Books being delicate

More from Grant Richards' biography. This letter from Oscar Wilde, refusing to supply a review copy of his Poems:

16 Tite Street

S.W.

Dear Sir,
    The new edition of my poems is limited to 200 copies, and these are meant not for reviewers, but merely for lovers of poetry, a small and quite unimportant sect of perfect people - so I fear I cannot bid my book wander towards Mowbray House - its rainment, gold smeared on tired purple, might attract attention in the Strand, and that would annoy it, books being delicate and most sensitive things, and, if they are books worth reading, having a strong dislike of the public.
    So, you see I must perforce refuse your request.
    Yours truly,
        Oscar Wilde.

Improperly Behaving Lovers

A lovely boyhood memory of the Crystal Palace, from Grant Richards' Memories of a Misspent Youth. The 'safety bicycle' which looked so funny was essentially the modern bike - ie. not a penny farthing:

'Our leisure, or at least my leisure, was spent at the Crystal Palace, in the winter looking at such shows as we could get into by luck or cunning, and, in the good weather, in the grounds, where the shrubberies were full of birds' nests - and sometimes improperly behaving lovers, where occasionally on Sundays we could manage to get hold of a boat and row across to the islands in the lake and pentrate into the very interiors of the prehistoric animals, where there were certain places in which we could help ourselves to coloured-fire laid out ready for the Firework Thursdays, and where there were on the race-track races between men on horseback and men on bicycles, and the cycle-races and so on. I remember now the roar of laughter that went round the grassy slopes of the area when the first safety bicycle made its appearance! And it was in the roller-skating hall of the Crystal Palace that I first fell in love with a girl of much my own age ...'

Forgotten Bicentenaries

The unfortunate coincidence of sharing their year of birth with Charles Dickens (and the centenary of the Titanic disaster) means that two other bicentenarians are being overlooked this year, both of them famous poets, albeit of very different sorts. However, do not despair - they have not been entirely forgotten.

The first is Edward Lear (1812-1888) who, although an ornithological draughtsman and painter, is best remembered for his nonsense verse, not least 'The Owl and the Pussycat'. Lear is commemorated in an exhibition by forty contemporary artists, showing images inspired by his work, at the Poetry Café in Covent Garden which opens on 7th May and closes 8th June 2012. (Free entry)

The second is Robert Browning (1812-1889), the rather intense Victorian poet whose most accessible piece is probably 'The Pied Piper of Hamelin'. As part of ongoing celebrations by the Browning Society, there will be a Commemorative Evensong at St. Marylebone Parish Church on Sunday May 13th at 5pm, with a wine reception afterwards. Professor Margaret Reynolds will talk about Browning's work, there will be a poetry reading, and a specially commissioned anthem based on Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet, “How Do I Love Thee”, sung by the church choir. (Free entry)

Interestingly, both 'The Owl and the Pussycat' and 'The Pied Piper of Hamelin' were both written for the sick children of friends of the respective poets - are there any other famous Victorian poems penned under similar circumstances?

London Fonts

I know nothing about typography, but I keep wondering about the fonts of London street signs. This one appears to be Westminster's modern standard:

[UPDATE: A Twitter acquaintance suggests 'Folio' for the Westminster font - plausible?

https://twitter.com/#!/mrplip/status/195050734356668416/photo/1 

Another Twitter lead says Univers Condensend

http://www.identifont.com/similar?N8Y
 

This one, similar but not identical (eg. compare the C), can be found in Camden:
 

This might be similar to the above but the 'O' looks fatter above?

This one seems similar but it's much blockier and look at the 'S':

And there are many other fonts out there, once you start looking - like this one with another distinctive 'C':

And this rare bold, older one (note it's WC not WC1 or WC2), with a similar 'C' but very different 'R'

This is from a similar period, perhaps, but a different 'R'

This one's very nice and unusual:

This spindly effort is great, presumably utterly unreadable at any distance:

I came across this one today - when does it date from, I wonder?

I'm sure there are many more, but my first question is - can anyone identify these fonts?

I Just Fell Off My Bike

Taking the family on a Dickens walk today (no, really), we were accosted on Newman Street - not far from the reprieved Cleveland Street Workhouse, and Charles Dickens' teenage home, opposite the former Middlesex Hospital - by a Victorian gentleman, albeit in modern guise.

His manner was polite and fairly engaging. He spoke unhurriedly but with a mildly pained expression.

'Excuse me,' he said, 'I'm sorry to trouble you, but I've just fallen off my bike, and I need to get to the A&E at Homerton Hospital. Look ...'

He rolled up the sleeve of his jackets- with remarkable ease, it must be said - and grimaced at the bloodied forearm beneath.

At least, it was certainly the colour and texture of dried blood; and one did not wish to enquire too closely.

A kinder soul might have offered to help; they might have rung 999, or if he was too proud to call an ambulance, they might have given him the money for the bus or taxi that would, plainly, be required.

At least, that was the idea.

For my part, I briskly directed him to the A&E of University College Hospital, a brisk five minutes' walk from the spot, rather than distant Homerton (some four or five miles distant, where, as it happens, my infant phenomenon was born). If I was made of sterner stuff, I might have added a few choice words. For I knew this gentleman, not in person, but from the works of Henry Mayhew, c.1861:

First, then, as to those having real or pretended sores. As I have said, there are few beggars of this class left. When the officers of the Mendicity Society first directed their attention to the suppression of this form of mendicancy, it was found that the great majority of those who exhibit sores were unmitigated impostors. In nearly all the cases investigated the sores did not proceed from natural causes, but were either wilfully produced or simulated. A few had lacerated their flesh in reality; but the majority had resorted to the less painful operation known as the "Scaldrum Dodge." This consists in covering a portion of the leg or arm with soap to the thickness of a plaister, and then saturating the whole with vinegar. The vinegar causes the soap to blister and assume a festering appearance, and thus the passer-by is led to believe that the beggar is suffering from a real sore. So well does this simple device simulate a sore that the deception is not to be detected even by close inspection. The "Scaldrum Dodge" is a trick of very recent introduction among the London beggars. It is a concomitant of the advance of science and the progress of the art of adulteration. It came in with penny postage, daguerreotypes, and other modern innovations of a like description. 

The clues, of course, were in the question. Why would someone want to go several miles across London to Homerton, if they had just fallen off their bike? Fine, perhaps they lived in Hackney, like myself. But why would a recently bloodied wound be concealed by a pristine (and quite smart) jacket? And why on the upper part of the forearm - easily displayed to the general public - with no injury to the head or face? I'm no expert, but it didn't look like an injury from falling off a bike.

Yet, of course, some doubt remained. It smacked of the scaldrum dodge, yet would anyone really go to that trouble, in this day and age, just to scam a bus fare?

Naturally, the internet provides the answer ... apparently the scaldrum dodger has moved from his habitual pitch of Bethnal Green. [click here for details]

Has he been moving round London these last few years?

Does he lacerate his arm, or is the 'blood' merely an artful concoction of his own making?

I now feel I really should have given him his 'bus fare', if only for recreating a Victorian experience in the heart of the metropolis. On the other hand, it is something of a cruel hoax, calculated to deplete one's trust in one's fellow man; so perhaps not.

I wonder, does anyone actually know this man?

If you have met the scaldrum dodger, I should like to hear from you.