For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Lord Byron

In 1788 London, a child was born to Captain John Byron and Catherine Gordon, the captain’s second wife.  This child would grow up to be not just a poet, but a key writer in the Romantic Movement which was around 1800-1850.

Plaque depicting where Byron was born - now John Lewis
department store Bond Street London.

The 6^th Baron Byron was born in London but spent his childhood in Aberdeen. At the age of ten he inherited his great-uncle’s title and the family home Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. His mother being very proud; took her son to the newly acquired home, but it was in such disarray that they leased it out.

Throughout his life he had numerous lovers including a somewhat incestuous relationship with his half-sister Augusta Leigh.  Byron pursued the married Lady Caroline Lamb and engaged in a public affair. He married her cousin Anne, but the marriage ended in ruins as he wasn’t quite the marrying kind, which is hardly so surprising if you consider his ancestry. His father married for money twice and added the additional surname Gordon to claim his wife’s estate. After this the poet was known as George Byron Gordon. When he inherited his title he dropped the extra surname and was known as Lord Byron. After the death of his mother in law, her will required that he take on the name Noel to receive any inheritance, so he then became Lord Noel Byron and his wife was sometimes known as Lady Noel Byron. She however succeeded to the Barony of Wentworth and became Lady Wentworth. Confused? Nobody could make this stuff up; you’d fry your brain trying.

Byron was also friends with the Shelleys.  You remember Percy and Mary from blogs of the past? Well he caught up with them in Geneva after fleeing the country to get away from rumours of incest and sodomy.  He also caught up with Mary’s sister Claire Clairmont but they had been more than familiar with each other in London. He travelled through Italy and then to Greece where his life ended one tragic day at the age of 36.

I can imagine Lord Byron as a finger pointing winker.  The kind of man that would pluck a carnation cheekily from a flower stall for his jacket lapel and smile at the flower girl as payment. Or perhaps even kiss her hand and leave her swooning and giggling in delight.

The type of poetry that Byron wrote is narrative and in some cases lengthy. The poem Don Juan has more than 1600 lines and is unfortunately unfinished.  When the first two cantos were published, it was criticized and labelled immoral, but very popular none the less. The poem of his that I like best though is ‘She Walks in Beauty’ because it borders on truth. It’s said to be based on a moment in his life, just a single solitary moment that creates an image of a beautiful woman and brings together shades of dark and light. It’s slightly sombre, but extremely well put together. When you read the poem, you realise why this man remains one of the greatest British poets.

So I ventured out to take a picture of the Byron statue at Hyde Park corner. I was slightly confused as to where to find it but luckily I was able to engage the help of Kevin – a TFL Inspector, and his smartphone. He escorted me to the statue because he was curious to see it himself.  I’m not quite sure whose idea it was to put in on a traffic island in busy Park Lane, but I managed to get across the road unscathed.  After snapping the pic it took me another five minutes to get off the island.  I was beginning to feel like Gilligan.

Byron's statue, Hyde Park corner - thanks Kevin

To sum up Byron’s life and his contribution to literature isn’t something you can do lightly. I’m still trying to understand the whole name thing. But, even when you’re a Lord, money talks and if you want to maintain your womanising ways, the more you have the better the alibi you can buy. I could say a lot more about Byron and his wicked ancestry, but for now I must tell you that Once upon  a time in a few different countries, there was a poet lived a life that dare I say, was stranger than fiction.

A Poison Tree

William Blake

I’m not quite sure where I first stumbled upon the poem A Poison Tree. I think it was in a book called Jam Jar Full which was owned by my sister Pauline.  The book was a compilation of stories and poems and I’m sure it was hers. So I coveted the book and claimed it as my own after it served its purpose for Pauline.  Jam Jar Full wasn’t just a book I pinched from my sister, it was a treasure trove of stories and poems for me to read.

William Blake is the poet who penned the rhyme and I managed to track him down in London.  Born on the 28^th of November 1757 in Soho, he was the third of seven children. Blake only attended school long enough to learn to read and write, after which he was home schooled by his mother.

Plaque on Building in South Molton Street London

Blake liked to draw and his parents enrolled him in drawing classes. He took on a position of apprentice engraver where he spent time developing his art. He was sent to copy images from Gothic churches, but we’re not here to talk just about his art, I’m a lover of his poetry.

A Poison Tree is from his collection, Songs of Experience. I think it’s one of my favourite poems to date.  I always wondered what it would feel like if the poem were actually true and you could turn your anger into something solid and sinister.  I think my apple tree would be a golden delicious tree because they are my favourite apples. I’d probably end up eating the poison fruit myself and that would be the end of me. My wrath would turn on me and I’d be outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake was an interesting person.  He claimed to have visions from a young age.  He was said to have seen God, angels and he saw his dead brother’s ghost float out of his body and up through the ceiling clapping. He also said that his brother’s spirit visited him many times and taught him the printing method he used in Songs of Innocence.

Stained glass window in St Mary's Church, Battersea
where Blake was married

Blake married an illiterate woman Catherine Boucher, who actually signed their marriage certificate with an X. He taught her to read and write and she helped him print the illuminated poetry that he is remembered for. Sadly they didn’t have any children to pass their gifts onto.  I always think it’s a shame when the talent ends with death and isn’t passed on to another generation because the legacy from this extraordinary writer is astounding. So all we can do is try to learn the skills that came from natural talent and mimic a natural ability.

In 1926 Blake was commissioned to produce a series of engravings for Dante’s Divine Comedy. Only a handful of watercolours were produced, but these are among Blake’s finest achievements and although the project was never competed the watercolours acted as a kind of commentary on Dante’s work, although, Blake’s intent is a little unclear.

The memorial stone in Bunhill Fields

On the 12^th of August in 1827, William Blake passed away and is now buried in Bunhill Fields not far from John Bunyan and Daniel Defoe – former blog heroes. His exact resting place isn’t marked but there is a memorial stone in his honour.  It’s kind of nice to stand near that stone and reflect on a life of a great talent that blessed us Once upon a time in London.

 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Geoffrey Chaucer

Imagine, if your tiny minds will let you, being a pioneer or a major player in the manifest of anything.  Now imagine that your idea goes viral and hangs around for hundreds of years after you kick off.  People take it up and add to it in their own way and the concept evolves to suit society over and over.  Lots of people have done it; everything we use every day came from somebodies imagination and was forced out into the world to fend for itself.

In the middle ages from 1343 – 1400 in England, there lived a man by the name of Geoffrey Chaucer. Throughout his life he achieved fame as an alchemist, astronomer and he is also known as the father of literature. At a time when the dominant literary languages where Latin and French, Chaucer chose Middle English for his work.

Plaque at The Savoy on The Strand.   

Chaucer was well travelled and settled in Kent where he wrote his famous Canterbury Tales but there was never indication that he actually visited Canterbury.  Like so many writers, the imagination makes up for the actual. The Tales are part of a story-telling contest by pilgrims travelling together from Southwark to the shrine of Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral, and these too are written in the vernacular.

The Canterbury Tales tours in Canterbury

Apart from his writing, Chaucer had many prestigious positions including a sort of foreman of the King’s works. There was nothing major constructed during this stint, but he did oversee repairs to Westminster Palace. So you can imagine work of this capacity fetched a decent wage.

Picture and memorabilia of Chaucer 

It’s unsure how Chaucer died. Some say he was murdered but there’s no clear evidence to support this. Chaucer was the first poet to be buried in Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey where photographs are not allowed – hopefully one day that will change.

If you look back at the era that Geoffrey Chaucer lived in, the realisation of what he did for literature becomes apparent.  Writing in the native language instead of French or Latin was somewhat left of the middle and taking a chance like that wouldn’t have been an easy decision to make.  What if nobody like it and The Canterbury Tales had sat on the bargain table or ended up as landfill somewhere? Lucky for me this didn’t happen because I can’t read Latin or French so my life would have had no meaning. I’m not quite sure what I would be doing if not stalking dead writers, but what I do know for sure is that Once upon a time in London a man tried something out of the norm and it turned out for the best and started a trend that will last forever.  Nothing ventured, hey Geoffrey?

The Little Bookroom

Eleanor Farjeon

Out of all everything that I’ve ever wanted in life, near the top of the list would be my own private library.  I imagine a room with floor to ceiling bookcases and a moving ladder so I can reach the top shelves. There’s a desk in my library and of course, an old brown chesterfield so that I can laze the day away with a good book and a curled up cat. My library consists of classics and travel books so that I can continue to pursue the classic writers I’ve fallen in love with over the past 49 years. There’s a special place for my sacred blog books and the sun streams through the window in the afternoons.  It might sound cliché to you, but to me, this is paradise.

If we leave my private library and go into an attic with piles of dusty books that have not been arranged in any logical order, we enter the childhood of Eleanor Farjeon. I can only imagine how wonderful it must have been to spend time rummaging for something that introduces you to new characters and places you’ve never been, in a private world of your own.

At the age of five, Eleanor Farjeon’s father encouraged her to start writing. She has been described as a timid child and was known to her family as ‘Nellie’. Farjeon suffered poor eyesight and ill-health and spent a lot of her time in the attic reading. Her inspiration for her most famous book, Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard, came not from that quiet attic, but from family holidays.

A compilation of Eleanor Farjeon's favourites

After World War I, Farjeon earned a living as a poet and if you don’t think you know any of her work then think again.  Eleanor Farjeon is responsible for the lyrics to the Hymn Morning has Broken. The correct title of the poem is ‘A Morning Song (for the first day of spring)’. This was also made popular in the 70’s by Cat Stevens and was number one on the US charts. There is a link at the end of the blog for your entertainment

Eleanor Farjeon was born in 1881 and passed away in 1965.  I’ve seen some changes throughout my life, but coming from the Victorian age to the Swinging Sixties must have been a whirlwind of an adventure. Throughout those years, she became friends with writers such as D H Lawrence and Walter de la Mare. Although she loved children, she never had any of her own, which is kind of a shame because it’s always nice to read the stories that you’ve written to your own children.

Farjeon's grave in the Churchyard of St John-at-Hampstead

In the little attic book room, Eleanor Farjeon developed a ferocious appetite for words and literature.  She knew how to reach children with her writing and created incredible adventures that make you want to dance in a barn. 

 Like Eleanor Farjeon, I love to read and I love to write. One day I’ll have that library that I’ve dreamt of for so long now, but at the moment I’m happy to be inspired by a girl from Victorian England whose imagination developed Once upon a time in a dust filled attic full of stories and adventures.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0TInLOJuUM

And he himself was tall and thin, with sharp blue eyes, each like a pin.

Robert Browning

Of all of the poetry that I’ve ever read, I must admit that there is one that stands out from the others. The poem is Robert Browning’s rendition of The Pied Piper of Hamelin. I’ve read the story on several occasions, but I like the poem best.

Robert Browning was a master of verse.  He was born in Camberwell in 1812 and was lucky enough to be raised in a house with incredible literary sources. Browning’s father encouraged his interest in literature. Although he had inherited a sizable musical ability from his mother, Browning pursued his interest in poetry and his father paid for the publications.

You might remember that I blogged about Elizabeth Barrett Browning a few weeks ago and Robert is the contributor of the latter name.  They married in 1846 and travelled to Italy for Elizabeth’s health. After her death, he returned to London and became part of the London Literary scene. His poetic style was favourable and he was a serious contender for Poet Laureate in 1850 when Wordsworth passed away.

Browning’s poetry wasn’t really aimed at children, but the legend of the Pied Piper became a children’s story and Browning’s poem is quite witty.

The poem as a book,

 

There are several different theories as to what actually happened to the children of Hamelin. I find it difficult to believe that they were swallowed up by a hillside cave never to be seen again, but the story is kind of creepy.  There are some who actually believe that the Pied Piper was some sort of psychopathic paedophile who led the children away for his own devices. There is also the idea that all people of a town are the town’s children and that these particular folk left Hamelin to settle parts of Transylvania.  To me, it’s almost like a game of Chinese whispers where as the story gets passed along it gets a little foggier and harder to interpret.

Robert Browning is buried in Poet’s corner in Westminster Abbey.  Unfortunately, photography is forbidden, but it’s worth a visit if you’re ever in London.  He was an amazing man who could turn anything into a poem, and all of this happened Once upon a time in the 1800s.

 

 

And yet to every bad there is a worse.

Thomas Hardy

London is a busy place.  Trying to push your way along Regent Street on a Sunday is ridiculously difficult, not to mention annoying.  I guess it’s like every big city – they get busy.  At the beginning of the year I moved from busy London Bridge out into the western suburbs of the city where it’s a lot quieter and the view a little better. It’s still noisy of course and at certain times it’s still busy, but not so much on the road where I live. I’m not saying I don’t like central London though; in fact, it could be a lot worse.

I once read a book called Far from the Madding Crowd. The story is rurally set and focusses on the characters and their lives working their farms.  It’s all about the lives and misfortunes of these particular characters and how they overcome them, and it’s written by a man called Thomas Hardy.

Thomas Hardy lived in Trinity Road Wandsworth

Unlike a lot of the writers that I’ve researched, Thomas Hardy’s education ended at the age of 16.  In Dorchester, his father worked as a Stone Mason and local builder. His family couldn’t afford University so Hardy became an apprentice and trained as an architect in Dorchester until he left for London where he enrolled himself in Kings College. Thomas Hardy won prizes in architecture and he was in charge of the excavation of the St Pancras old church graveyard when the railway was built. This unenviable task included the removal of bodies and tombs and there is a particular tree in the churchyard there called the Hardy tree where the headstones have been arranged around the trunk. Although Hardy was a great architect, nobody can deny that he was a brilliant writer.

The Hardy Tree - St Pancras old church graveyard

In Far from the Madding Crowd, Gabriel Oak has his own property until one night one of his dogs rounds his sheep up and they all end up over a cliff.  Oak then has to work for other farmers in the district, but this guy always seems to be in the right place at the right time, kind of like Superman.  I know it’s only a story, but when you read it and think about how he could have ended up, it kind of makes you believe that no matter how bad things seem, it can always get worse.  In the case of Gabriel Oak, his life was full of ups and downs, but it got better. I could wax lyrical about the story until the cows come home and I’m pleased that Hardy tried his hand at writing and didn’t just stick to architecture.                 

Thomas Hardy was born in 1840 in Dorchester and passed away in 1928 in Dorchester. He is now buried in Stinsford parish church.  His birthplace and his home Max Gate are both owned by the National Trust and I am sorry to say that I have not yet visited either.  To say that he loved London would be a lie, but what I can honestly say is, Once upon a time in the 1800’s an Englishman followed a path that led me Far from the Madding Crowd. I urge you to go there!

How do I love thee?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

When you think about how times have changed and the way writers used to be the comparison is quite significant. In a time where a gentleman would read poetry to his lady and never call unannounced, poets used their skills to enhance life and even help you fall in love. This still goes on of course, but the idea of reading a poem to someone in a garden is slightly cheesy and if there is poetry of any kind, it’s usually inside a greeting card purchased in February.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Born in the Victorian era in 1806, Elizabeth Barrett Moulton-Barrett was the eldest of 12 children. A studious child, she read constantly and was clearly advanced for her age. Elizabeth was home schooled and spent her childhood at Hope End in Herefordshire. At the age of ten, Barrett Browning had already started writing her own poetry and her father called her the poet laureate of Hope End.

During her teenage years, this young poet read Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman and became a passionate supporter of Wollstonecraft’s views. Knowing that she had no chance of the type of education that was bestowed upon her brothers, she still persisted. She also opposed slavery and published two poems on the subject, although, much of her wealth came from slave labour and her father believed that the abolition of slavery would ruin his business. But it was in Wimpole Street in London that she wrote her best poetry and in 1844, her volume of poetry made one of the most popular writers in England.

The dedication in Wimpole Street London.

 

Robert Browning was an admirer of her work and wrote to her of it.  Thus began their relationship. After a secret courtship and a private marriage, they honeymooned in Paris where they probably spent hours reading poetry to each other.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning passed on in 1861. Her Sonnet XLIII or How do I Love Thee, is possibly one of the most romantic poems to date and the envy of greeting card poets everywhere. It came to light Once upon a time in an age where education was somewhat elusive to women and romantic poetry was a man’s forte. But this work will outshine others in its genre in many ways, you can count them if you like.