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It is a kind of inverted Dunciad; and novice falls upon the masters of his day, as the Augustan master upon the nonentities of his, and emulates Pope's stiletto with a vigorous bludgeon. Only those who, like Rogers and Campbell, in some sort also maintained the tradition of Pope, came off without a gibe.

But the invective, though as a rule puerile as criticism, shows extraordinary powers of malicious statement, and bristles with the kind of epigram which makes satire stick, when it is too wildly aimed to wound" Age of Wordsworth Courthope: "He had already written lines of a satire on the poetry of the period under the title 'British Bards': it was a simple matter for him to supplement this with an attack on the critics of The Edinburgh Review, and to publish March the enlarged composition in its famous form of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.

The satire was at once successful. Though it was published anonymously, Byron made no attempt to conceal the authorship, and, read in connection with the romantic Hours of Idleness, the versatility displayed in the composition assured the public of the arrival of a new poet of genius" History of English Poetry Still must I hear? Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. Nature's noblest gift-my grey goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men!

The pen! What Wits! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! Condemned at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free; Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me: Then let us soar to-day; no common theme, No Eastern vision, no distempered dream Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

Such is the force of Wit! Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame, The cry is up, and scribblers are my game: Speed, Pegasus! I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time I poured along the town a flood of rhyme, A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame; I printed — older children do the same. Not that a Title's sounding charm can save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This LAMB must own, since his patrician name Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.

No matter, George continues still to write, Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight. A man must serve his time to every trade Save Censure — Critics all are ready made. Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault; A turn for punning-call it Attic salt; To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a Critic, hated yet caress'd.

And shall we own such judgment? To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste; To these, when Authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law; While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare; While such are Critics, why should I forbear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourished side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew. Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE'S pure strain Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; A polished nation's praise aspired to claim, And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.

Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, When taste and reason with those times are past. Now look around, and turn each trifling page, Survey the precious works that please the age; This truth at least let Satire's self allow, No dearth of Bards can be complained of now. Thus saith the Preacher: "Nought beneath the sun Is new," yet still from change to change we run.

What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air! Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the last! While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; A mighty mixture of the great and base. And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain! Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!

For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long "good night to Marmion. Empires have mouldered from the face of earth, Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son; Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal Hero! Since startled Metre fled before thy face, Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!

Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, Illustrious conqueror of common sense! Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. A bard may chaunt too often and too long: As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare! A fourth, alas! But if, in spite of all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: "God help thee," SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;" A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day; So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the "idiot in his glory" Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a muse, Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass: So well the subject suits his noble mind, He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind. Monk, or Bard, Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!

Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibb'ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band; Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age; All hail, M. Luke alone can vanquish the disease: Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell. Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed? Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.

Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; From grosser incense with disgust she turns Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee "mend thy line, and sin no more. Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace? Behold — Ye Tarts! Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine! At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine.

Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear That luckless Music never triumph'd there. Moravians, rise! Luke, And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. Hail, Sympathy! And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles! Thou first, great oracle of tender souls? Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; Whether thy muse most lamentably tells What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend In every chime that jingled from Ostend; Ah!

Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; "Awake a louder and a loftier strain," Such as none heard before, or will again! Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, By more or less, are sung in every book, From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.

Nor this alone — but, pausing on the road, The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode, And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous Miss! But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe: If 'chance some bard, though once by dunces feared, Now, prone in dust, can only be revered; If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst, Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan; The first of poets was, alas! Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll; Let all the scandals of a former age Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page; Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, Clothe envy in a garb of honest zeal; Write, as if St.

Another Epic! Who inflicts again More books of blank upon the sons of men? Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! Fresh fish from Hippocrene! The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. In him an author's luckless lot behold! Condemned to make the books which once he sold. When thus devoted to poetic dreams, Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? Had Cottle still adorned the counter's side, Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, Been taught to make the paper which he soils, Ploughed, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! The petrifactions of a plodding brain, That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, Lo! A fictional book is a non-existent book created specifically for i. This is not a list of works of fiction i. This is a list of fictional books that appear in literature. Fictional books appearing in other print media, such as comics, are listed in List of fictional books from periodicals.

Fictional books that appear in other types of media, such as television shows, are listed in List of fictional books from non-print media. Fictional books used as hoaxes or as purported support for actual research are usually referred to as false documents. The fictional books on this list are ordered alphabetically under the name of the author who invented them. Attributed to Aaron Klopstein Klopstein committed suicide at the age of 33, shooting himself with an Amazonian blowgun : [3].

In the manga Chobits. In What a Carve Up! In Diary of a Bad Year :. In Elizabeth Costello :.

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In And Another Thing In A Dream of Kinship :. In The Road to Corlay :. In A Tapestry of Time :. In The Twilight of Briareus :. In The Solitudes :. In Castle Murders :. In Castle Perilous :. In Aristotle and the Gun :. In The Man in the High Castle :. In The Transmigration of Timothy Archer :. In Death Becomes Her :. In the Sherlock Holmes series:. In the Professor Challenger series:. In Foucault's Pendulum :.

In The Name of the Rose :. In A Week in foodDecember :. In Then We Came to the End :. In Caprice :. In Inclinations :. In Vainglory :. In the Thursday Next novels:. In Kothar--Barbarian Swordsman :. In Kothar and the Demon Queen :. In A Landing on the Sun :. Works invented in Good Omens , co-authored by Terry Pratchett, are listed in the "Terry Pratchett" section of this article.

Works invented in The Sandman comics are listed in the "DC Comics" section of List of fictional books from periodicals. In Cold Comfort Farm :. In The Fault in Our Stars :. In The End of the Affair :. In The Well of Loneliness :. In The Christie Caper :. In The Prisoner of Zenda. In The Library at Mount Char :. In Winter's Tale :. In Carnacki, the Ghost-Finder stories:. In Mr. Splitfoot :. In Point Counter Point :. In The Lecturer's Tale :. In Publish and Perish :. In The World According to Garp :. In A Widow for One Year :. In Until I Find You :.

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In The Lives of Christopher Chant :. Jones invented a series of children's books that are apparently similar to Enid Blyton 's Malory Towers and St. Clair's series. The Millie , below, are about a girl, Millie, who goes to a boarding school called Lowood House School.

There are reportedly about ten books in the series, but only six are named: the first five, below, and another book called Head Girl Millie. In The Eye of the World :. In The Dragon Reborn :. In The Shadow Rising :. In '' The Fires of Heaven :. In The Poisonwood Bible :. In The History of Love :. In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe :. In That Hideous Strength :. In It Can't Happen Here :. In A Conspiracy of Paper. In A Spectacle of Corruption. This includes works by others in the Cthulhu Mythos.

In " A Constellation of Vital Phenomena ":. In The Baby-sitters Club series :. In The Moon and Sixpence :. In Ghostwritten :. In Cloud Atlas :. In Anne's House of Dreams :. In Rilla of Ingleside :. In Invitation to a Beheading :. In Look at the Harlequins! The book begins with a list of "Other Books by the Narrator". In Mike Nelson's Death Rat! In Hunters and Gatherers :. In Desolation Island :. In The Wine-Dark Sea :. In Treason's Harbour :.

In At Swim-Two-Birds :. In The Third Policeman :. In Nineteen Eighty-Four :. In Keep the Aspidistra Flying :. In The Road to Wigan Pier :. In Coming Up for Air :. In Where the Crawdads Sing :. In The Black Book :. In Looking for Rachel Wallace :. In One-Upmanship :. In Supermanship : '. I am writing a family history for my children. Some of our ancestors lived on Bishopsgate in the s and your pictures from this period help us to imagine what their lives were like. I am wondering how I can go about getting permission to include a few of them in my family history?

Thank you very much for the wonderful work. And now, I find you yourself have written a book The Album, which I must add to my collection, in memory of my East End London ancestors. My great great grandfather who no one seems to know what became of him here in Australia! So sadly I have no personal memorabilia from those hearty souls who resided there since Visiting London in I sadly did not get to see much of the East End so my goal must be to make it back there and stroll, and ooh and ahh and research and just enjoy.

Your blog, and again, as the family resided Spitalfields, takes me on the journey I failed to make in , and for that I am eternally grateful. I love your blog and the life and atmosphere that seems to preside over the East End is surely a testament to those who went before, and toiled. If only they could see what happens there now…. I treasure your deep compassion and concern for all that had made London an astonishing city and gentle place to live and flourish.

It must be protected with hoops of steel from the always restless hands of greed and corporate power. I remember long ago being driven through Spitalfields and Hampstead Heath well before dawn and the air was ice and bit at my cheeks and I have never felt so alive. I watched as golden lights punched the darkness through not yet drawn curtains and flickered through the hedgerows only seen in this city.

Spitalfields is a national treasure and the depth of its history and each and every life touched by its wise experience is to be protected as it is now and forevermore. Never allow such profound history to be stolen from you … My city is now hideous and unrecognisable. History bulldozed for the erection of visual and cheap ugliness which is all that empty and greedy men can see as there are aspirations are dust. And so many people displaced. I will return to live in this most beautiful and accepting of cities.

Filth, squalor, and a world of little men. Thank you so much for your commitment to this beautiful blog — I really love reading your posts! As part of my final project for University, I am creating a film on the history of Spitalfields, and would love the chance to interview sometime if you are available? Warms the cockles…….. Was ejected from Spitalfields 20 years ago, sort of getting back on my feet, occasional visit but nothing more, perhaps a samosa and bagel or two?

And bits of textiles. Friday first contact after 2 decades, Paul and finds your blog! Needless to say, much has changed. Love the blog. Dear Gentle Author, Thank you for this amazing and wonderful site and for your efforts to protect the buildings that adjoined The Pavilion Theatre in Whitechapel.

I visited that spot last week as part of a theatre history research trip from far away Idaho in the USA. I was overjoyed to see that the area is being preserved — thanks in no small part to your efforts. Well done! Am pining to go back, this time with my husband. I thank you enormously for this gift of love and life you provide!!

Each one is a treasure, and, you are doing a service, preserving history, time, and educating people!! I have also loved every post about Rodney Archer, who I had the distinct pleasure of studying with during my year in London. Bravo to you and thank you and look forward to reading many more of your wonderful posts in years to come.

Take care! Kendra U. From to ; may your writings flourish and be as intruiging as the very first year. What an amazing challenge you have set yourself, Oh Gentle Author! Ambitious and brave and so original. Is anyone else doing something similar? You are quite a find for me as I have started my journey as a blogger on 1st January I am setting it up as I write. It is more complicated than I thought BUT I have had some brilliant help already off virtual strangers. Such kindness from the blogging community is appreciated.

Dear Gentle Author: I have just found your website and blog having been directed there by St. Pauls and the wonderful blog you did on the needlepoint ladies. However, when my daughter moved to London to attend law school, she ended up living in the Nido residence in Spitalfields. I had not realized how vibrant and wonderful the East End is! She loves it and has since moved into an apartment there.

I have browsed your website and love the stories you publish. I am looking forward to enjoying many more! Dear gentle author, I think this a brilliant idea and the site is wonderful. I just want to tap your knowledge if I may. Looking at Christ Church from Crispin St there is an area of fenced off land and the facade a long building to the left of the church.

Do you know what the facade is? And what was on that land? Many thanks. You remind us all that the best things in life are free. To write, to walk, to dream, to imagine, to smile. Have just found your blog by accident, looking into some photos on a news webpage. Completely enthralled by the words, the photos and the atmosphere you create in your writing.

Have subscribed. Look forward to more stories. Thank you, Gentle Author! You are giving me a great deal of pleasure as am learning so much from you about my old haunts of many years ago. Imagine: a map of the very streets on which they lived albeit a much later rendering. Can you tell me if the streets—not the buildings— in that area still exist? I have found Palmer but cannot find Freeman Street. Those are the addresses I have found for my great grandfather and grandfather in the and census records.

I have been reading your latest posting this morning which as always I enjoyed, its a great idea to try and save what we can. I have been reading your thoughts daily almost since the beginning and I find it almost impossible to say what it means to me. You are truly unique and I appreciate your writing so much. I was born and lived in Bethnal Green in until I married and moved in I do not live far from London and still visit London at least once a month and am still learning.

Your daily writing and your determination to save what is left in this wonderful historic area means so much. So I thank you John Daltrey. Thank you so much for this wonderful blog. I, too, have stumbled upon it by accident. It has made my heart sing. I am enjoying reading this great blog, which I came upon accidentally while researching the New Designers fair.

Am enjoying it immensely. Today, I am building a mythical museum, inspired by your daily blog. The structure, a rescued vintage building-slated-for-destruction, would house the regalia of the arcane businesses and noble trades that you have written about. One large room would be chock-full of old wooden cabinets and filing drawers, rescued from the various offices, garages, factories, and ship yards.

Another room would have walls totally covered in documents……. Another would have all the specialized out-dated tools, gloves, ropes, straps, chains, etc. Another would be floor-to-ceiling shelves with ledger books, and be still my heart sample books, and sketch books with plans and diagrams. A library full of books about London. Many thanks! She would love to know your name for you write such perfect prose about then and now… and all your photographs and paintings are quite splendid.

I suppose that my late father knew the East End pretty well..

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Later they did the traditional thing. The market aspect particularly interests me, as I worked in Smithfield Meat Market from to , but as generations of my family worked there, my first visit was at the age of five years old. It is so difficult to describe the immensity of the marke, the smell, the noise, and the humour, which I retain to this day. So some of your photos and stories of Spitafield Market bring that lifestyle flooding back to me. Thank you so much.

Even on the hottest of days in high summer here in Australia I settle down for my daily read of life in Spitalfields. I am transported back to a place and often times when my German immigrant four times great grandparents struggled to make a living in East London far from their own land. I know I walk with them through Spitalfields, feel their battles and face their fears. A long haul to Australia in a convict ship was not the ultimate destination they had hoped for when they fled Germany during the Napoleonic upheaval.

May I be so bold as to suggest more stories of these early German sugar bakers, the Union workhouse, now no longer standing near Artillery lane, and the reunification scheme that eventually reunited the convict families half a world away. Decisions made at the Old Bailey still have repercussions far down the centuries. I bless you. Thank goodness for your daily blog!

It remains a constant trip of loveliness in sometimes what seems a broken world. The sheer delight one gets reading the articles and looking at the images here is truly joyous and cannot be viewed without all sort of thoughts passing through me. It was still a time before every place had a blue plaque or a tourist sign and was dressed in aspic. The places you describe just were and the people were and then were not.

It was a time before people not from these villages in a city came without feeling and tore the places up for money and threw the echoes away with the plaster and wallpaper. I suppose you can delude yourself that it is! Money is all I can think of. The best blog on the internet. Dense, rich, lovely writing full of place and culture, humanity and history. Obviously intensely researched and studied. A daily inspiration.

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire

I have just found this wonderful blog and have enjoyed everything I have read and the photos I have seen. I will continue to follow the Gentle Author as my interest in social history and the lives of ordinary people will be brought alive by your research and writing. Dear Gentle Author, I have just this minute subscribed, having just found you. In the early nineteenth century, there was a court or alley in Spitalfields named Red Lion Alley.

It must have been very skinny as it is always difficult to find on maps. Sarah was one of eight children. Five survived. His parents were mariners. By the family had moved to Charles Street Hoxton. I am trying to imagine what growing up in a beer and coffee house in a narrow lane in Spitalfields in London must have been like. In more modern photographs the area appears to be very dark. I look forward to learning more about them thank you , especially Spitalfields.

Regards and thanks, Jan Adelaide. Dear Gentle Author I have only recently found your blog and am enjoying it enormously. Do you by any chance know where the first Baptist Church was? I love the idea of one post per day but having just deleted my last ten years of blogs I only manage posts in that time I wish you well. I now live in Margate and 35 years ago used to be a regular in Brick Lane buying clothes to sell.

I loved the area then but expect much has changed in the ensuing years. Good luck with everything.

Crispin the Cross of Lead Guide Interactive -

XXX Don. My great-great-great-great grandfather was rabbi of Spitalfields. That is how it is described in the annals of my family, but, truthfully, with over 90 synagogues in Spitalfields in the midth century, it may be more accurate to say that he was a rabbi in Spitalfields: leader of one of these congregations. There is a splendid photograph of him, taken at the end of that century; an old man in caftan and hat, with his son rabbi in Adelaide, Australia and his grandson rabbi in Glasgow and his great-grandson on his knee to become a civil servant in London.

But I would like to find which synagogue; and you might like the photo. There is beauty strength and a deep honour in your work and promise. I look forward to walking with you. As a young child, my father would take me to visit his mother, my Bubba or Bubbula. Her home was a small rented ground floor tenement flat in Wentworth Street. On a Sunday morning it was filled with her adult children and their children. It was always a hub of noise and gossip. A huge stockpot of chicken and vegetables were always simmering away on an ancient stove in her very small kitchen.

The steam from the pot hung from the walls and veiled the small paned windows. We children were ushered out to play in the area to the back of the flat. The only to access this little oasis was climb through an opened bedroomed window. Special times. I am researching this artist and would like to know where the drawings shown now are. Presumably, they were the originals? I would cover the edge with a silk strip and hand sew it into position to increase the lifespan of such a beautiful shirt.

I fully approve of the campaign re the Whitechapel Bell Foundry — what a disgrace it is being abused and closed. I will write to TH planning. You must widen your appeal. First I have heard of it. Well done and please keep me informed of progress. Please thank her for signing my copy. I recently came back to the UK for one of my rare visits but not in time unfortunately to see her paintings on display at the Nunnery Gallery.

Best wishes, Peter. How did I discover you. I was travelling down the avenues, high roads and biways of the Internet and rounded a corner and there you were. What a delight! I am fairly new to your posts. So far my favourite is the one about the common community garden where so many fascinating people have plots. You included photos and lovely little bios of each one of the gardeners photgraphed. I live in Owen Sound, Ontario in Canada. I have just recently got a plot in the community garden … just a few blocks from me.

It is all planted including snow peas and heritage yellow beans. Despite the tardy spring, still cool and wet here, everything is doing well except the beans which need heat. Your site is superb! I am struggling with some Huguenot ancestry so I shall watching it regularly. His mother was a redoubtable lady who, after more that 17 years of widowhood, married again aged 65 but separated, writing a fascinating will with bequest to a well-know miniature painter and a German bookseller.

Sollicoffres hailed from St Gallen in Switzerland, and when he was born his parents did claim that they were married there, but a Swiss expert has sadly knocked that on the head! I have been following your stories ever since.

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Thank you for your stories. Regards, Just Vicki. My great grandfather Charles Thomas Kenny has his name inscribed on this memorial in Spitalfields. Only problem is his name is spelt incorrectly….. Kenney instead of Kenny. My son is a history teacher and just loves walking around London and the East End where I grew up in Shoreditch.

He has taught many lessons on the subject. There is a picture in the Whitechapel Art Gallery which has been used as a book cover and Charles Thomas Kenny is in the picture along with one of his daughters. I came across this by chance as my grandson is visiting Theivpal Cemetery with his school tomorrow 20 July and I was just looking up some information. This is perfect for him.

Thank you so much for writing about these heroes. It may be a long time ago but they must never be forgotten. My poor nan was left without a dad at a very young age and her poor mum a widow at Thank You so much for devoting time to such an interesting and touching history. I saw it in one of the photos as a sign a child was holding. Name: required :.

St Crispins Cell

Email: required :. Note: Comments may be edited. Your email address will never be published. Subscribe to this comment feed via RSS. There are more than 3, stories by The Gentle Author with 35, pictures to be found in the categories and archives on this site. Spitalfields Life daily email. Unauthorized use or duplication of these words and pictures without written permission is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Spitalfields Life with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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