Skip to content

adventures in architecture Posts

St. Lawrence the Martyr, Abbots Langley (C12-15)

Published by Struan on March 9, 2023

Fig. 1: St. Lawrence the Martyr, Abbots Langley (south elevation). Image: Struan Bates.

The principal features of the church of St. Lawrence the Martyr in Abbots Langley, Hertfordshire (Fig. 1), date from between the 12th and 15th centuries. The church appears to integrate progressive stylistic trends, spanning the Norman and Perpendicular gothic periods, in a way that is characteristic of the region. Richard Morris asks in Churches in the Landscape (1989) whether parochial preferences in church-building followed in the wake of technical innovation, or vice versa; St. Lawrence’s offers support for both sides of this argument, but this article will contend that the most significant factor that influenced its architectural development were changes in liturgical arrangements.

An ecclesiastical building pre-dating the church on the same site is confirmed by the Domesday Book, where Abbots Langley is listed as held by the abbot of St. Albans with a priest in situ. The short nave and chancel also hints at a Saxon structure: an abrupt transition from Norman to gothic arcading along the south aisle corresponds with a short side-return on the north aisle: this suggests a wall may once have divided the nave and chancel, with the chancel possibly forming the original Saxon church.

The principal surviving features, however, are Norman. Most striking are the 12th century semi-circular arcades dominating the nave (Fig. 2). Large circular piers support scalloped and coned capitals, with zig-zag decoration adorning the middle orders of the arches. These features are characteristically late-Norman, dating the arcades to between 1150-1190. Similar rich detailing was brought to St. Albans Abbey during this period under Abbot John de Cella, and its use at St. Lawrence’s and nearby Hemel and Redbourn suggests co-ordinated planning of works at parish level with the mother church.

A single round-headed window in the west wall of the north aisle also suggests that the aisles are Norman in origin. They are particularly narrow, and may be contemporary manifestations of prestige, rather than a response to a requirement for more congregational space. If this was the case, their lack of decoration suggests that, if they did form part of Abbot de Cella’s 12th century vision, their technical implementation was truncated.

Fig. 2: Left: Looking east from nave to chancel, with 12th century arcading to the north and south. Right: The indicated capital from the middle north aisle pier, with scalloping and zig-zag arch decoration. Images: Struan Bates.

The next significant addition was the west tower (Fig. 1) of rubblestone and flint, with traces of Hertfordshire Puddingstone. This was erected in at least two stages: narrow, lancet windows adorn the north and south walls which, together with the pair of low, diagonal buttresses supporting the west face, date the lower half of the tower to the transitional period of the early-13th century. Perpendicular windows above the west entrance date the upper portion to the 15th century, with a modern brick parapet crowning the cornice.

Greater structural consequences, however, were affected by St. Lawrence’s changes in liturgical arrangements from the 14th century. The most significant addition was the Corpus Christi chancel chapel (Fig. 3, Fig.4). From the exterior, the chapel obscures the chancel, incorporating three Decorated windows in knapped flint and Totternhoe Clunch squared chequerwork walls. Roberts notes that clunch, a hard chalk quarried in nearby Bedfordshire, was first used at St. Albans under Abbot de Cella, and was almost universally used in Hertfordshire and South Bedfordshire churches, principally being transported along routes to St. Albans and Windsor. This suggests the guiding hand of higher clergy in planning the chapel, however its origin is uncertain.

Fig. 3: Left: The chancel chapel from the south-west. Right: Totternhoe Clunch and flint chequerboard work on the east wall. Images: Struan Bates.

The religious guild of Corpus Christi founded churches during this period, however the practice appears to have been mainly urban. The chapel also changed its name to the Lady Chapel in the 15th century before later reverting. Paul Barnwell notes that chancel chapels were built to accommodate overspill of the congregation or for chantry reasons, and were often designed to be deliberately ‘showey or elaborate’ in rivalling the chancel. It is notable that St. Lawrence’s chapel’s disproportionate embrace of width, characteristic of the Decorated style’s use of space- and the liturgical importance attached to it – would have a lasting impact on how the church managed its congregation, principally in subsequent modifications to the chancel and nave.

This is first apparent when viewing the chapel through the extended gothic arcading (Fig. 4) separating it from the chancel. The chapel’s greater dimensions position it as the dominant space, with the eye drawn to its fine roof with king posts and curved braces, and the three Decorated windows. Their cusped window heads and reticulated tracery suggest a date of the early-14th century, and deliver the ‘softness and fluidity’ that is the hallmark of the Decorated period. Access to the chapel, however, is awkward.

The reason lies in the arrangement of the gothic arcading. The easternmost pair of two-centred arches, with double-chamfered moulding and octagonal piers and capitals, date to the late-14th or early-15th century, and documentary evidence confirms the chancel was rebuilt at this time. The chancel also appears to have been lengthened during the same works, fitting with a wider trend of chancels being enlarged in the 14th century to distance the altar from the laity. These changes indicate that the chancel and chapel may have co-existed as largely separate rooms or buildings, with a wall subsequently removed between them.

Fig. 4: Left: Looking through the chancel arcade into the dominant 14th century chancery chapel. 16th century skew arch in the foreground. Right: Decorated windows and kingpost roof in the chapel. Images: Struan Bates.

West of the two-centred arches is a larger, four-centred arch, incorporating a hood mould in the Tudor style (Fig. 4), with two smaller pointed arches beneath. The larger skew arch dates to the 16th century, with the apparent purpose of further integrating the congregation. Positioned at the juncture of nave and chancel, however, it awkwardly connects the Norman and gothic arcading, upsetting their rhythm and the harmony between the church’s principal spaces. The liturgical consequences of the Corpus Christi chapel, therefore, had architectural implications. Once the Decorated chapel was complete, a decision appears to have been made to further integrate the congregation in a way that complemented the chapel’s growing status and fluidity of space.

To an extent, the second phase of later-medieval renovations can be seen as a response to the architectural questions the chapel posed. The works from this next period are in the Perpendicular style (Fig. 5), and were begun by Abbot Moote of St. Albans in the early 15th century. The chancel received larger east and north windows with Perpendicular tracery. The upper part of the tower was reconstructed, with a parapet added, in keeping with a movement towards greater angularity. The aisle walls were also rebuilt, and the nave roof and clerestory raised.

Fig. 5: Left: When viewed from the east elevation, the Perpendicular chancel again appears dominated by the Decorated Corpus Christi chapel. Right: Grotesque corbel of pig in a cowl in the nave roof. Images: Struan Bates.

Also embedded in the nave roof were a series of grotesque corbels, some depicting friars as pigs. Was this Chaucerian satire a response to the excesses of the neighbouring King’s Langley Priory? If so, the corbels may suggest a local rivalry between between the priory’s mendicant Dominican order and the Benedictine house at St. Albans, the product of which possibly accelerated Abbot Moote’s Perpendicular improvements at St. Lawrence’s.

By the 15th century, St. Lawrence’s had reached its maximum medieval areal extent. The Perpendicular phase, however, appears to have been insufficiently accommodating, as between the 16th and 19th centuries the chancel was employed as a mortuary chapel, with a funerary monument in the place of the high alter, whilst the taking of communion moved to the chapel. How clergy and laity were arranged for worship in this later period, when there was effectively a dog-leg between nave and chapel, requires further investigation.


Fig. 6: Plan of medieval phases of St. Lawrence the Martyr, Abbots Langley (2021). Image: Struan Bates.

This article has shown how some of the key stages in St. Lawrence’s development between the 12th and 15th centuries were the product of stylistic visions instigated by senior ecclesiastical institutions, or by the rivalry between them. If works decisions were made at a parochial level, evidence for this is limited.

These visions, however, were often truncated, with only the 14th century Decorated Corpus Christi chapel achieving a coherent form and function of its own. The chapel’s exterior use of conspicuous vernacular techniques and materials also suggests a confidence to embrace technical innovations. The more significant consequences of changes in liturgical arrangements and subsequent architectural responses promoted by the chapel’s success, however, would be far longer-lasting.

Bibliography

P. Barnwell. ‘The Community and the Individual: Worship and the Late Medieval English Parochial Church’, Barnwell (ed), Places of Worship in Britain and Ireland 1350-1550  (Donington, 2019)

F. Bond, An Introduction to English Church Architecture from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Century, vol. 2 (London, 1913)

J. Bony, The English Decorated Style: Gothic Architecture Transformed, 1250-1350 (Oxford, 1979)

J. Harvey, The Perpendicular Style 1330-1485 (London, 1978)

R. Morris, Churches in the Landscape (London, 1989)

N. Pevsner and B. Cherry, The Buildings of England: Hertfordshire, Second edition (Harmondsworth, 1978)

E. Roberts, ‘Totternhoe Stone and Flint in Hertfordshire Churches’, Medieval Archaeology 18:1 (1974)

R. Wilkinson, The Church and Parish of Abbots Langley (London, 1959 – many thanks to the Peter Waddell, vicar of St. Lawrence’s, for the loan of this book)

Leave a Comment

Forty Hall (1629)

Published by Struan on February 7, 2023
Forty Hall. Image: Struan Bates.

I suspect there’s a lot more to discover about Forty Hall. The 1629 date quoted for the house we see today appears too early; it has more in common with the angular, astylar boxes built after the Restoration. That said, there are earlier stylistic precedents (e.g. Coleshill , usually given a date of 1650).

Forty Hall was built for Nicholas Rainton, a former Mayor of London, who was imprisoned for refusing to help Charles I raise a loan, and who died in 1646 (interesting monument in St Andrew’s, Enfield – Nicholas Stone?) A lottery bid put together by the hall and English Heritage in 2008 suggested a ‘clever artisan builder’ probably designed the house, but no name is suggested. Little information can then be found about Forty’s architectural development between Rainton dying and the property leaving the family’s possession in 1696. I’ve not seen Peter Mills‘ name associated, but Forty immediately brings to mind Thorpe Hall … just a thought.

Forty has a fascinating interior, too; the photos below were taken on a flying visit, but give a good impression of it inside and out:

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.
Leave a Comment

The People’s Piazza: A History of Covent Garden (BBC)

Published by Struan on January 7, 2023

I finally got round to watching The People’s Piazza: A History of Covent Garden on iPlayer. As with many of the best documentaries, the researchers had done a great job of finding people who had direct involvement with the subject at hand, including men and women who had worked in the market in the pre- and post-war periods. There was some great archive footage, and the framing of developments around historical figures worked well.

Inigo Jones’ St Paul’s church loomed large, though its architectural history wasn’t explored. It’s still surprising how Jones integrated the most ‘primitive’ Tuscan order with elegant surrounding townhouses, and in doing so delivering London’s first formal open space. Jones had seen the opportunity to employ the Tuscan’s earthy and robust dimensions in an ecclesiastical building after agreeing with the Earl of Bedford to deliver the ‘handsomest barn in England’. The huge east front pedimented portico of St Paul’s (sixty feet across), with its widely-spaced pair of large columns flanked by square pilasters, had no precedent in England, and the sight of a quasi-Tuscan temple would have been all the more dramatic for its urban setting. The church’s double-square interior displayed Jones’ preference for harmonic ratios, with symmetrical, tall, rounded-headed pairs of windows on the east and west facades complementing circular windows above the church’s ‘entrances’ (the east one is fake).

Flanking St Paul’s were a pair of arches, also Tuscan, with rusticated pilasters. These were positioned away from the church and joined by a wide, low wall, at a distance proportionate to the columnation of the church’s portico. The cumulative effect of their inclusion, visible in later etchings and paintings, again demonstrated Jones’ inclination for horizontality, but at Covent Garden going a step further to confidently bestow a residential skyline with the gravity of the Tuscan order.

No drawings in Jones’ hand survive for the the tall, narrow houses he designed for the north and east sides of Covent Garden, but later pictorial evidence shows that they were narrow, classical structures, with vaulted, rusticated, arcade walkways (‘piazzas’) spanning the terraces, with steep roofs and dormer windows. Summerson argued that the whole of Covent Garden was a ‘comprehensive essay in the Tuscan mood’, with Jones adapting a Serlio  design for his Covent Garden houses to deliver elegant continuity around three sides of the square. The effect is seen in later paintings: a band of red, upper-story brickwork runs around the square – smart, but subordinate to the bright, rusticated ashlar line leading the eye to its termination at the new, understated, Protestant, place of worship.

The point here isn’t to establish whether Jones’ unified application of the Tuscan order was faithful to antiquity, but more to recognise that what Jones had created was the first classical city square in England. Its influence was soon felt in surrounding streets, with Jones directing similar classical projects in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Great Queen Street. Jones had arrived at his own urban vernacular, the forerunner of London street architecture. Crucially, these buildings and spaces would be experienced by the public, not just kings and courtiers.

At this point Jones still had what might have been the crowning glories of his Westminster Palace and St Paul’s cathedral developments on the horizon, though the former didn’t come to fruition and the latter was demolished. Whatever the aesthetic merit of Jones’ work on the west front of the cathedral, it’s Jones’ influence on secular architecture that was revolutionary, though his buildings alone may not have been enough to secure that legacy.

Leave a Comment

The Architecture of Swithland, Leicestershire

Published by Struan on December 22, 2022

Swithland is a small, linear settlement in Charnwood Forest, seven miles north-west of Leicester. Its built environment makes extensive use of Cambrian stone quarried locally, principally pinkish-grey Mountsorrel granite, and grey-blue Swithland slate. This geological confluence is unique to the region; a few miles north begin the Coal Measures, with their ‘lobster or tomato-red’ brick former pit villages, a trend continued west of Charnwood and south of Leicester. Head east towards the Northamptonshire border, and we see iron-tinted limestone cottages, some with Collyweston slate roofs.

This contrast in building materials is brought into greater relief at Swithland, as its architectural character is arguably the most consistent within the Charnwood Forest’s geological ‘island’. To understand why, we must examine how land ownership and industrial processes guided the use of these local stones in shaping Swithland’s vernacular appeal.

Typical Mountsorrel granite and Swithland slate cottages along Main Street, Swithland. Image: Struan Bates.

Swithland isn’t mentioned in the Domesday Book, but evidence shows the estate under the control of a succession of Norman lords, with the positioning of clusters of different status buildings being settled by the thirteenth century. Three open fields were grouped around the single thoroughfare, Main Street, following the curve of a brook to the south. Higher status buildings were situated at its eastern end, including the original manor house, now gone (the site was near to the surviving Hall Farm, which possibly sits on the medieval demesne land). Opposite this is St Leonard’s church, with its tower and arcades dating to the thirteenth century.

St Leonard’s provides the earliest evidence of the vernacular techniques that would come to characterise Swithland’s architecture. The thirteenth century walled base of its tower combines both granite and Swithland slate. The granite blocks, roughly dressed due to the limitations of medieval tools, would have been transported from the quarry at Mountsorrel, a couple of miles away. Swithland slate is incorporated as wedge-shaped pieces of grey rubble stone, also roughly dressed, and almost certainly quarried from pits in and around Swithland Wood, to the west of the village. When taken from the ground the slate is light grey-blue, but weathers to develop leaf-green or purple hues. It is also extremely durable and versatile.

St Leonard’s church, Swithland. Image: Struan Bates.

In 1435 the Danvers family inherited the manor of Swithland, and the height of St Leonard’s tower was raised in the fifteenth century. As a higher status building, it would have been one of the first to be given a Swithland slate roof (though used in Roman Leicester, the slate only appears to have been used on Swithland roofs after the demise of thatch). Swithland slates are typically thick, (1¼ inches), and as the local quarries could not provide them in uniform sizes, were placed in diminishing courses – an attractive technique that also helps to accentuate the pitch of the roof.

While uncoursed walls of granite and slate rubble can appear heavy and lacking refinement, they gain greater decorative appeal when offset against the smoother, darker, Swithland roof slates. This juxtaposition would have the greatest lasting significance for the development of Swithland’s unique character.

Later infill now connects the east of the village with the narrower plots to the west, originally dwellings for agricultural and quarry workers, though the physical separation is still somewhat apparent. One building that marks a transition is 124 Main Street (Pit Close Cottage). While the exterior largely dates from the seventeenth century, the cottage is one of the few surviving to retain its thatched roof. Here perhaps is the best example of a Swithland slate rubble-stoned wall building as it would have appeared before the village-wide adoption of slate roofing: one-and-a-half storeys, with casement windows, eyebrow dormers, and red brick used minimally for short chimney stacks.

 Left: 124 Main Street. It is not clear when the whitewashed plastering was first applied to the rubble stone walls. Right: 137 Main Street illustrates the transition to Swithland slate roofing, but retains a characteristic, though updated, fenestration. Images: Struan Bates.

Further west, approaching Swithland Wood, are the two-storey former worker cottages, similarly built in granite and Swithland slate, though with later façades. An examination of their interiors and plot rears would be needed to establish if any medieval fabric remains.

From the eighteenth century onwards, the Danvers’ estate ownership would play an increasing role in establishing local granite and slate as central to Swithland’s architectural character. One reason appears to be the limited number of households able to develop properties. Davis (2004) has shown that between 1788 and 1910 only 5-7 individuals owned land in Swithland, a tiny number compared to villages nearby. This period spans Swithland’s enclosure in 1799, where all subsequent land claims were rejected. This suggests that the Danvers family retained a strong guiding hand over the built environment.

Another reason was the family’s accelerated exploitation of landowning rights through the industrialisation of Swithland slate quarrying. The introduction of gunpowder allowed slate to be extracted from greater depths, with the resultant trade swelling the estate’s fortunes. By 1800, more workers’ cottages were being built towards Main Street’s west end, with the Griffin and Slatesplitters hostelries opening to provide refreshment. Each building was again constructed or redeveloped with granite and Swithland slate walls, and a now-ubiquitous (and presumably cheaper) Swithland slate roof.

The last category of building that appears to have developed along Main Street from 1750 onwards were farms. There are three, each with yards entered directly from the road. Hall Farm, as mentioned, survives from the original manor house land, and in 1749-50 received two new barns. ‘Sir Joseph Danvers, Baronet’ is inscribed inside one, making it reasonable to assume that the proud choice of local granite, slate rubble stone and Swithland slate roof tiles was specified by the family. Again, brick is used minimally as window decoration.

It’s unclear looking at Swithland’s 1799 map if Pit Close Farm and Longlands Farm pre-existed enclosure, but both farmhouses (now private homes), share the fabric of Hall Farm’s barn walls and roofs. Each range has casement windows with cambered brick lintels and red brick roof stacks.

The Swithland slate boundary wall around Hall Farm. The barn is one of two surviving. The turret, also one of two surviving, is thought to be a boundary folly, and dates from a similar period. Image: Struan Bates.

A final building of note from this period is North Lodge (1847), a short distance from the rest of Main Street, and somewhat anomalous with its projecting Tudor bay windows and arched arcade. A decision appears to have been made to harmonise the lodge with the rest of Main Street, as the new manor house (1834), for which the lodge serves, was built in a neo-classical style and is not visible from the road.

The success of Swithland’s native slate industry would, however, be short-lived. Welsh slate – cheaper, lighter, and more thinly cleavable – flooded into the area in the nineteenth century, forcing the last Swithland slate quarry to close in 1887. By this point, more industrially-developed villages nearby could boast fine Georgian and Victorian brick buildings. Swithland had almost none.

The demise of slate quarrying in Swithland was followed by a coda of sorts with the advent of the Arts and Crafts movement. The architect-designer Ernest Gimson built a series of cottages in Charnwood, inspired by its craggy outcrops and ancient woodlands. The architect of 24 Main Street, Swithland, is unknown, though this early-twentieth century property shares the rough-hewn slate rubble stone walls and massive exterior stone chimney stack of Gimson’s Stoneywell Cottage (1899). Further research would be needed to understand why these architects were inspired at this particular time to add their own accents to Charnwood’s rustic architectural language.

Left: North Lodge incorporates Tudor features with characteristic Swithland materials. Right: 24 Main Street attempts something similar in an Arts and Crafts style. Images: Struan Bates.

Legislation in the twentieth century would be largely successful in protecting Swithland’s architectural character, though, in newer homes, excessive red brick has encroached on attempts to retain traditional slate and granite façades (though reclaimed Swithland slate used in boundary walling has gone some way to mitigating these missteps). Houses in the village still never rise above two storeys, and modern dormers are much in evidence, echoing the older cottages.

The architectural character of Swithland is therefore largely a result of geological circumstance, its fortunes as an estate village, and the relatively short life of the slate quarrying industry for which it is best known.

Bibliography

Charnwood Borough Council, Swithland Conservation Area Character Appraisal (Loughborough, 2013).

A. Clifton-Taylor, The Pattern of English Building, 4th edition (London, 1987).

V. Davis, ‘Charnwood Forest: Population. Landownership and Environmental Perception, c.1775-1914’, unpublished PhD thesis (University of Leicester, 2004).

A. Horton and J. Harrald, Strategic Stone Study: A Building Stone Atlas of Leicestershire (London, 2017).

A. McWhirr, ‘The Roman Swithland Slate Industry’, Leicestershire Archaeological and Historical Society Transactions, 62 (Leicester, 1988).

N. Pevsner and E.Williamson, The Buildings of England: Leicestershire and Rutland, 2nd edition (London, 1984).

S. Young and C. Ayres, ‘Swithland Slate Industry’, Leicestershire Victoria County History Trust Charnwood Roots Databank, https://archive.charnwoodroots.org/report/6238 (Leicester, 2017).

Leave a Comment

Where was Prince Rupert’s House?

Published by Struan on October 23, 2022

Re-post of an article originally for englishcivilwar.org:

A watercolour of Prince Rupert’s Palace in Beech Street, Barbican, from the garden (1796). © The Trustees of the British Museum (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0)

I knew that after fleeing into exile in 1644 Prince Rupert had a naval career before returning to England after the Restoration, but was surprised to find that one of his private houses survived into the 19th century.

Or did it? This was meant to be a post about the building’s location and architecture, until I started digging a little deeper …

Biographies record that Rupert lived in Westminster and Windsor Castle after he returned to England in September 1660, though online sources (mostly from 18th and 19th century texts) mention him living in Beech Lane/Street (the name seems to fluctuate on maps from this time) near the Barbican. A number of surviving images, mainly from the 18th and 19th centuries, purport to show a three-storey, bay-windowed property, such as the watercolour above, variously titled ‘Prince Rupert’s Palace’ or ‘Prince Rupert’s House. This set me off comparing maps to find exactly where the house had stood (the Layers of London site is an excellent tool for this).

Having some idea of the rough location, I stopped to consider a wider set of written sources, looking more carefully through my Rupert biographies. This stopped me in my tracks. Neither Maurice Ashley, Frank Kitson or Charles Spencer mentions Beech Lane/Street, and none of their descriptions of Rupert’s arrival in London indicates where the prince initially resided.

I was leaning towards thinking that ‘Prince Rupert’s Palace’ (or Prince Rupert’s House) was actually a Victorian misattribution, when I found this reference from a 1910 book on mezzotints:

It was at Drury House, his ivy-grown gabled Elizabethan mansion, in quiet Beech Lane in the Barbican, off Aldersgate Street, that Prince Rupert received John Evelyn on March 13. 

Old English Mezzotints, Malcolm C. Salaman (1910)

It’s well-known that Rupert dabbled in mezzotint printmaking, but more useful is the reference to Evelyn’s diary; all would be confirmed if it linked Rupert directly to Beech Lane. As the complete diary text is freely available online, I searched for Rupert’s name. It appears five times, twice in 1661 with reference to him teaching Evelyn mezzotint (the other later entries are irrelevant), on 21st February and 13th March (as mentioned in the Salaman extract, above): 

21st February, 1661:
Prince Rupert first showed me how to grave in mezzo tinto.

13th March, 1661 (Evelyn visits Lambeth in the morning, which I have omitted here):
This afternoon, Prince Rupert showed me, with his own hands, the new way of graving, called mezzo tinto, which afterward, by his permission, I published in my History of Chalcography; this set so many artists on work, that they soon arrived to the perfection it is since come to, emulating the tenderest miniatures.

Our Society now gave in my relation of the Peak of Teneriffe, in the Great Canaries, to be added to more queries concerning divers natural things reported of that island.

I returned home with my Cousin, Tuke, now going for France, as sent by his Majesty to condole the death of that great Minister and politician, Count Mazarine.

But no mention of Beech Lane. However another later source which also mentions Evelyn’s visits to Rupert suggested another primary source (highlighted):

Beech Lane, Barbican, where Prince Rupert resided, and worked on his chemical experiments and his mezzotint plates, was probably so called, says Stow, from Nicholas de la Beech, Lieutenant of the Tower, who was deprived of his office by Edward III. Stow, whose clue we ever follow, describes the lane, in Elizabeth’s time, as stretching from Redcross Street to Whitecross Street, and adorned with ” beautiful houses of stone, brick, and timber.” An old house in Barbican belonging to the Abbot of Ramsay was afterwards called Drury House, from the worshipful owner, Sir Drew Drury, also of Drury Lane. This was the house Prince Rupert afterwards occupied; and parts of the mansion were in existence as late as 1796. Here lived the fiery prince, whom Time had softened into a rough old philosopher, fond of old soldiers, and somewhat of a butt at Whitehall among the scoffing Rochesters of his day, who were all à la mode de France. Here Evelyn visited Rupert. In the parish books of St. Giles’s, Cripplegate, a guinea is set down as payment to the ringers on the occasion of Charles II. visiting the prince at his Barbican house. In Strype’s time the street had lost its gentility, and was inhabited by clothes-salesmen, and on the site of the old watch-tower fronting Redcross Street, stood an ignoble watchhouse for the brawling Mohocks of the day.

Old and New London: Volume 2. Originally re-published by Cassell, Petter & Galpin, London (1878).

This source is interesting for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it names the St Giles, Cripplegate, parish books as documenting a visit by Charles II to Rupert in Beech Lane. Conversely, it feeds my suspicions by suggesting that at the time Rupert was meant to have lived there, the street was part of an area that had declined in status since Tudor times (‘Strype’ is a reference to John Strype, the historian who published a detailed survey of London in 1720, so a good few decades later than the supposed royal visit). When Rupert returned to England in 1661 he was a divisive figure – surely he would been accommodated in crown property for his own safety, rather than in a declining street inhabited by traders?

Following-up the reference to the Charles II visit (and unable to access parish records from St Giles, Cripplegate, online) I found more useful references, though this time from the early 20th century. These extracts from John Badderley’s History of Cripplegate (1910) give the building a more specific location, but again cast doubt on the veracity of whether Rupert actually lived in Beech Lane. This first extract provides extra details on the house’s location:

On the south side of Beech Lane is the shadow of the residence of Prince Rupert, so memorable for his transactions in the reign of Charles I. About 1830 a handsome building (which stood until 1865, when a larger building was erected) was built by a Mr. William Bassingham, who had resided and carried on his business of a gas engineer here for several years before that time, being rated for his old house in 1820 at 12. This stood at the south-east corner of the south side of the lane (with a frontage in Whitecross Street), on the site of, or in close vicinity to, the spot where Prince Rupert’s house mentioned above was probably situated. Glovers’ Hall Court stands nearly 100 yards further westward, and in 1840 contained houses of a very poor character; a tenement, shed and stables were valued as little as 12. In 1850 the assessment on seven houses in the lane was 121, in which amount the above house (assessed at 60) was included. These old houses were soon after demolished, and three warehouses now standing on the south side erected, which run back to and are also lighted in Glovers’ Hall Court. (p.208)

While the second extract repeats the claim that Charles II visited Rupert at the same address and again mentions the St Giles records: 

The house of which an illustration is given (below) stood in Beech Lane, a street running between almost the northern end of Whitecross Street and Barbican. Particulars of Prince Rupert’s life in this house are given in the chapter devoted to ” Men of Note.” It was here that his cousin Charles II often visited him, and took part in his scientific experiments. An entry in the parish books of St. Giles records the payment of a guinea to the ringers of the church bells on the occasion of a visit of the King to Prince Rupert.  (p.208)

In the same book the ‘Men of Note’ chapter as referenced above repeats some of what we already know, but crucially differs from other sources in suggesting that Rupert was living at Beech Street not on arriving in England, but towards the end of his life (he lived another 22 years, dying in 1682):

In the house at the corner of Whitecross Street and Beech Lane, inhabited in the early part of the seventeenth century by Sir Dru Drurie, lived this brilliant Cavalier. As is well known he took a great part in the Civil War, and after the Restoration occupied many important public positions, the last being First Lord of the Admiralty in 1679. Little is known of the last years of his life; probably much of his time was taken up in the various scientific experiments he conducted in the above house. His cousin, King Charles II, shared his tastes and visited him at his laboratory, where he devoted much attention to improvements in war material, inventing a method of making gunpowder of ten times the ordinary strength, a mode of manufacturing hail-shot, a gun somewhat on the principle of the revolver, and a new method of boring cannon. He is said to have invented “Princes-metal,” a mixture of copper and zinc. He studied the art of engraving and engraved with his own hands. (p.293)

There’s lots to go on here, with a previous owner and Rupert’s involvement with what would become the Royal Society suggesting that more useful evidence might be found in archive sources. However there’s another revealing passage about Beech Lane which, while referencing the supposed home of another 17th century figure, reflects my own suspicions about ‘Prince Rupert’s House’ at this stage (of what admittedly has been a limited search). Badderley also goes on to say:

Upon an old water spout, there is the date 1653, which in all probability is that of its erection. It stood within a few yards of the site of the old mansion called Whittington’s College in Sweedon’s Passage, Grub Street. It has been stated that General Monk lived here, when planning the Restoration, but there is no proof of this. It may be that he occasionally occupied the house during that eventful time; at any rate, it was known as General Monk’s House for many years before its demolition.

This post was meant to pinpoint the exact location of the Beech Lane house and describe its architecture though surviving images, but the research above now has me doubting whether the building was occupied by Prince Rupert at all. Should I find better evidence to that effect I’ll write a ‘part two’ looking at the building and its location in more detail.

To be continued!

Leave a Comment

The Rubenshuis portico (1616)

Published by Struan on March 23, 2022

Here’s a useful interactive version of the portico at the Rubensuis in Antwerp (1616), one of the few parts of the house to survive as Rubens designed it. Still yet to visit!

Leave a Comment

Exhibition: The Romance of Ruins – The Search for Ancient Ionia, 1764 (Sir John Soane’s Museum)

Published by Struan on September 1, 2021
Image: Struan Bates.

I chanced upon the Soane Museum’s The Romance of Ruins: The Search for Ancient Ionia, 1764 exhibition when researching Nicholas Revett’s will. I’m glad I caught it, as it brought home the lengths to which a generation of eighteenth-century architects, explorers, artists and other dilettantes went to establish an academic school of classicism that ushered in the Greek Revival.

Map of the journey. Image: Struan Bates.

The display over a series of rooms follows the journey of Revett, antiquary Richard Chandler and artist William Pars across Greece and Ionia on a trip funded by the Society of Dilettanti, Watercolours by Pars depict the other two men measuring ruins and interacting with the locals, and are similarly valuable as records of the state of important archaeological sites as they appeared at the time.

Image: Struan Bates.

It’s the first time Pars’ pictures of the expedition have been drawn together. Revett and Chandler’s sprightly industry springs from the watercolours as they beaver away on columns and cornices under Pars’ somewhat milky Aegean light.

Revett taking measurements. Image: Struan Bates.

Video from Sir John Soane’s Museum introducing the exhibition.
Image: Struan Bates.

Particularly striking, too, are the depictions of the guides, translators and local men, seemingly indifferent to the important structures they lounge on – scenes that pose questions about Western interpretations of Ottoman culture at the time.

Soane’s personal copy of Ionian Antiquities. Image: Struan Bates.

The men’s illustrated accounts of the expedition were published in 1769 (Ionian Antiquities) and 1797 (Antiquities of Ionia), with Chandler publishing his diaries of the trip from 1775.

Image: Struan Bates.

The exhibition is also accompanied by an excellent hardback catalogue, featuring all of Pars’ watercolours, background and timeline of the expedition and a series of essays by eminent scholars. Highly recommended.

Image: Struan Bates.
Leave a Comment

133-135 High Street, Watford (c.1830-50)

Published by Struan on March 8, 2021
133-135 High Street, Watford (c.1830-50). Image: Struan Bates.

Ocean Bells café in Watford was a bit of a lifeline during the pandemic, and though I’d sat in its snug, renovated Victorian interior countless times, I’d never taken time to look at the building from across the road until this spring. The handsome but much altered building (at 133-135 High Street) has a rusticated ground floor, with shallow, giant ionic pilasters stretching to the cornice and a pair of small first floor balconies . It’s currently shared between two units, Ocean Bells and Shakeaway, a milkshake/ice-cream bar. Ocean Bells is a single café room downstairs, with a flat (I think) above. There’s also a basement it would be interesting to peek into sometime. For now, here are some more pics …

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

Image: Struan Bates.

See also: 73 High Street, Watford

Leave a Comment

The York House Water Gate (1626) Part One: History

Published by Struan on January 12, 2021

Re-post of an article on the York House Water Gate I originally wrote for englishcivilwar.org:

The York House Water Gate, Embankment Gardens, London. Image: Struan Bates.

A 17th century Italianate arch lies 150 yards from the Thames, weather-worn and hidden between the office blocks. In its pomp a gateway for kings and courtiers, it marked the riverside entrance to one of Europe’s most sumptuous houses.

So how has it come to stand marooned in a park? And how did it survive the centuries?

York House was one of the great riverside mansions on the south side of the Strand, home to a succession of Keepers of the Great Seal, most famously Francis Bacon, who was born here in 1561. Bacon briefly returned to the property in adult life prior to his fall from grace, however George Villiers, the first Duke of Buckingham, had long coveted the mansion and was instrumental in prising it from Bacon’s grasp. So strong was his attachment, however, that he would not give it up without a fight:

“York House is the house where my father died, and where I drew my first breath; and there I will yield my last breath, if it so please God and the King … At least no money, no value, shall make me part with it.”

Letter to the Duke of Lennox
John Norden’s 1593 map of Westminster. The pre-Watergate jetty at York House can be made out in the centre. The first section of the rambling Whitehall Palace to the left. The Strand is to the right.

York House finally passed into Buckingham’s possession in March 1622 as a condition of Bacon’s pardon. Each of the neighbouring Strand palaces (such as Somerset House and Durham House) had river entrances to facilitate easy passage between Whitehall, Greenwich and other properties along the Thames. His aesthetic vision for the property demanded a river entrance of equal majesty, and it was he who ordered the construction of York House’s last remnant visible today: the Watergate.

Buckingham, art and the Stuart court

At the time he took ownership Buckingham was the highest-ranking non-Royal in the country. The intimacy of his relationship with the king (James I) led to the 20 year-old being trusted as confident and advisor to James’ son and reluctant monarch-in-waiting, the 22 year-old Prince Charles.

Later in the year the two would travel incognito to Spain to conduct secret marriage negotiations for the hand of the Infanta Maria. This ill-fated trip may have been a political disaster, though Charles didn’t come away entirely empty-handed. Amongst the gifts presented by the Spanish was the monumental sculpture Samson Slaying a Philistine (1560-2), by Giambologna. The closeness of Charles’ friendship with Buckingham was reflected in his subsequent gesture: he gave the Giambologna to Buckingham as a gift, and it remained as a showpiece of his collection in the York House garden, reputedly the only piece on display not plucked from antiquity (a 1635 inventory revealed no fewer than 59 pieces of Roman sculpture there). The statue complemented the already formidable collection of paintings inside the house, including a large body of work by Rubens.

The south-facing pediment. The escallops (shell) motifs are taken from the Villiers coat-of-arms. Image: Struan Bates.

Buckingham’s military and political record might be strewn with failures, though his influence in kindling Charles’ ambition to become a leading patron and collector in his own right was far more successful. A few years later Rubens himself would deem Charles “the best amateur of painting of all the princes in the world” – an apprenticeship part-served in the corridors and river gardens of York House.

The Giambologna statue also survives. It’s now in the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the story of its sequence of owners – both before and after it was at York House – is a worthy diversion in itself. You can read more about it here.

The work of many hands?

In 1623 Buckingham set about commissioning a dramatic river-front entrance to his grounds. A striking Portland stone Water Gate in the style of Sebastian Serlio was ordered. Serlio’s volumes conveying his Italian Renaissance style were already in circulation in Italian, and had been studied by architects and designs such as Inigo Jones.

As Surveyor-General of the King’s Works Jones is often credited with being the first to bring the Italianate style to England. By the time the Water Gate was commissioned he had finished his work on the Banqueting House, and his hand was assumed in the design and construction of the Water Gate. He is, however, not the only only candidate.

The Danby Gateway at Oxford, built by Nicholas Stone 1632/33. Photo: Steve Cadman (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Since arriving in London in 1616 the designer and diplomat Sir Balthazar Gerbier had been acting as Buckingham’s art buyer and collection manager. He had also accompanied Buckingham and the king on the ill-fated trip to Spain. Gerbier’s letters to his patron in the Bodleian library document some of his involvement in the remodelling work of York House in the 1620s, and as such suggest that he may have been chosen for the commission.

The final name in the frame is Nicholas Stone. It was thought that the sculptor and architect was involved in the Water Gate’s construction using plans drawn up by either Jones or Gerbier, however comparisons of stylistic elements of other examples of Stone’s work (such as the Doric banded columns) have given greater weight to his claim as designer and builder. Stone had also studied Serlio and his rusticated style can be seen in the strikingly similar – though larger – Danby Gateway (above), one of the three entrances to the University of Oxford Botanic Gardens.

Until more conclusive evidence comes to light it appears that Stone has the best claim to the Water Gate’s initial design and construction, though either of the others – more probably Jones – had a hand in its refinement.

A more detailed examination of the Water Gate’s design – including a preparatory drawing attributed to Stone – can be read at the Sir John Soane Museum website, here.

The rear frieze features the Villier’s family motto FIDEI COTICULA CRUX (‘The Cross is the Test of Faith’). The anchor on the cartouche – and the lions on top – represent Buckingham’s admiralship. Image: Struan Bates.


Completion, the English Civil War and its aftermath

The Gate was completed in 1626, though Buckingham would enjoy it for only two years. In 1628 he was murdered in Portsmouth by a veteran of one of his disastrous naval escapades, angry at being passed over for promotion.

The house was passed between family members and tenants until after the Civil War. In 1644 parliament ordered the seizure of the property and its possessions. The “superstitious” art collection was to be taken and burned but was saved by the Earl of Northumberland – the tenant at the time – who stepped in and saved the majority of the work, claiming it would affect the future value of the property (though more likely was interested in securing the pick of Buckingham’s collection for himself).

In 1649 Cromwell conferred York House on Thomas Fairfax as recognition for his services during the Civil War. Buckingham’s heir, George, the second Duke, had been living in exile with Charles II but returned in 1657. He married Fairfax’s daughter, Mary, and was granted permission to live with her, thus returning York House to Villiers ownership.

The Restoration would not, however, bring back the property’s glory days. Buckingham’s debts were growing unmanageable and in 1672 he sold the estate to developers for £30,000.

His one condition was that the streets surrounding the land would be named in his honour.

Looking through the balustrades across Embankment Gardens towards the Thames. Image: Struan Bates.

Development and land reclamation
By 1674 the estate was already being carved up by developers, with York House demolished in 1675. The work of generations of Lord Keepers and the First Duke of Buckingham was undone in a little over a year.

At the same time the streets to the rear of the Water Gate (which exist to this day) were laid out, with the first of the new buildings following soon after. Seeing an obvious commercial opportunity for supplying water to the properties a group of investors established the York Buildings Waterworks Company. An obelisk-shaped water tower was built adjacent to the Water Gate – a landmark conspicuous in many 18th and early-19th century paintings of the north bank. The late-17th century land agreements also stated that a terrace walk be laid behind the new buildings to allow access to the Water Gate for those wishing to walk by the Thames.

The floor stone commemorating the 1898 and 1962 repairs by London Country Council. Image: Struan Bates.

The river would lap at the steps of the Water Gate until 1862. In that year the engineer Joseph Bazalgette was commissioned to construct the Thames Embankment. The reclamation of 22 acres of marshy land for real estate would leave the Water Gate where it is today: marooned 150 yards from the water’s edge.

In 1874 the Embankment Gardens were created as a public space, though responsibility for maintaining the Water Gate was unclear, and by 1880 it had fallen into a sorry state. London County Council stepped in in 1893 to protect the Gate, carrying out general repair work and re-roofing in 1898.
The roof was again replaced in 1962, with some masonry restored. The Gardens – with its Water Gate and other pieces of public art – are now looked after by the City of Westminster.

The plaque on a bank to the left of the arch attributes the Water Gate’s
building to Nicholas Stone alone. Image: Struan Bates.


The Water Gate today

The Gate is locked and protected by a low fence, but the area around it is surprisingly accessible. Watergate Walk (separating the Gate from the steps to Buckingham Street) runs directly behind and allows close-up viewing of the Gate’s interior. Tables and chairs from Gordon’s Wine Bar, a popular venue for post-work drink, sit in its shadow.

Though weathered, the Water Gate seems in a fair state of repair given its age. The main visitors to the gardens on weekdays are office workers eating their sandwiches. I doubt the Water Gate features on too many tourist trails given the detour required from more popular attractions like Trafalgar Square through the busy area behind Charing Cross station. Coaches drop off on the Embankment itself, and some groups may use the pathway through the gardens as a cut-through to the Strand and Covent Garden. As the Water Gate is set back beneath the trees it’s also not immediately visible from the Embankment, and as such is pretty much hidden from passers-by.

A shame, as with the Banqueting House a short walk away it’s one of the few surviving reminders of London’s 17th century Italianate court architecture.

The position of the Water Gate on the Embankment. The steps lead up to the arch, obscured by trees. Note the names of the surrounding streets. View larger map

Next: The York House Water Gate Part Two: The Water Gate in Art

Leave a Comment

Explore a 19th century court housing slum

Published by Struan on November 17, 2020

I stumbled across this 3D explorable reconstruction of 19th century Liverpool court housing when reading up more about Victorian slums on Week 8 of our course:

Digital reconstructions can sometimes be a little clunky or superficial, though this one (developed by Domingos Studios) is particularly atmospheric in the way it combines graphics and sound. Best-viewed in full-screen (toggle from bottom). If you’ve for a VR viewer (eg Google cardboard) it works with that, too:

https://seekbeak.com/v/AVvjMVJDqlJ (opens in new window)

Leave a Comment