christopher Wren, where with him I laid the first stone of the intended foundation, precisely at five o’ clock in the evening, after we had dined together. Mr. Flamstead, the King’s Astronomical Professor, observing the punctual time by instruments. 

Did the foundation stone have an inscription?  What a wonderful discovery that would be.

Money trickled in over the next few years. 

4th July, 1696. Note that my Lord Godolphin was the first of the subscribers who paid any money to this noble fabric.

Evelyn continued to chase the subscribers but he complained in a letter to Godolphin on 3rd August that they “avoid me, as one Carrying the Pest about me”.⁶

Evelyn’s salary as treasurer was £200 a year (approximately £20,000 today) but he said it was a long time before he saw any of it. To add to his woes his beloved Sayes Court had been cruelly knocked about by Peter the Great, who took up residence to learn the art of shipbuilding in Deptford Royal Dockyard next door. Evelyn was particularly dismayed by the state of his 400 yard holly hedge, through which the Czar and his party had pushed each other on wheelbarrows. 

9th June, 1698. To Deptford, to see how miserably the Czar had left my house, after three months making it his Court. I got Sir Christopher Wren, the King’s surveyor, and Mr. London, his gardener, to go and estimate the repairs, for which they allowed £150 in their report to the Lords of the Treasury. I then went to see the foundation of the Hall and Chapel at Greenwich Hospital.

As recorded in Admiralty records⁷Evelyn faithfully attended meetings of both the Grand and Fabric Committees of Greenwich Hospital over the following years although many were adjourned inquorate. “Only C. Wren and Mr Evelyn came”. When Queen Anne came to the throne in 1702 Evelyn and his fellow commissioners began to get the Hospital’s finances into a somewhat healthier state.  In 1703 at the age of 82 Evelyn handed over the account books to his son-in-law William Draper. 

12th August, 1703. The new Commission for Greenwich hospital was sealed and opened, at which my son-in-law, Draper, was present, to whom I resigned my office of Treasurer. From August 1696, there had been expended in building £89,364 14s. 8¼d. (More than £9.5 million today, give or take the odd farthing.)

Evelyn lived long enough to see the first pensioners admitted. By the summer of 1705 there were 81 inmates. June, 1705. I went to Greenwich hospital, where they now began to take in wounded and worn-out seamen, who are exceedingly well provided for. The buildings now going on are very magnificent. 

John Evelyn died the following year on 27^thFebruary at his ancestral country house in Wotton, Surrey, where he is buried.

Notes

1. https://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/63958.html

2. This and all following excerpts from Evelyn’s diary are from Project Gutenberg’s The Diary of John Evelyn (Vols 1 and 2), by John Evelyn.

3. National Archives ADM 80/169

4. ADM 67/1 GH Minutes Grand Committee

5. ADM 80/172

6. British Library Add MS 78299

7. ADM 67/1 and 6

Further Reading

This short, sweet recollection of VE Day – still clearly engraved after 75 years – was sent in by a GHS member this morning on behalf of her elderly neighbour. Grateful thanks and best wishes to you both!

She was in the ATS and by 1944 was based at RAF Digby in Lincolnshire where she was a PT instructor and a switchboard operator. It was “all very jovial … we danced and danced and danced … not just on Victory Day’. The RAF station was home to the ‘Arnhem boys, the D Day boys … everything was organised for them, … we waved them off – little did we know what they were going to.”

She can’t remember receiving the news of the end of the war but on 8 May suddenly everyone decided to go to London and to Buckingham Palace to see the royal family on the balcony. One of the ATS corporals was her ‘minder’ because she had recently been found to be underage (a friend had persuaded her to join up – and had filled in the form for her, lying about her age). She persuaded her corporal friend/minder to come with her and all the other girls to London. They took the train from Doncaster – “it was packed, jam packed with people … you didn’t mind it if you stood all the way”. They then followed the crowd when they arrived. “Food was being handed around, sandwiches and cakes and things. We elbowed our way round and had to hang on to each other; we were in uniform and so many hundreds and thousands were there, all in uniform as well…”. They went first to Buckingham Palace, “along the Mall to see the King and Queen … That wasn’t a five-minute job either. Then we just sort of wandered around and watched people dancing. Trafalgar Square – it was all dancing. Then to the Stage Door Canteen right in the heart of Piccadilly – we had been before many times when we had leave, we would always come to the Stage Door Canteen – doughnuts and coffee, fabulous music and bands. We then just danced all night; you could excuse somebody then so men would cut in all the time as you were dancing …  We got back on the train the next day. You couldn’t sleep at the YWCA which was full so we just stayed up all night … Memory is a wonderful thing!”

After she was demobbed she came to live in New Cross with the three other girls, then Deptford and moved to Greenwich in 1948 – when her rent was eight shillings a week.

You may also like to follow this link to a BBC World Service podcast of original sound recordings of broadcasts from 8th May 1945: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/w3cszmtt