Jacob Abraham (1772?-1845)

Jacob Abraham, New Terrestrial Globe. 1813. © Daniel Crouch Rare Books

Jacob Abraham, New Terrestrial Globe. 1813. © Daniel Crouch Rare Books

A little quiet on the blog of late, but not for want of activity.  I’ve been working hard both on the online supplement to British Map Engravers and the planned supplementary volume on American Map Engravers.  I spotted this delightful little pocket globe the other day, posted (probably on Instagram) by Daniel Crouch Rare Books.  It’s by a maker (or more likely retailer) I’d not come across before — Jacob Abraham of Bath.   Not very much seemed to be known about him, so I got to work and he has now become the very latest addition to the online Supplement – posted there this morning and repeated here below to give you the flavour.  There now over 200 entries like it on the website, and several more will be added this month, so do make use of it.

ABRAHAM, Jacob (1772?-1845) — Exeter, Bath & Cheltenham

Optician, instrument-maker, globemaker, etc.  Produced New terrestrial globe 1813, apparently with Abraham’s label covering an earlier one by Nicholas Lane; Newton’s new and improved terrestrial pocket globe 1817 — with Abraham’s imprint pasted on beneath the title.  Also produced spectacles, telescopes, microscopes, barometers, orreries, etc.

01A87X1M; Trade card of J Abraham, optician and mathematical instrument maker, 1837.

Trade card of Jacob Abraham, optician and mathematical instrument maker, 1837. © Science Museum Group

Born in or about 1772, perhaps in London, where his mother died at the age of eighty in 1823.  He began in business in or about 1795, probably in Exeter: he is first recorded there, but by 1802 was migrating to Bath to coincide with the fashionable season each year.  In 1802 he was advertising “all sorts of spectacles, mounted in silver, tortoiseshell, or steel; prospect, reading, opera, and Claude-Lorraine glasses; linen-provers, telescopes, and microscopes; goglers to preserve the eyes from the dust or wind, chiefly used for riding; hergrometers [hygrometers] and thermometers; watch compasses, camera obscuras, preservers for young ladies’ and gentlemen’s eyes, particularly those who never used glasses before; concave and convex glasses for short-sighted persons”, etc., (Bath Chronicle, 25 Feb 1802).  By 1808 he was now sharing his time between Bath and Cheltenham.  In 1812, Abraham was one of the leading figures in the establishment of a Jewish cemetery in Bath.

Cheltenham Chronicle, 31st May 1838. © British Library Board.

Cheltenham Chronicle, 31st May 1838. © British Library Board.

The Bath Chronicle of 27 May 1813 related a curious story of the Exeter merchant Lazarus Cohen, Abraham’s brother-in-law, who had been captured by the French on a voyage to Guernsey two years earlier and imprisoned in France, but had now escaped and made his way safely home via Prague.  Abraham announced himself as Optician to the Duke of Gloucester, and to the Duke of Wellington, from at least 1818, and in 1828 the local press recorded a visit to Abraham by the former, with the purchase of several articles, and repeated visits by the latter, with “some very large purchases”, a few weeks later (Cheltenham Journal, 21 Jul 1828 & 1 Sep 1828).  A large portion of the stock was dispersed at auction in 1843, but his son Maurice Abraham (1808?-1872), who later emigrated to Australia, had taken over the business in Queen’s Circus, Cheltenham, by June 1845, probably with the assistance of his sister Sophia (1811?-1884).  The eldest son, Abraham Abraham (1799?-1863), had long been independently established and was a very well-known instrument-maker in Lord Street, Liverpool.  Jacob Abraham died at Cheltenham 20 Sep 1845 at the age of seventy-three.  A lengthy will, noting numerous property interests, survives in NA (PROB 11/2026/136), probate being granted 13 Nov 1845.  There is a trade-card in the Science Museum.  His widow, Hannah Cohen (1764?-1846), died at Cheltenham the following year, reportedly at the age of eighty-two.

Abraham’s various addresses in Exeter, Bath and Cheltenham, etc. are given in full on the Supplement.

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Leonard Potts

oldestprofession

“Ben Sarto” [Frank Dubrez Fawcett]: The Oldest Profession. London: Modern Fiction, 1952.

Back in time to that more innocent world of the early 1950s and another neglected artist of British pulp fiction.  Someone about whom the reference books and online resources are seemingly entirely silent.  Highly recognisable in style — his work seen on the books of such luminaries of the genre as “Griff”, “Ben Sarto”, “Ace Capelli”, and “Jean-Paul Valois” (brand-names as much as pseudonyms).  lp monogramHis technique deliberately flat and strong, the women quizzical, a little doll-like, perhaps a dash of Betty Boop, with heart-shaped faces and a certain elongation and angularity of style, the men achingly square-jawed, clean-cut and tight-lipped.  Much of his work anonymous – and, if signed at all, merely with a tiny lower-case “lp” monogram tucked away in a corner and easily missed.  The work of Leonard Potts (1902-1978) — I believe known as Len to his intimates.

crooked coffins

“Griff”: Crooked Coffins. London: Modern Fiction, 1952.

Quite what Potts was doing in the years immediately either side of what was evidently a relatively brief incursion into the world of pulp fiction covers, I am not at all sure, although his early career in the 1920s and 1930s seems straightforward enough.

He was born in in Bradford, Yorkshire, on the 27th May 1902, the younger son of Charles Alexander Potts (1863-1934) and his wife Elizabeth Ann Calow (1866-1951), both Mancunians in origin, who had married at Hulme in 1890.  He was baptised at St. Philip, Girlington, on 29th June 1902, the family then living at No. 188 St. Leonard’s Road — a road of long incline down from Girlington towards the centre of Bradford and hence perhaps his name.  His father was a dyer in the cotton trade and later a trade union representative of some sort.  The family were back in Manchester, living in Moss Side at No. 19 Normanby Street, by 1911 and I assume it was there that Potts was schooled and grew up.

RealThing Almost Tatler 30 Jan 1929

The Real Thing — Almost. From The Tatler, 30th January 1929. © Illustrated London News Group. Image created courtesy of the British Library Board.

Where he trained as an artist, I know not.  The release of the 1921 census returns next year may well elucidate this, but my guess for the moment would be at a London art school, for London was where he made his career — although his connection with the painter George Holland (see below) might perhaps mean that they were contemporaries at Leicester College of Art.  By the early 1920s Potts was much employed as an illustrator on the popular magazines of the day, his work frequently encountered in The Detective Magazine between 1923 and 1925.  Work of the same period and a little later includes advertisements as well as illustration credits in The 1929 signaturePillar-Box; The Red Magazine; The Yellow Magazine; Chums; The Scout; The Boy’s Own Paper, and in particular Cassell’s Magazine.  Between 1928 and 1930, he was responsible for a whole sequence of full-page (and some double-page) coloured illustrations for The Tatler — his work at this stage already moving towards his later distinctive style, but rather more elaborate and still signed with his full name in a style almost florid.

Decoy Tatler 29 May 1929

The Decoy. From The Tatler, 29th May 1929. © Illustrated London News Group. Image created courtesy of the British Library Board.

In the years either side of 1930, he was living at No. 40 Bramerton Street in Chelsea, a road running south off the King’s Road.  By 1934 he had moved to No. 44 Redcliffe Road in West Brompton — the area where it merges with Chelsea and South Kensington.  He married Doris Blakey (1902-1977), herself I believe from Lancaster, at Kensington in 1938 and lived with her at Redcliffe Road.  The rather better-known and much more easily looked-up portrait and landscape painter George Herbert Buckingham Holland (1901-1987) and his wife Beryl Claridge (1906-1991) were also at this  address – the large studio windows, although probably not now in their original form, must have particularly appealed to these two contemporary if rather different artists, both from the provinces, both not long married, and possibly friends since college days.

44 Redcliffe Road

No. 44 Redcliffe Road

Leonard Potts may well have been the man of that name who saw war service in the Royal Artillery between 1940 and 1944, but I have been unable to verify this.  Post-war, he moved back to No. 40 Bramerton Street for a couple of years before settling at No. 1 Carlyle Studios, on the King’s Road.  This must have been where most of his work for the leading pulp-fiction publishers of the early 1950s was executed.

“Griff”: Shoot to Live. London: Modern Fiction, 1953.

“Griff”: Shoot to Live. London: Modern Fiction, 1953.

Most of that particular group of publishers — Ralph Stokes, Edwin Self, Modern Fiction, Comyns — disappeared in the wake of the obscenity trials of the mid-1950s, and quite what Potts made of the rest of his career remains a mystery.  If anyone knows, do please get in touch.  He and Doris remained at Carlyle Studios until 1960, before moving again to No. 7 Chelsea Manor Studios in Flood Street, just round the corner from Chelsea Town Hall.  The Chelsea Manor Studios were built in 1902 and are now billed as luxury apartments, but they still hosted an enclave of artists of various kinds in the early 1960s.

“Jean-Paul Valois” [Lisle Willis]: Confessions of Corinne. London: Edwin Self, ca. 1953.

“Jean-Paul Valois” [Lisle Willis]: Confessions of Corinne. London: Edwin Self, ca. 1953.

The Potts were still living there in 1966 when the young and hirsute photographer Michael Cooper (1941-1973) opened his photographic studio at No. 4 — a studio now famous for the legendary photo-shoots with both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.  Quite what the now elderly artist made of this rather different aspect of popular culture is difficult to imagine, although I imagine he could have produced pretty memorable album covers for Sergeant Pepper and Their Satanic Majesties himself, if only had he been asked.

No. 53 Mossbury Road

No. 53 Mossbury Road

The death of Doris Potts was registered in Chelsea in the early part of 1977, so I assume they were still living there at that time, but Potts himself died in Battersea the following year — on the 4th May 1978.  He was then living at No. 53 Mossbury Road, just off Lavender Hill, near Clapham Junction.  Just across the road from my bank as it happens, so easy enough to take this snap of it.  Probate on his modest estate of just over £3,000 was granted on the 1st June and there his story, to the somewhat limited extent to which I have been able to trace it, comes to an end.

“Hank Spencer”: Bad-Luck Cutie. Modern Fiction, 1953.

“Hank Spencer”: Bad-Luck Cutie. Modern Fiction, 1953.

If anyone remembers him at all, knows anything more, or has anything cogent to

“Ben Sarto” [Frank Dubrez Fawcett]: City of Sin. London: Modern Fiction, 1952.

“Ben Sarto” [Frank Dubrez Fawcett]: City of Sin. London: Modern Fiction, 1952.

add, then the floor is yours via the “Comment” option beneath the sharing buttons below.  I’d love to know a little more.

For more work by Leonard Potts, see the Pinterest board at Leonard Potts on Pinterest.

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Bound For Her Birthday

Thistle Fore-edge

44687BI’ve written about the bookseller Robert Bowes (1835-1919) before (you can read it all here on the blog for 26 December 2012).  An extraordinary life – born in rural poverty in Ayrshire, educated in the Cambridge bookshop of his uncles – the Alexander and Daniel Macmillan of publishing fame,  partnership in “Macmillan & Bowes”, an ascent to a matchless reputation as a scholar-bookseller, President of the ABA in 1914, and in the end an honorary degree from Cambridge University.

Bowes Headstones

© Mill Road Cemetery

All well and good, but little there to touch on his private life, although I did note that on 15th April 1868 he married Fanny Brimley (1831-1903), daughter of Augustine Brimley, a Cambridge provision merchant, alderman, and sometime mayor of Cambridge, and half-sister to George Brimley (1819-1857), appointed librarian to Trinity College in 1845. And that they had three children, including George Edmund Brimley Bowes (1874-1946) – himself to become ABA President in 1923. And I can add now that both Robert and Fanny Bowes are buried at Mill Road Cemetery, where their matching headstones still stand — here they are in photographs borrowed (for the second post in a row) from the excellent Mill Road Cemetery website.

Robert Bowes' bookplateBut knowing my weakness both for a nice binding and a book with a bloggable narrative, I was offered these two books last week by my friend and colleague Cooper Hay up in Glasgow (Cooper Hay Rare Books).  Picking up on a theme from my last post – books with a story attached, books belonging to a definable moment, books firmly located in time and place.

The books in themselves are of no great consequence, although pleasant and useful enough – standard editions of the poetical works of Milton and Scott, published in Macmillan’s “Globe Edition” format in 1877 and 1878 respectively. But not in the bindings one might ordinarily expect – for these were bound specially for Robert Bowes and for a special purpose – to give to his wife on her birthday in June 1883 (her fifty-second, as it happens). Presumably two of her favourite authors.

Inscription to Fanny BowesThe Milton volume has his inscription to her with his initials – recording her birthday date of the 5th of June (today as I post this piece – Happy Birthday, Fanny).  A later inscription below, “In Memory of F. B. 28 February 1903” – the date of Fanny Bowes’ death – records the passing on of the books, by, or more probably to, “E. M.” – possibly Emma Maclehose – a niece of hers and a grand-daughter of Alexander Macmillan. It has also had bound in (bound in, rather than pasted in) Robert Bowes rather handsome “Quod Vis Potes” (What you wish, You can do) bookplate.

Binding detailThe bindings themselves only reveal their quality slowly. The spines fairly conventional, but the boards showing more truly the delicious colour of the morocco and the razor-sharp quality of the finishing. And then we look inside – hand-painted paste-downs – tulips for Milton, thistles for Scott. And then the slow reveal of the fore-edge paintings – the tulip and thistle designs continued on under the gilt and only exposed by fanning the leaves. Secret, subtle, and superb.

Edges and EndsInfuriating not to know who executed these bindings, but there are no clues at all (as probably there shouldn’t be on a birthday-present).  Cooper is of the view that the bindings were probably done in-house by binders working for Macmillan.  I’m not at all sure of that – the more I look at them, the more I see top quality workmanship.  If bound in Cambridge, then John Bird Hawes of my last post would be a possibility – but there were other bookbinders in Cambridge and there would be no reason at all why Bowes, who had formerly worked in London, could not have commissioned them from a top London bindery.

Thistle pastedownsI suspect in fact that they are the work of a younger man than Hawes – the designs are so up to the minute – that period of evolution in fashion and taste slowly building towards the full flowering of art nouveau of the 1890s. But whoever made them, wherever they were fashioned, I had to agree with Cooper as we negotiated a price – neither of us had ever seen anything quite like them before.

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A Cambridge Binding — John Bird Hawes (1820-1885)

hawesedge

44462Even after all these years, I’m still astonished at how little valued and appreciated many old books are.  Here’s a case in point — a book I bought inexpensively on my travels last summer.  Just how inexpensively, you can gauge from the fact that it was listed on my last catalogue at a modest £40.  And just how little appreciated, you can gauge from the additional fact that no-one has bought it or even shown a flicker of interest (the same is, alas, true of most of the other books on the catalogue).

Well, we like a book with some context, we always say.  A book with a back-story.  A book with its own narrative — and this has plenty.  It’s a life of George Moore (1806-1876) by the indefatigable Samuel Smiles (1812-1904), author of that ultimate Victorian book, Self-Help (1859).  Moore was a typical Smiles hero, an entirely self-made man who made a fortune in the lace trade by sheer doggedness, energy and perseverance, and then became a magnificent philanthropist in the best of ways — quietly, behind the scenes, and for the most part anonymously.

hawesdetailI know and understand that the Smiles view of the universe has been out of fashion for over 100 years (although no real idea why).  I get that.  You may not care for the content — but look at the binding.  At first glance, a run-of-the-mill Victorian calf, but on closer inspection it’s much better than that.  It’s lost a little of its original lustre, it’s true, but a closer study reveals some first-rate work in the detail.  Good quality leather.  Pretty headbands.  And then there are the gorgeous marbled endpapers — a design known as “antique spot”, if I’m not mistaken — and all with matching edges.

hawesstampAnd — importantly — we know exactly who bound it, and when, and for whom — J. B. Hawes of Cambridge says the stamp.  A morning’s work was needed fully to identify him, but this is John Bird Hawes (1820-1885).  He was born in Birmingham on 17th July 1820, the son of John Hawes, a carpenter, and his wife Rosetta Bird (1796-1870), who had married in London the previous year.  Their sojourn in Birmingham must have been relatively brief, as they were back in London and living in Smith Street, St. Pancras, by 1823, when they baptised both John and his younger sister, Rosetta, at St. George Bloomsbury on 28th September of that year.

hawesendsWhere John Bird Hawes trained is not known, but he was presumably related to the slightly older Benjamin Hawes (1810-1895), active as a bookbinder in Cambridge from the 1830s.  The younger Hawes was himself in Cambridge from at least 1851.  He married Mary Maria Brown (1827-1898) there at St. Andrew’s on 24th March 1853 and the couple lived at various houses in Earl Street for the next thirty years.  From at least 1862 until the time of his death the bookbinding was carried out from retail premises at 30 Green Street.  By 1871, Hawes was employing six men, four girls and two boys.  He died towards the end of 1885 and was buried at Mill Road Cemetery, where the headstone still stands — here it is in a photograph borrowed from the Mill Road Cemetery website.  Probate on a reasonable estate of over £1,500 was granted to his widow on the following 8th January.  A brief notice in the magazine Book Lore appears to be his only obituary — “Mr. John Bird Hawes, the celebrated Cambridge binder, died 17th December, 1885, after a long illness.  His death will be regretted by many book-lovers, and especially by those who hail from Cambridge”.

© Mill Road Cemetery

© Mill Road Cemetery

Just as a postscript to that, the business in Green Street was taken over by George Frederick Stoakley (1835-1911), previously employed as a forwarder — presumably by Hawes.  And under Stoakley and his various sons, it survived for a great many years — a story for another time.

The narrative of this particular book doesn’t quite end with having identified the work of this highly skilled Cambridge binder.  The book is also inscribed.  Inscribed to a twelve-year-old boy called Desmond Beale-Browne — a boy who went on to become Brigadier-General Desmond John Edward Beale-Browne D.S.O., J.P., D.L. (1870-1953), Old Etonian and Cambridge man, much-medalled veteran of both the Boer War and the Great War, Deputy-Lieutenant of Sussex, etc.  mortoninscriptionInscribed to him as a prize for drawing by the headmaster of his prep school, another Old Etonian and Cambridge man in Arthur Henry Aylmer Morton (1835-1913), Fellow of King’s, clergyman, politician — and from 1872 to 1886 headmaster of Castleden Hall School at Farnborough.  Morton must have known Hawes since his Cambridge days and used to him to bind the school prize books. Not worth £40? – I beg to differ.

PS. The book is now sold — although I’m not sure I’ve ever had to work quite so hard to sell a £40 book before.

 

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Holdfast

holdfast1

Here’s a curiosity – a hand-made and hand-painted dust-jacket individually made for a copy of A. G. Street’s “Holdfast”, published by Faber & Faber in 1946 – not to replace the original dust-jacket (a typical Faber design by Berthold Wolpe) but to go over it, leaving it wonderfully well-preserved beneath.

I bought it almost a year ago, privately convinced that somewhere in the far recesses of memory I somehow recognised the style and knew exactly who the artist was. Perhaps I do, but the name persistently and stubbornly refuses to come to mind, so I’ll throw it open to suggestions from elsewhere. Any ideas?

holdfast2The novel is the story of a young woman finding herself when, newly married, she is left to run a wartime farm (600 acres somewhere in the West Country) while her husband is on active service overseas. Against the odds and almost despite herself at times, she succeeds – innovating with new technology, adopting new strategies, switching to arable rather than dairy (the green and gold of the Wolpe jacket echoes the contrast between pasture and cornfield), battling with bureaucrats, and circumventing the challenges both of land-girls and handsome officers in uniform. She becomes acknowledged as the best farmer in the neighbourhood before having to negotiate a formidable final hurdle – the return of her husband to a farm no longer recognisable as his own.

“Holdfast” is a new variety of wheat, but serves as a motif for holding true to principle, to perennial values, for endurance, gumption and grit. The author, Arthur George Street (1892-1966), was a farmer himself of course and someone who knew about holding fast. He’d left school at sixteen – “my father made me do every job on the farm at some time or another in order that I might, from personal knowledge, be able to estimate whether a man was working well or ill at any particular job. I was much older before I realised how much I did learn in those first years after leaving school”. He turned to writing to eke out his earnings when farming prices collapsed in the interwar depression.

By 1946 he had become well-known as both an author and a popular wartime broadcaster. Urban reviewers were a little overwhelmed by the both the minutiae and the daily grind of farming, but the Exeter & Plymouth Gazette (3rd January 1947) knew the worth of this West Country author – “a novelist of the first rank … In the six years between his last novel and ‘Holdfast’. Mr. Street has encountered many new experiences … The cream of it is here set forth in great good humour and, if one may say it for want of a better word, tenderness. This is a book to read and re-read at leisure.”

He was in truth a remarkably good writer – the Faber imprint is probably sufficient indication of that – flavouring his prose with the occasional deliberate lapse into the Wiltshire dialect of his youth. This is a rock-solid, thoroughly professional, beautifully constructed novel – a novel of delicately defined contrasts – between the green and the gold, between old ways and new, between men and women, between youth and age, between workers and employers, between producers and consumers, between the useful members of society and the jacks-in-office of bureaucracy. It’s full of the old-fashioned virtues and now – of course – wholly forgotten because it is so old-fashioned.

But it once meant enough to someone to spend time, trouble, and no little skill in fashioning a personal and artistic tribute in the form of this hand-made jacket. As an image, it seems to reflect the rustic spirit and themes of the novel rather than relate to any particular incident – although the elderly couple in the centre must be the Ferrises, young Phoebe Carpenter’s mentors both in farming and life, and the flighty land-girls outside the pub are recognisable enough.

Does anyone have any ideas as to who the artist may be? Or does anyone have any similar examples of hand-painted dust-jackets?

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William Bellinger Northrop (1871-1929)

Octopium Landlordicuss

© Cornell University – PJ Mode Collection of Persuasive Cartography and reproduced under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 (CC BY-NC-SA 3.0) Unported License.

I was actually looking for an image of an old air-raid shelter in Myddlelton Passage in Clerkenwell (my great-grandmother Martha Worms died in there during an air-raid in 1940), when I came across this extraordinary map on the always engaging A London Inheritance blog – Octopium Landlordicuss (Landlord-I-Cuss), published in or about 1909. Whatever your politics, it’s a masterpiece of visual rhetoric and a damning indictment of inherited land, privilege and English leasehold law.

curious map bookI thought at first that I hadn’t come across it before, but that can’t be true: it features in The Curious Map Book by my colleague and co-author Ashley Baynton-Williams, published by the British Library in 2015, which I read very conscientiously in proof. Memory like a sieve these days.

Beyond Ashley’s lucid and cogent account, there is also a readily accessible analysis of the map on Cornell University Library’s Digital Collections website, so no need for me to reiterate any of that here, except perhaps to repeat Ashley’s use of a contemporary excerpt from a Lloyd George speech:

There is no question more vital … than the question … of the land! … It enters into everything – the food the people eat, the water they drink, the houses they dwell in, the industries upon which their livelihood depends.  And to whom does the land belong in Britain?  To a handful of rich people!  One-third of all the land belongs to members of the House of Lords.  Landlordism is the greatest of all monopolies in this land.  The power of the landlords is boundless.  They may evict their tenants, and devastate the land worse than an enemy would.  Now, I am not attacking the landlords either individually or as a class, but can such a state of affairs be allowed to continue?

The map obviously belongs to the compelling “octopus” category of propaganda map – a nice selection here from Allison Meier at Hyperallergic – although, unusually, this one deals with the enemy within rather than external threat from an enemy without. But lots has already been written about these octopus maps in recent years and indeed they’ve cropped up here on the blog before in a piece about Fred W. Rose back in 1915.

Bomb Shop LogoWhat I thought had been overlooked about the present map was that it was published by Francis Riddell Henderson (1860-1931) of the infamous “Bomb Shop” at 66 Charing Cross Road, but my plans of telling you a little about him soon disappeared when I found that there is already a far better account of him and the shop by Christopher Draper on the English Radical History blog.

All that’s really left for me to say is that the one central figure in all of this who hasn’t really been done justice is the enigmatic man who actually made the map – William Bellinger Northrop (1871-1929). He was actually an American, born in San Francisco on 6th March 1871, so belongs to that special tradition of visitors to London who can perhaps see things with a less comfortable and more revealing eye than those born and bred here. For all his views on aristocrats, he was virtually American aristocracy himself – his mother Emily Constance Northrop (1845-1937), born in Charleston, South Carolina, was a direct descendant of Joseph Northrup who arrived from England in 1637 and was one of the original settlers of Connecticut. Her brother was a bishop, her father, Claudian Bird Northrop (1812-1865), a well-known lawyer in Charleston before his brutal murder in one of the more barbaric passages of the American Civil War, and her uncle Lucius Bellinger Northrop (1811-1894), the Commissary-General of the Confederate forces, appointed by Jefferson Davis himself.

W. B. Northrop was born William Bellinger Ryan, but after his mother formally separated from his lawyer father, Thomas Patrick Ryan (1841?-1909), she was given dispensation by the court for her and her children to revert to her maiden name. After a spell as a young man selling typewriters and cyclostyle duplicating apparatus in Charleston in 1890, Northrop became a journalist, photographer and press-agent. He married Cecile Pinckney (1869-1960), a doctor’s daughter from Atlanta, in 1897 and then made his first visit to London, where their first child, William Ryan Northrop (1898-1905), was born in September 1898.

baking cureNorthrop was soon appearing regularly in the English magazines – a fascinating article on how the British Museum dealt with its already unwieldy newspaper collection, “with some capital photographs”, in the Temple Magazine for March 1899; a London from Aloft feature in the Leisure Hour in November of that year, with photographs from the top of the Monument, followed by pictures from the  top of St. Paul’s a few months later. An article which attracted a lot of attention was one on the “baking cure” for certain diseases in the Strand Magazine in 1900.

His biggest coup of these years was without doubt a dramatic intervention in the Dreyfus Case which had rocked Europe – his interview with Esterhazy, published in Black & White in 1899, put beyond doubt Dreyfus’s innocence and Northrop’s photographs of the infamous bordereau are now in the National Archives.

After a brief return to the United States in 1900, the Northrops regularly criss-crossed the Atlantic for the next few years, although their other three children were all born in London. From his pen and camera there were articles on Freaks of American Scenery, A Day with Mark Twain, one on Wall Street for The Sketch in October 1902, one on Edison and his phonographs in Leisure Hour in April 1903, another on Auguste Rodin for World’s Work in May 1905, and much else.

His book With Pen and Camera: Interviews with Celebrities came out in 1904. “The book does credit to Mr. Northrop’s enterprise”, declared The Sphere (21st January 1905), “He has interviewed in succession Lord Avebury, Mr. Edison, Mark Twain, Miss Marie Corelli, Sir Hiram Maxim, Mr. John Burns, Mr. John Redmond, Mr. Anthony Hope, Mrs. Humphry Ward … this book may be said to be the apotheosis of the cult of the interview: men of letters, men of science, eminent statesmen, distinguished ambassadors, all falling over one another pell-mell to tell the public their favourite dish for dinner and, indeed, all their special idiosyncrasies. Well, it is all very harmless and pretty if not idyllic, and the abundant illustrations are exceptionally interesting”.

Justice – Saturday 7th December 1907. © British Library Board.

Justice – Saturday 7th December 1907. © British Library Board.

All very worthy, but no sign at all as yet of Northrop the radical polemicist. His sudden and explosive excursion into politics was perhaps triggered by an article on A Court for Child Offenders he wrote for Sunday at Home in March 1907. Later that year he launched his magazine, The Deadly Parallel, published by Henderson. It struck a vein. A public lecture, illustrated with lantern slides, was given at Lambeth later in the year, followed by a cinematograph display at the Latchmere Road Baths in Battersea in November – “We had an immense crowd at the Latchmere Baths last Sunday evening. Quite 2,000 men, women and children came, whole families together, to hear W. B. Northrop and see his telling pictures of contrasted luxury and misery” (Justice, 30th November 1907).

Justice – Saturday 4th January 1908. © British Library Board.

Justice – Saturday 4th January 1908. © British Library Board.

Lantern slides and cinema film were combined together for an even bigger evening at Bow in January 1908 – the celebrated George Lansbury himself in the chair. Bow Baths Hall was packed to the rafters for Northrop’s lecture on “how the rich live by grinding the faces of the poor”. Lansbury topped off the evening with a rousing speech of his own.

Northrop’s book Wealth and Want: A Study in Living Contrasts and Social Problems was published by Frances Griffiths in 1909 – “a veritable gold mine of facts for the social reformer. Mr. Northrop has woven together with much skill hundreds of telling facts and statistics illustrating the conditions under which the mass of the people exist; and to make them still more vivid and convincing, he has put side by side with these horrors the other horrors, those which illustrate the wasteful and useless lives of the rich” (The Clarion, 5th March 1909).

Votes for Women – Friday 31st March 1911. © British Library Board.

Votes for Women – Friday 31st March 1911. © British Library Board.

But there, bar a book of poetry – Contrasts: Poems of Poverty – published by Frank Palmer in 1911, Northrop’s rapid rise to the front rank of British radical activists came to an unexplained and sudden end. He returned to New York in 1912, resumed general writing for magazines, and by the time of his death at 253 Henry Street, Brooklyn, on the 8th May 1929, he had become a “special agent of the arson bureau”.

Although we know what Northrop looked like from his various passport applications – five feet, nine inches; high forehead; blue eyes; dark brown hair; straight nose; oval face; medium mouth and complexion; round chin; split thumb-nail on his left hand, etc. – we really can’t account for his sudden excursion into radical politics, or even less for his sudden withdrawal.

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People Like Me

Just back from a summer book-hunting safari, mainly around what we might loosely call the English Mid-West, with a few stops closer to home on the return leg. Some thirty bookshops or other outlets on the itinerary, if we include a number of book-stalls in antiques centres and a couple of charity shops.

Most of these can be swiftly glossed over – that would be very much the kindest thing. Bookshops where they appear to think that wrapping a couple of courtesy purchases in pretty paper and handing over a tasteless bookmark might make the dismal experience of being there a better one. Bookshops where they not only offer no courtesy trade discount but grotesquely overcharge you for postage. Bookshops where you can feel and almost taste the foxing spores hanging tangibly in the air. Bookshops where you pause more than once to think – this must be the worst copy of this book I’ve ever seen, the worst copy in existence. Charity bookshops where they mire the dust-jackets with their adhesive stickers.

Bookshops which aren’t open at their advertised times are too familiar a complaint to dwell on. I ran a small shop for long enough to know that just once in a while this really can’t be helped, but with some shops it appears to be both deliberate and habitual. Book-rooms and book-stalls in antiques centres, almost invariably unattended, remain an enduring mystery. Perhaps I was unusually unlucky, but I visited perhaps ten of these and came away with nothing more than a paperback for a pound to read on the train. I’m sure there must be exceptions, but they seem all too often to operate simply as dumping grounds for unsold, unchanging and probably unsaleable stock, which is odd because the antiques in the adjacent areas are very often of quite a high standard.

So far, the trip had been a depressing one – making me wonder in my bleaker moments why so many people who don’t actually appear to like books or have any great regard for them ever choose to become booksellers.

etbooksBut the sun came out and the tide turned, as it always does. A warm and courteous welcome from John Richards of Etbooks & Bookbinding in Leamington Spa – he even delayed setting off on his holiday for twenty minutes or so while we had a chat. A smallish selection of books, it is true (he’s primarily a bookbinder), but I found a few things I was very pleased to acquire. He’ll send them on when he gets back from holiday.

Banbury next stop – and the Books & Ink Bookshop in White Lion Walk. A very nicely laid out and tidy bookshop – I always so much admirebooksandinktidiness in others because I’m so very bad at it myself – new books as well as old, over 20,000 of them in all. A visit made just in time as they are preparing a move to a new shop at Winchcombe in the Cotswolds in a couple of weeks (mid-September 2019). In half an hour I had bought more books (a couple of boxes – the first just arrived and very nicely packed) and spent more money than in the whole of the twenty-five or more outlets visited so far. Things were looking up and I wish them every success in their new home.

And better still the following morning – an early start in Brackley and the Old Hall Bookshop. Years since I’d been there – I suspect ten or twelve, so it could well be twice that (in fact it’s eighteen, I’ve just checked). Lots of good old hall bookshopbooks – new, old, second-hand, rare, collectable – all sorts. I had soon accumulated a healthy pile, the meagre spending of the previous few days now comfortably dwarfed, and paused for a word with owner John Townsend. “We don’t often see people like you”, he said. “People like me?” – I puzzled, what on earth could he mean? People who still write cheques? People who arrive by bus? People who wear a suit when they are working? People who still buy Somerville & Ross? How odd and unusual have I become over the years? (There really is no need at all for anyone even to contemplate answering that). But what he meant was simply that the London trade no longer visits shops around the country in the way it did in years gone by. And this is true. We can blame the internet, but I think the process started long before with the proliferation of book-fairs from the 1970s onwards. It’s a mistake – there are some very good books and very good bookshops out there still, even if you have to struggle past some of the bad ones. And nothing beats holding and handling a book before you buy it.

 

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The Chaucer Bookshop

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Quite a while since I was last in Canterbury, but what a pleasant spot it remains.  Beautiful old houses akimbo.  And right at the heart of it, just a short walk from the Cathedral, a pleasant bookshop – the Chaucer Bookshop – on evocatively named Beer Cart Lane.

chaucerbookshopDigital evidence provided by my computer seems to record that the last time I bought a book from here (barring some online purchases) was back in February 1995 – far too long, I know – and no real excuse.  But back there again yesterday to a warm and cordial welcome.  Current intern (Lizzie Critchley) in tow.  Lizzie is writing an essay on how the trade has adapted to the online world and all the perils and pleasures of the internet – and in particular on what we might call the second phase: not just the basic search engines developed back in the last century, but the twenty-first century world of social media.

We shall be contacting many of you over the coming weeks – but please don’t wait to be asked.  How are you all getting on with Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, and wherever else you may be?  Not just booksellers but book-buyers too – what do you have to say?  How is it for you?  Who is still blogging? – and to what effect?  And how many of you are using eBay, Etsy or other non-book-specific online platforms to sell or to buy?  Tell us more.  Do let us have your thoughts – how it’s going, where it’s going?

While Lizzie was quizzing away (she’ll probably be going back soon to give the shop’s online profile a boost), I stuck to what I love best.  Book-hunting pure and simple.  Buying online is all very well, but nothing to beat the raw experience of viewing the physical books, handling them and letting them speak to you in person.

chaucer4The Chaucer Bookshop was established in 1956 and the amiable Sir Robert Sherston-Baker, Bt. took it on twenty years later.  He’s still there and the shop is now somewhat larger than I remember it – it’s expanded into the building next door in the intervening years.  And it’s everything you might wish for in a local bookshop – full of books from floor to ceiling – books downstairs, books upstairs – books for reading, books for enjoying, books for collecting, books for giving – all subjects catered for – something for everyone and for every depth of pocket.

I soon had a bagful – fiction, poetry, topography, economic history and cricket – and departed weighted down with a ballast of purchases.  You will too if you go there – and you could not ask for a more pleasant day out.  And failing that, do look at their website.

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Illustrations by A. J. Macgregor / Verses by E. M. Coghlin

A guest post by Gillian Neale. Gillian has an MA in the History of the Book from the University of London and is spending time with Ash Rare Books to gain some inside experience of the rare book trade.

“Jeremy’s Day in the Country” (1941)

“Jeremy’s Day in the Country” (1941)

“Creating a bibliographic record suitable for a bookseller’s catalogue,” Laurence  remarked “usually takes no more than ten minutes”.  I remain some way off this target, not least because, like my eminent cataloguing tutor himself, I suspect, I can happily spend many multiples of ten minutes in pursuit of the back-story behind little-known titles, authors or illustrators — those nuggets of information that enrich any book’s history and (once in a while) have the potential to enhance its saleability.  Nonetheless, as Laurence reminds me, a bookseller has to strike an economic balance, and a book’s value necessarily determines how much background research can be justified before it is appropriately catalogued and shelved.  Sometimes, however, the suggestion of more to be discovered lingers on, as it did with the illustrator/author partnership behind “Jeremy’s Day in the Country” (1941), a very early Ladybird Book that refused to ‘fly away home’. A. J. Macgregor and E. M. Coghlin both proved sufficiently elusive that I continued my online research after office hours. Who were these women and what was their story?  It might be worth a post on the blog, suggested Laurence in an email.

The Wonderful Bunnies and Silversuit. © The British Library Board.

“The Wonderful Bunnies and Silversuit” (1927). © The British Library Board.

Ladybird Books and their founding firm, Wills & Hepworth, have well-documented places in the history of children’s books.  The books themselves have attained iconic, although not uncriticised, status, and in recent years have provided a seemingly endless stream of material for television and radio documentaries, exhibitions, websites, blogs and Twitter feeds, as well as the twenty-first century ‘spoof’ series for adults.  But attention has largely been directed on Ladybird’s explosive post-war growth and success, and the staff, writers and artists who contributed to that, rather than on its very earliest authors and illustrators.  These are Angusine Jeanne Macgregor (1879-1961) — responsible for the illustration of all the earliest titles — and Edith Mary Coghlin (1913-2012) — responsible for the verses in “Jeremy’s Day in the Country” and two (or possibly three) more of the first half dozen Ladybird Books ever to be published — the wartime titles in Ladybird’s first numbered series, 401, of rhyming animal stories.  Whilst the Ladybird imprint had been in existence since 1914, the company had chosen the 1940 launch of the standard format book as the date from which to officially recognise the birth of the Ladybird Book.

Pages from Miranda’s Diary - "The Graphic”, 26th December 1903. © The British Library Board.

Pages from Miranda’s Diary – “The Graphic”, 26th December 1903. © The British Library Board.

Angusine Jeanne Macgregor came, as her name suggests, from Scottish parentage.  Her father, Angus Macgregor, was a farmer’s son from Laggan in the Central Highlands of Scotland; her mother, Jeanne Chisholm, was born in the same hamlet.  Forsaking farming for the drapery trade, Angus Macgregor moved south and became a commercial traveller.  After stints in Worcester and at Herne Hill in South London, he settled his family in 1881 in Birmingham, where Angusine, the sixth of six daughters, was born in the suburb of Harborne in 1879, as was the seventh child and only son, Peter Chisholm Macgregor, who died in infancy.  The household was by then sufficiently well-off to accommodate both a live-in lady’s maid and domestic servant. In due course Angusine went on to study at Birmingham School of Art and subsequently to become an illustrator and writer of children’s books.  From July 1917 to July 1919 she served as housekeeper with the Scottish Women’s Hospital in Ajaccio, Corsica, then returned to the family home in Birmingham, from where she continued to work as an illustrator. She never married and died at the Parkfield Nursing Home in Birmingham on 26th February 1961.

“Mrs Bunny’s Refugee" from “The Wonderful Bunnies and Silversuit” (1927).

“Mrs Bunny’s Refugee” from “The Wonderful Bunnies and Silversuit” (1927). © The British Library Board.

Her earliest known published work is a full-page spread in “The Graphic” for 26th December 1903 titled “Pages from Miranda’s Diary” and from then until 1956 there were dozens of publications written by her or featuring her illustrations.   Closer examination shows a clear pattern of two main periods of output, 1903-1921 and 1940-1956.  Work from the latter period represents Angusine’s Ladybird output; the earlier works consist in the main of picture books for younger children with full-page, bright, bold illustrations accompanying simple texts, many in verse.  Early titles include “The Mysterious Disappearance of What and Why” (1905), “The Story of Snips” (1909), “The Bunny Book” (1909) — reviewed by “The Graphic” as “a sheer delight” — and “The Story of Flip and Fuzzy. A Picture-book for little folk”, with Jessie Pope, (1911).

What, Why, and Flip were young rabbits while Snips was a mouse and Fuzzy a toy golliwog, suggesting that from an early point in her career Angusine had developed a talent for creating engaging stories about anthropomorphised animals and toys, for which she would supply the illustrations and either the accompanying storyline or the full text.  Several of these stories proved extremely successful and were reprinted in later editions.

“The Losing of Baby-Brother". © The British Library Board.

“The Losing of Baby-Brother” (1921). © The British Library Board.

Among Macgregor’s non-anthropomorphic works are two “Bunty Books”, stories about a little girl who longs for “Someone to Play With” (1921), in this case a baby sibling who becomes the focus of a sequel — “The Losing of Baby- Brother” (1921).  Although slightly whimsical, these books are quite different in content and artistic style, rather more visually and textually satisfying — and not a walking, talking bunny in sight.  There appear to have been just the two Bunty books, which suggests the possibility that they were written in remembrance of her own short-lived baby brother, Peter.  Online searches also throw up Macgregor as a credited artist in a number of early twentieth-century children’s anthologies or annuals, including “The Children’s Friend” (1907), “Cassell’s Annual for Girls and Boys” (1909), Aunt Ruth’s “Frolic and Fun” (1909), “The Tiny Folks’ Annual” (1918), and “The Big ABC Book” (1921), where her work appeared alongside such well-known names as John Hassall, Charles Robinson, Millicent Sowerby and Louis Wain.  It is clear that Angusine’s pictures drove the storyline in the early books, whether she supplied the words or not, and this active engagement with shaping the text would continue for Wills & Hepworth, as acknowledged on the title page of her Ladybird Books (“written and illustrated by A. J. Macgregor”).  Looking at some of these early picture-verse books, it is easy to see how such child-friendly, sing-song tales of mischievous ducklings, mice, and other nursery-suitable animals and toys would evolve into the endearing and enduring series of eighteen Ladybird Books.  The reasons for the apparent hiatus in Angusine’s work are unclear, but her career revived with the invitation from Wills & Hepworth to work on their latest publishing venture, and this is where Edith Mary Coghlin comes in.

“How to Study” from “The Girl’s Own Paper” (1934).

“How to Study” from “The Girl’s Own Paper” (1934). © British Library Board

If there is little information about Angusine, Edith is positively cloaked in mystery. Daughter of James Edwin Coghlin (1874-1947), a customs officer, and his wife, Frances Alma Rowe (1881-1962), Edith was born on 11th January 1913 in Halifax, Yorkshire, and, like Angusine, was the second youngest of seven children.  Edith’s were a remarkably literate set of siblings.  Of her five brothers, three held degrees from Oxford; one edited “Cherwell” and had a novel published by Faber in 1932, one became a master at Ardingley College in Sussex, and another a journalist.  Furthermore, Edith’s sister, Mercy, was a teacher of English Language and Latin at Goole Grammar School. According to the emergency national register compiled in 1939, Edith, still living with her sister and parents, was an apparently out-of-work advertising copywriter.  Search for published works, and the only books that appear are the 1941 Ladybird titles for which she wrote the verses to accompany Macgregor’s illustrations: “Smoke and Fluff”, “Bob Bushtail’s Adventure” and “Jeremy’s Day in the Country”.  Other than this, all that can be identified are a story (“The Infectious Laugh”) broadcast on the radio in 1936 and an article called “How to Study” in “The Girl’s Own Paper” (1934, 55).  And although the Ladybird 401 series finally totalled eighteen titles, Edith was soon replaced by one Walter Perring.  It is difficult to conceive that Macgregor and Coghlin failed as a partnership, for there is little discernible difference between Coghlin’s verses and those of either Macgregor or Perring. Nonetheless, as each of the Coghlin titles was reprinted, her verses were revised by Perring, so that Coghlin’s work and name now exist only in the first editions of each book.

“The Bunny Book”

“The Bunny Book” (1909). © The British Library Board.

So what might Edith’s backstory be?  As a copywriter, it is conceivable that Coghlin had come to Wills & Hepworth’s attention via their commercial printing operations, although it is perhaps more likely that a connection at “The Girl’s Own Paper”, an RTS publication, initiated an introduction, for Wills & Hepworth had long been printers of books for religious publishers.

After her initial engagement on the Ladybird Books, given her well-connected brothers and copywriting skills, she may have volunteered or been selected for war work.  Equally, it might have been Wills & Hepworth’s decision not to produce any new Ladybird titles in 1942 or 1943, probably as a direct result of the additional paper rationing introduced in December 1941, that determined Edith to pursue other employment.  She was presumably the Edith Coghlin listed at 52 Portland Grove, Vauxhall, in South London, on the Electoral Register of 1949, but she was back in Yorkshire, living with her mother and sister by 1951.  Like Angusine, she never married, and continued living with her sister, Mercy Coghlin, until Mercy’s death, aged 101, in 2006.  The archival record is currently largely silent over the last fifty years of Edith Coghlin’s life until the report of her death in York on 9th January 2012 — two days short of her ninety-ninth birthday.

We would be pleased to add more, if anyone has further information.

 

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Percy Heath (1803?-1838)

Kinfauns Castle, Perthshire. 1829. Steel engraving by Percy Heath after John Preston Neale.

Kinfauns Castle, Perthshire. 1829. Steel engraving by Percy Heath after John Preston Neale.

I had been doing some unrelated work on the engravers James Heath (1757-1834) and his son Charles Heath (1785-1848) – both fine engravers, both well-known and comparatively well-documented – when I received and enquiry from a customer about a steel-engraving of a Yorkshire country-house published in 1829 and engraved by a different Heath – Percy Heath.

Without having received anything like the level of acclaim accorded to his namesakes, Percy Heath was himself a highly gifted engraver – his style distinctive and characterised by an ease and fluidity of line most uncommon in steel-engraved work.  His was a relaxed economy of effort, his plates never overworked, but with an attention to detail on the foreground figures quite unusual among the contemporary topographical engravers of the period.

I had always rather assumed that he must in some way have been related to his better-known contemporaries of the same name, but, although that may yet prove to be the case, I can find no evidence for it at all.  His origins remain undiscovered, but he was apprenticed – in his full name of John Percy Heath – to another well-known engraver and etcher in George Cooke (1781-1834) on the 7th November 1820.  Cooke is of course remembered for his “Views in London and its Vicinity” series (1826-1834), as well as for his collaborations with artists as distinguished John Sell Cotman, James Duffield Harding, Samuel Prout, David Roberts, Clarkson Stanfield, and – not least – his own son, Edward William Cooke, and the great J. M. W. Turner himself.

Denton Park, Yorkshire. 1829. Steel engraving by Percy Heath after John Preston Neale.

Denton Park, Yorkshire. 1829. Steel engraving by Percy Heath after John Preston Neale.

 

Cooke had a number of other pupils and apprentices who became highly distinguished in the own right, including his nephew William John Cooke (1797-1865), the artist and lithographer Thomas Shotter Boys (1803-1874), and the engraver John Saddler (1813-1892) – all of whom, like Cooke and the other Heaths, have their own entries in the “Oxford Dictionary of National Biography”.  It is recorded of the young Saddler that he once took along a proof, largely his own work, for Turner to inspect.  Turner quizzed him as to who had engraved it.  Saddler credited the work to his master.  Turner was not persuaded and sent the boy back with a message for Mr Cooke – “Tell your master he is bringing you along very nicely – especially in lying”.

His apprenticeship finished in late 1827, Percy Heath soon found regular work with the publishers of the books and series of topographical views so popular at the time. Work is known for “Devonshire Illustrated” (1828-1832); “Views of the Seats, Mansions, Castles, etc. of Noblemen and Gentlemen” (1829-1831); “Ireland Illustrated” (1829-1832); “Views in the East” (1833); “Syria, the Holy Land, Asia Minor, &c. Illustrated in a Series of Views” (1836-1838), etc.

ruling machineHe was working too on developing his art: his invention of a new method of re-biting steel plates, useful in restoring or repairing worn plates, was reported in the “Mechanics’ Magazine” and elsewhere in December 1832.  And in 1836 he won the large Silver Medal of the Royal Society of Arts for his invention of a ruling machine for taking the wholly repetitive work out of engraving – a design improving on the earlier machines produced by Wilson Lowry (1760-1824) and Edmund Turrell (1781?-1835).  Twelve pages of the published “Transactions” of the Society for the 1835-1836 season (Volume 51) are given over to a highly detailed description of how it worked, with a complex full-page diagram of the actual machine.

A developing career and almost certainly greater fame were cut short by Heath’s early death at the age of thirty-five in the autumn of 1838.  John Percy Heath of Edward Street (now Redhill Street), St. Pancras, was buried at St. James Piccadilly on the 7th October of that year.

His simple will, scribbled on a scrap of paper and unwitnessed, found in a locked drawer after his death, left £300 in invested funds to his widowed mother, Eliza Heath of 98 Piccadilly, and the rest of his property to William John Cooke above, whom he made his executor.  He had no debts as of 21st September 1837 when the will was written, but there were monies owing to him from people referred to simply as Fisher, Saddler and Engleheart – Henry Fisher (1781-1837) and his son, Robert Fisher (1803-1884) were the Fisher and son of the print and part-work publishers “Fisher, Son & Co.”; his former fellow apprentice John Saddler was his neighbour in Edward Street, and Engleheart was another well-known engraver in Francis Engleheart (1775-1849), or possibly one of his sons.

Eliza Heath, William John Cooke and John Saddler all testified to the authenticity of the hand-writing and the will, while Thomas Shotter Boys also turned up to recount that in September 1837 Percy Heath had been intending a trip to Antwerp and had spoken of setting his affairs in order and writing a will.  He remembered Percy Heath saying that Cooke’s business experience would probably make him a better executor better than any of his other friends.  The will was uncontested and probate duly granted on 23rd October 1838, just a fortnight after the funeral.  And there ended the historical record of a man who perhaps deserves better from posterity.

Cove Harbour, Cork, Looking toward Rostellan. 1832. Steel engraving by Percy Heath after William Henry Bartlett.

Cove Harbour, Cork, Looking toward Rostellan. 1832. Steel engraving by Percy Heath after William Henry Bartlett.

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