CHARLES DICKENS’ AT CHRISTMAS

 

 

 

 

1

CHARLES DICKENS AT CHRISTMAS

1

1

1

It was started as a way of earning some quick money. But Charles Dickens's classic Christmas tale also had a powerful message that helped inspire the image of a traditional Christmas. October 1843 and, at his home at 1 Devonshire Terrace, on the edge of London's Regent's Park, Charles Dickens sits down to begin writing what would become one of his best-loved and most enduring works. A month later, still in full flow, the 31-year-old author wrote to a friend: 'I have been working from morning until night upon my little Christmas book and have really had no time to think of anything but that.' And to another: 'Your note found me in the full passion of a roaring Christmas scene!' That scene was in all likelihood the Christmas dinner of Bob Cratchit's family, including his crippled, sickly son, Tiny Tim, in A Christmas Carol.     The real Tiny Tims: The idea for a Christmas morality tale came to Dickens after he visited poverty-stricken chidren at the Field Lane Ragged School in London Writing day and night, and with virtually no editing, Dickens turned out his 'little book' in just six weeks - just in time for Christmas. But while it is tempting to picture him scribbling away with his head filled with romantic notions of cosy festive firesides, goodwill and plum pudding, Dickens had something rather more practical on his mind. His serialisation of Martin Chuzzlewit had been ill-received and sales were poor - and his wife, Catherine, was pregnant with their fifth child. Dickens was more anxious than ever about his financial affairs. As viewers of the BBC's recent Little Dorrit will be all too aware, debt and the fear of financial disaster were never far from the great author's mind. His father, John, a clerk at the Navy pay office, lived beyond his means and was incarcerated in 1824 in the infamous Marshalsea debtors prison in London. Dickens, who was just 12 at the time, was removed from his private school and was sent to work a ten-hour day at a shoe polish factory to help support his family. No wonder memories of his father's ordeal continued to haunt him, even at the height of his powers as a writer. In many ways then, Dickens's Christmas book was a get-rich-quick scheme. But the author also had grander motives on his mind. The idea for a Christmas morality tale came to Dickens after he visited the Field Lane Ragged School in London, where he witnessed the heartbreaking plight of poverty-stricken children - dozens of 'Tiny Tims' - and gave a speech to the Manchester Athenaeum, founded to bring culture and education to the 'labouring masses'. Even if his priority was to make money for himself, he also believed his argument, spelled out in A Christmas Carol, that charitable goodwill should start with the individual. Debt and the fear of financial disaster were never far from Dickens's mind, as viewers of the BBC's recent Little Dorrit will be all too aware 'He was a passionate social reformer,' says Dickens expert Professor Donald Hawes. 'But money was never far from his thoughts because of his own childhood.' Dickens began writing immediately and, as he always did when he was in the grip of inspiration, quickly. In early December, with the book finished, he told a friend he believed it could inspire good works - and sell well. His instincts were correct. The first 6,000 copies sold out within days after the book was published on 19 December, and it has been selling well ever since. But A Christmas Carol's success is based on more than just its social message. It was soon inextricably bound up with a new idealised form of Christmas - one that has lasted to the present day. Dickens's timing was uncannily perfect. He wrote the Carol at a time when Christmas was undergoing something of a revolution. In the first half of the 19th century, it had barely been celebrated by the industrial working classes and was generally accepted to be in decline. Workers - just like Bob Cratchit - were lucky even to get Christmas Day as a holiday. But there were economic and social changes at work. A religious revival along with vast social reforms placed greater emphasis on the traditional virtues of neighbourliness, charity and goodwill. Actor Patrick Stewart as Ebeneezer Scrooge in the TV version of A Christmas Carol Dickens seized upon the prevailing mood just as it was about to sweep the nation. In A Christmas Carol, he crystallised it in popular form and made it accessible to the reading public. Historian John Pimlott says: 'It showed how Christmas ought to be kept. It stressed the duties without which the material things could not be fully enjoyed, and the special obligation which lay upon everybody to make sure that the children had a happy Christmas.' At the same time, England was being infiltrated by new Christmas customs. In 1841, Queen Victoria's German husband, Prince Albert, erected the first Christmas tree at Windsor Castle, something that Dickens referred to as the 'pretty German toy'. In 1843, the year the Carol was published, Sir Henry Cole, the first director of what would become the Victoria and Albert Museum, commissioned the very first Christmas card. Printed in dark sepia, 1,000 copies were made of the card, which was divided into the panels. The outer two featured two acts of charity, 'feeding the hungry' and 'clothing the naked'. Between them was a picture of a jolly festive family party. It was a stark reminder of the obligations the rich had to the poor at Christmas. So, the publication of A Christmas Carol played no small part in what was essentially a Christmas revolution. Unfortunately for Dickens, however, this success did not translate into financial gain. He had insisted upon a quality product - crimson and gold binding, four full-page hand-coloured etchings, four wood cuts, a gilt design on the cover - as well as a low cover price so that the book would reach a wide audience. But, despite being a sell-out, the high production costs meant that his profit was much smaller than he'd hoped. Dickens complained that he had earned just £240 when he had hoped for £1,000. Within months of the Carol's publication, Dickens had moved his ever-expanding family to a large house by the sea in Genoa in Italy to cut living costs. By October, however, his mind had returned to Christmas and the chance to make some easy money. His next Christmas story, The Chimes, made him his longed-for £1,000. More Christmas tales followed, along with many great novels, including Dombey And Son in 1848, David Copperfield in 1850, Little Dorrit in 1857 and Great Expectation in 1861. By then he had ten children and was wealthy enough to buy a country pile, Gad's Hill Place, in Higham, Kent. But somehow it seemed as if the spectre of poverty never really left him. And neither did what he came to describe as his 'Carol Philosophy'. In later life, Dickens described Christmas as 'a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of in the long calendar of the year when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of other people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.'   Charles Dickens in 1842 Christmas has always been considered part of the American spirit and tradition, essentially associated with the celebration of the birth of Christ, and Christmas trees around public buildings were considered part of that tradition. In fact, Christmas, as scholar Karal Ann Marling puts it, is “America’s greatest holiday.” This is also the case in many European countries and indeed much of the Western world.[3]  Books such as A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens were firmly planted in that tradition. Furthermore, writers such as Dickens were either product of the Christian tradition or were Christians themselves who grew up in poverty.[4] Dickens in particular was responding to the social condition and injustice of poor children and had implicitly portrayed a Christian message in A Christmas Carol.[5] Biographer Jane Smiley writes, “With power must come an inner sense of connection to others that, in Dickens’s life and work, comes from the model of Jesus Christ as benevolent Savior.”[6] Smiley continues, “Love, kindness, forgiveness, benevolence, celebration, mercy, joy, charity, and innocence all had their source, for Dickens, in Christ and Christmas.”[7] Dickens eventually revived the Christmas spirit and put it in its social context. The English priest Percy Deamer had this to say in 1926: “A hundred years ago, Englishmen had almost forgotten about the Christmas spirit.  They thought only of being respectable and making money as much as they possibly could; and the poor were oppressed, and their old Christmas ways of beauty and goodwill were despised and forgotten. Then there arose a great man, Charles Dickens, who grew up in poverty and neglect, and who love the good heart of the poor; and he made all men understand that to be jolly and generous is to be Christian   Fascinating snapshot of Victorian street traders taken at the dawn of photography The hard-hitting collection of London life in 1877 was taken by photography pioneer John Thomson Was one of the first photo projects to focus on working-class people and not the aristocracy or landscapes They are images of devastating poverty and life on London's streets that look like they come straight from the pages of a Charles Dickens book. The collection, taken by pioneering photojournalist John Thomson in 1877, show what life was really like for thousands of Londoners in Victorian Britain. Unlike most pictures taken at the time, they show the daily grind and backbreaking work undertaken by the capital's working-classes.       Faces of Victorian London: A 'temperance sweep' (left) and an elderly woman holding a baby, in a picture titled 'The Crawlers' (right), are part of the historical document         Street sellers: Covent Garden flower women (left) and a 'dealer in fancy ware' with a wary-looking customer (right) are some of the characters featured in the book Window into the past: Pioneer John Thomson and journalist Adolphe Smith trawled the streets of London to take pictures such as this 'Water-Cart' for their book From road sweepers to flower sellers, the collection gives a fascinating snapshot into the past at the dawn of photography. Thomson worked with radical journalist Adolphe Smith on the project, which was one of the first to concentrate on working-class people. It features child labourers working on the streets of London, as well the back-breaking jobs of many people in the capital. The hard-hitting collection, compiled into a book called Street Life In London, shows the grim reality of life for millions of poverty-stricken Londoners during the Victorian age. The pioneering project came after the likes of Dickens and philanthropists such as Thomas Barnado began highlighting the conditions in the inner cities. Like scenes from Oliver Twist, Thomson's pictures show barefoot children fending for themselves in the capital. His depictions of extreme poverty in classics such as Our Mutual Friend are also shown in the heartbreaking images, such as the ill woman cradling a baby on the streets.       Historic rarity: The book, which includes photographs titled 'Public Disinfectors' (left) and 'Carey The Clown' (right), is up for auction in Gloucestershire Forgotten treasures: 'November Effigies' shows an impressive-looking monster headed for the flames on Bonfire Night       Child labour: The book shows children at work on the streets of London, including an 'independent shoe black' (left) and 'Italian street musicians' (right) Donkey ride, anyone? Two likely looking entrepreneurs sit in the sunshine as they try to hire out novelty rides on Clapham Common       Extreme poverty: Some of images in Street Life In London (pictured right) show people such as the 'London Nomades' (left) living in shocking conditions Thomson took the 36 photographs between 1877 and 1878 and published them in a monthly serial over 12 parts. They were then printed in Street Life in London, with the work regarded as being hugely important for its use of photography as social documentation. The book is going under the hammer on Thursday at Gloucestershire auctioneers Dominic Winter and is expected to sell for between £4,000 and £6,000. John Trevers, a valuer and auctioneer at Dominic Winter, said: 'The book is famous in the sense it is one of the first social documentations shown in photographs.       Their boots barely hang together. Their clothes are ragged hand-me-downs. And for most a hot bath is a distant memory. But in the eyes of these children there is a self-possession and a quiet confidence that belies the appalling circumstances in which they grew up. These London youngsters lived amid deprivation, violence and squalor that defies imagination today. At the beginning of the last century, thousands existed in abject poverty on streets that are now among the most fashionable and expensive in the capital. Scroll down for video  +7 Dead End Street: The Spitalfields Nippers growing up in one the most deprived and dangerous areas of London +7 Ragamuffins: Annie, seven, and one-year-old Nellie, sit sad and hungry on sacking outside their house in Spitalfields. They were among ten children born to single mother Annie Daniels. Five of their siblings died in childhood They were called the Spitalfields Nippers, scavenging for rotten fruit in the bins behind the market in East London, dressing in rags that might be shared between ten siblings, and lucky to have a pair of boots in even the coldest weather. Photographer Horace Warner took these portraits to highlight the conditions. He was the Sunday School Superintendent of the Bedford Institute, one of nine Quaker missions in the East End fighting alcoholism and prostitution. At first, all he wanted to do was record the children’s lives, but in 1913 around two dozen of the photographs were used by Quaker activists to raise funds for poor relief. The rest of Warner’s archive was preserved by his family after his death in 1937, and has remained unseen in public until now. His heart-breaking pictures evoke the appalling poverty like no other photos of the time. But Warner was not the only one who attempted to tell the world about the Spitalfields Nippers.     +7 Barrow boys: Tommy Nail pushes one of his brothers in a make-shift wheelbarrow in the 1890s. The boys' mother died two years later, her death certificate starkly citing the cause as 'exhaustion'  +7 +7 Barefoot: Nine-year-old Charlie Long (left) lived in a workers' eating-house run by his parents. Adelaide Springett (right) was so ashamed of her tattered boots, she took them off for this 1901 photograph  The Daily Mail’s brilliant campaigning journalist Fred McKenzie filed a shocking report in 1901, a description of just one road around the district’s famous Christ Church, an architectural gem designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor. Running west from the church, alongside the market hall, was Dorset Street. Now demolished, today it is remembered as the scene of Jack the Ripper’s fifth and last killing — but violent death was commonplace on the road notorious as ‘the worst street in London’. Every house had seen a murder. At one tenement, there had been a murder in every room. ‘Policemen go down Dorset St in pairs,’ wrote McKenzie. ‘Hunger walks in its alleyways, and the criminals of tomorrow are being bred there today. Boy thieves are trained as systematically as they were in the days of Oliver Twist. ‘Children’s first lessons are in oaths and crimes. They learn ill as they sip at their mothers’ gin, and you can see them aged six and eight, gambling in the gutterways.’ +7 Puss 'n' boots: Jeremiah Donovan, six, was nicknamed Dick Whittington because of his pet cat. But the newspaper vendor's son did not find London's streets paved with gold  Not all were petty villains, though. If they had younger brothers and sisters, it fell to the elder children to mind the baby, as well as boiling the laundry in metal cans and hanging the rags out to dry. Many nights, especially in the summer, the children slept on the streets. If they had parents, and their parents had money, they might doss down on the bare floorboards of a lodging-house room, which could be rented for a shilling a night: 12 people, adults and children, each with a penny apiece, had just enough money for one night’s shelter. One way for children to earn a few coins was to sell firewood. They would go to factories and shops, begging for packing-cases, pallets and tea-chests. Chopped into sticks, wood could be sold on the street in bundles for a ha’penny. +7 Washday: Two children, their toes poking out of their boots, tend a fire in a battered tin brazier to heat buckets and bowls of water in which to scrub clothes. The clean garments would be hung on lines strung across the street  Today, a one-bedroom flat off the main Commercial Road in Spitalfields will fetch £450,000; two-bedroom apartments go for up to £750,000. Compare that to the earnings in 1901 of a cook in an East End restaurant — working from 7am to 10.30pm Monday to Saturday for £1 a week. Respectable people did not dare go near these streets. If a horse-drawn cab cut through Spitalfields, dozens of urchins would surround it, baying for pennies. And if on a Saturday night a gentleman with too much drink inside him should stray into the ‘desperate backstreets’, he would be set upon by ‘gutter-wolves’, the savage muggers who would kill for a pocketful of change. One method was to seize a victim and bend him backwards till his spine snapped. A familiar face in these hard streets, Horace Warner eventually earned the trust of the people and persuaded the children to sit for his astonishing portraits.   Stunning slideshow of Street Life in London images 'Dramatic Shoe Black': The reason for the title of this photograph may have diluted over the years, as there doesn't seem to be much 'drama' going on (but their shoes DO look clean)       Everyday London life: Workmen put up advertising posters (left), including one for Madame Tussauds, while recruiting sergeants relax outside a pub (right) Cough sweets: A 'street doctor', wearing a corrective shoe and a large top hat, plies his wares on the streets with a sign reading 'Prevention Better Than Cure'       Scenes of relaxation: Three men drink from tankards outside a pub (left), and a group are shown sitting under the caption 'Hookey Alf Of Whitechapel' (right)       Traders: A trio of 'Mush-Fakers [umbrella sellers and makers] And Ginger-Beers' (left) and the street locksmith (right) 'Rather than photographs of the Royal Family or of pretty parks, this is real people at the bottom of society. 'It was around the same period as Charles Dickens was exposing the underclass and it must have been shocking to see the photographs at the time. 'One of the photographs shows a lady who looks very ill, she was dying. 'It really shows a grim London life and must have been very hard-hitting, this is a very important book.'       'You'll never guess who I had in my cab last night': Omnibus driver 'Cast-Iron Billy' (left, holding whip) chats to a friend, while London cabmen wait for customers (right) Costermonger: John Walker, a licensed hawker known as 'Black Jack', who made his living by buying goods for wholesale prices and selling it for more       Making a living: 'The London Boardmen' (left), who were jeered at in the street for being walking advertisements, and women working in a clothes shop (right) 'A convicts home': Former policeman Mr Bayliss (left) ran a home for released prisoners. He is seen talking to Indian drummer Ramo Sammy, known as the 'tam-tam man'       For sale: A fishmonger (left) talks to customers at his stall and youngsters enjoy ice-creams from an Italian vendor (right) John Thomson made his name as one of the first photographers to travel to the Far East where he documented the people, landscapes and artifacts of eastern cultures. He returned to the UK 1872 and moved to Brixton to live with his family where he published his photojournalism. It was on his return he started documenting Victorian London. He later returned to Scotland, living in Edinburgh until his death from a heart attack in 1821 at the age of 84. Refuse collectors: These 'flying dustmen' collected rubbish and dust from across the capital in their horse-drawn wagon Day in the park: A nanny and a child pose for a picture on Clapham Common. The odd-looking contraption in the centre of the picture is a portable darkroom Victorian street food: A shellfish vendor is surrounded by customers interested in trying his wares       By water or on land: Boatmen on the River Thames (left) who were known to work on the 'silent highway', and a picture titled 'Covent Garden Labourers' (right)

Poor people are quicker to show compassion to those suffering distress than the rich, researchers have found. Emotional differences between the rich and poor depicted in Charles Dickens classics 'A Christmas Carol' and 'A Tale of Two Cities' may have a scientific basis, according to the study. People in the lower socio-economic classes are more are more physiologically attuned to suffering, and quicker to express compassion than their more affluent counterparts, researchers at the University of California, Berkeley, said. Christmas spirit: The wealthiest - like Scrooge in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol are less able to show compassion By comparison, the study found that individuals in the upper middle and upper classes were less able to detect and respond to the distress signals of others. Overall, the results indicate that socio-economic status correlates with the level of empathy and compassion that people show in the face of emotionally charged situations. 'It's not that the upper classes are cold-hearted,' said Berkeley social psychologist Jennifer Stellar who completed the study published in the online journal Emotion. 'They may just not be as adept at recognising the cues and signals of suffering because they haven't had to deal with as many obstacles in their lives.' The findings challenge previous studies that have suggested the lower-classes are more prone to anxiety and hostility in the face of adversity. 'These latest results indicate that there's a culture of compassion and cooperation among lower-class individuals that may be born out of threats to their well-being,' Ms Stellar said. The findings come amid rising social tensions in Britain and concerns about the extravagant pay of bankers, the most senior civil servants and MPs' expenses. Compassion: Scrooge with Tiny Tim in the 2009 film version of A Christmas Carol Ms Stellar added: 'Upper-class individuals appear to be more self-focused, they've grown up with more freedom and autonomy. 'They may do better in an individualist, competitive environment.' More than 300 ethnically diverse adults were recruited for the Berkeley study, which was divided into three experiments that used three separate groups of participants. In the first experiment, 148 young adults were rated on how frequently and intensely they experience such emotions as joy, contentment, pride, love, compassion, amusement and awe. In addition, they reported how much they agreed with a series of statements. Compassion was the only positive emotion reported at greater levels by lower-class participants, the study found. In the second experiment, a new group of 64 participants viewed two videos: an instructional video on construction and an emotionally charged video about families who are coping with the challenges of having a child with cancer. Participants showed no differences while watching the 'neutral' instructional video, and all reported feeling sad in response to the video about families of cancer patients. Corporate greed: The findings come at a time of rising social tensions in Britain amid concerns about the pay of wealthy bankers However, members of the lower class reported higher levels of compassion and empathy as distinct from sorrow. The researchers also monitored the heart rates of participants as they watched the neutral and emotionally charged videos. Lower-class participants showed greater decreases in heart rate as they watched the cancer family video than upper-class participants. 'One might assume that watching someone suffering would cause stress and raise the heart rate,' Stellar said. 'But we have found that, during compassion, the heart rate lowers as if the body is calming itself to take care of another person.' Finally, a new set of 106 participants was randomly divided into pairs and pitted against one another in mock interviews for a lab manager position. To further raise the stress level in interviews, those who performed best were to win a cash prize. Post-interview reports from the participants showed that the lower-class interviewees perceived their rivals to be feeling greater amounts of stress, anxiety and embarrassment and as a result reported more compassion and sympathy for their competitors. Conversely, upper-class participants were less able to detect emotional distress signals in their rivals.     Haunting photographs of the dead taken in Victorian age shows fad for relatives posing alongside bodies of their dearly departed The invention of the daguerreotype - the earliest photographic process - in 1839 brought portraiture to the masses Enabled the middle classes to have affordable keepsake of their dead family members Known as post-mortem photography, some of the dearly departed were photographed in their coffin This particular style, often accompanied by funeral attendees, was common in Europe, but less so in the United States Lined up for a family photo these Victorian children look miserable as they stare sternly at the camera. But their grim expressions may be understandable after it becomes clear they are posing for a macabre photo with their dead younger sibling who is laid out on a chair. These remarkable pictures show the morbid way that the deceased were remembered in the late 19th century Macabre: Lined up for a family photo these Victorian children look miserable as they look sternly at the camera. But their grim expressions may be understandable after it becomes clear they are posing for a macabre photo with their dead sibling who is laid out on a chair Macabre: These remarkable pictures show the morbid way that the deceased were remembered in the late 19th century Keepsake: The invention of the daguerreotype - the earliest photographic process - in 1839 brought portraiture to the masses. It was far cheaper and quicker than commissioning a painted portrait and it enabled the middle classes to have an affordable, cherished keepsake of their dead family members Memory: A young girl is displayed in a tiny coffin before her funeral in this grim photo The invention of the daguerreotype - the earliest photographic process - in 1839 brought portraiture to the masses. It was far cheaper and quicker than commissioning a painted portrait and it enabled the middle classes to have an affordable, cherished keepsake of their dead family members.   Known as post-mortem photography, some of the dearly departed were photographed in their coffin. This particular style, often accompanied by funeral attendees, was common in Europe but less so in the United States. Laid out: Known as post-mortem photography, some of the dearly departed were photographed in their coffins, while others were laid out in funeral dressage Trend: Post-mortem photography, often accompanied by funeral attendees, was common in Europe but less so in the United States Victorian Post Mortem Tintypes: The deceased were immortalized in photographs during the Victorian era. The Victorian after-death photos continue to haunt In some photos the subjects were made to look like they were in a deep sleep or even life-like as they were positioned next to family members However, in others, they were made to look like they were in a deep sleep or even life-like as they were positioned next to family members. It was an age of high infant mortality rates - and children were often shown in repose on a couch or in a crib, while adults were more commonly posed in chairs. Sometimes the subject's eyes were propped open or the pupils were painted onto the print to give the effect they were alive. In early images, a rosy tint was added to the cheeks of corpses. By the early 20th century, the practice fell out of fashion as photos became more commonplace with the arrival of the snapshot. Tragic: It was an age of high infant mortality rates - and children were often shown in repose on a couch or in a crib, while adults were more commonly posed in chairs Eerie: Sometimes the subject's eyes were propped open or the pupils were painted onto the print to give the effect they were alive Remembrance: A young child surrounded by flowers is photographed in an open coffin as a keepsake for its family Effects: In early images, a rosy tint was added to the cheeks of corpses Portrait: Parents pose for a photo holding the body of their little girl clothed in a white dress Disturbing: An adult male is photographed as if he is asleep on a bed   Sign of the times: By the early 20th century, the practice fell out of fashion as photos became more commonplace with the arrival of the snapshot Our image of the Victorians is too often of a repressed, conservative, starchy, uptight and blinkered people. They were allegedly so prudish they even covered their table legs, were harsh to women and children, vicious to those who refused to conform and determined to entrench privilege. In fact, such an impression could not be more wrong. The Victorians were people of vision, insatiably intellectually curious, wedded to the idea of progress and determined to improve their own lives and those of others. They were the first meritocrats, opening up opportunities to those with the brains and qualities to exploit them rather than them being awarded simply according to social status. The Victorians were wedded to the idea of progress and improving their own lives and those of others. Pictured: Workers start the new Stockport Viaduct, which became the biggest brick structure in Europe Harnessed to phenomenal intellectual, physical and moral energy, and often (albeit in an age of profound religious doubt) informed by a deep sense of Christian purpose, their vision helped transform Britain from a fundamentally medieval country when Queen Victoria came to the throne in 1837 to a startlingly modern one within just four or five decades. Certainly, there was resistance, but they overcame it relentlessly. By 1880 education — the key to all progress — had been made widely available. Equally significantly, women’s rights had been extended. Conditions in factories and mills had been properly regulated. Jews had been allowed to sit in parliament, and religious minorities were allowed to teach in universities. And, of course, working men had been given the vote. The list of achievements seems endless. From the 1830s, railways had criss-crossed the country, opening it up to people in a way that had never been possible before. Rowland Hill’s penny post began in 1840. Sanitation had been greatly improved. Slums were cleared and new, healthy housing for the poor had been built in many cities. The middle class expanded and, with it, the commercial and residential areas of towns. University colleges, schools, churches, libraries and museums sprang up all over the country. Above all, the capital city — London — became a showpiece of modernity, with a building boom that included the Palace of Westminster, the Albert Hall, the Law Courts, St Pancras Station and the Natural History Museum, all of which remain beacons not just of the Victorian age, but of our nation, recognisable around the world. But in 1840 the prospect of such advances appeared impossible in an unhappy, poor, fractious country.  A worldwide slump in trade put mills, mines and factories on short time. Many people were laid off, and in the summer of 1842 matters were so bad, with even the workhouses running out of resources, that riots began and the militia was called out. The Victorians' vision helped transform Britain from a fundamentally medieval country when Queen Victoria came to the throne in 1837 to a startlingly modern one within just four or five decades Yet the country was turned around within a couple of decades. In what is a lesson for today, this had little to do with state intervention, and much to do with the energy, intelligence and determination of the people. All government did was to enable entrepreneurs, businessmen, visionaries and philanthropists to transform the country. A collection of brilliant individuals, usually motivated by little more than the desire to make things better, were allowed to get on with building a more prosperous and more equal future. First, the Victorians took steps to free up trade and ease communications. To the outrage of the landowners whose party he led, Sir Robert Peel, the Tory Prime Minister from 1841 to 1846, cut import duties on corn, ostensibly to ensure cheaper food for the restive masses. As a result, the idea of free trade caught on. And Britain’s mills and factories, combined with its world-beating merchant fleet, were perfectly positioned to capitalise on the export boom that this deregulation brought. The wealth this made helped create a new, large middle class whose red-brick villas still adorn the suburbs of thousands of British towns and cities. But it also trickled down to the working class, who demanded better housing and education as they became less poor. Those things, too, were enabled by the State, not provided by it. William Gladstone’s government of 1868-74 ensured that a school place was available to every child up to the age of 12. Most of these schools were run by the Church of England, or other religious denominations and voluntary groups. Attendance did not become compulsory for a further decade, and until 1892 parents were expected to pay a nominal fee — 3d or 4d a week, usually — for their children’s place. Although governments came, belatedly, to realise how vital the education of children was for the nation’s progress, both Liberal and Tory administrations firmly believed that it was the voluntary sector’s job, with support from the State, to provide it, rather than the State doing it directly. In the mid-19th century cholera epidemics, such as we now associate with the Third World, were rife in British cities. One that occurred between 1848-49 killed 52,000 people. Until the 1850s nobody understood that the disease was waterborne, and so continued to pump sewage into water that would be drunk. After the ‘Great Stink’ of 1858 — when in that year’s hot summer the Thames smelt so toxic that MPs regularly fled the Commons chamber with feelings of nausea — the Government supported London’s parishes in enabling a great network of sewers to be built by the engineer Joseph Bazalgette along the Embankment and through the West End and the City. The Victorians were the first meritocrats, opening up opportunities to those with the brains and qualities to exploit them rather than them being awarded simply according to social status Support: The Government helped London's parishes in enabling a great network of sewers to be built by the engineer Joseph Bazalgette (pictured) along the Embankment and through the West End and the City Other towns and cities followed London’s example. Mortality rates and the incidence of diseases tumbled — an important factor in the rise of the United Kingdom’s population from 11 million in 1801 to 41 million in 1901. All these people had to be housed. So Benjamin Disraeli’s government from 1874 to 1880 passed the Artisans’ Dwellings Act, which enabled local authorities to clear slums and invite private developers in to build new homes for workers. Birmingham was the first major city to use this legislation to great effect, and others soon followed suit. And a truly prosperous country needed to move its people and its goods around. The coming of the railways in the 1830s changed everything in this regard, and again the Government made development as easy as possible, streamlining legislation that allowed the building of lines between major cities, and using new companies legislation to head off a wave of fraud and irrational speculation that threatened to bring the new industry quickly to its knees. With the railways, people were no longer tied to working within walking distance of their homes. And residents of inland towns were able to eat fresh fish, delivered straight from the sea, for the first time. Free up trade: To the outrage of the landowners whose party he led, Sir Robert Peel, the Tory PM from 1841 to 1846, cut import duties on corn, ostensibly to ensure cheaper food for the restive masses Iconic: London became a showpiece of modernity, with a building boom that included the Palace of Westminster, the Albert Hall, the Law Courts, St Pancras Station and the Natural History Museum Yet for all these advances, half of the population remained disadvantaged. Women could not obtain a divorce without an Act of Parliament, however barbarically their husbands behaved towards them, and any money they brought to the marriage became their husband’s property. No wonder one of the leading philosophers of the age, John Stuart Mill, described the condition of women as ‘subjection’ and as akin to ‘slavery’ — ironic when the head of state from 1837 to 1901 happened to be a woman. A vigorous group of feminists — including some quite prominent men, such as Mill and the eminent Cambridge philosopher Henry Sidgwick — determined to start to put these matters right. Divorce courts were established from 1858, and by the 1870s property law had been reformed so that a wife was no longer her husband’s chattel. The women’s suffrage movement, often considered an Edwardian phenomenon, had its roots in the 1860s. One of its supporters was Florence Nightingale, a disciple of Mill, and sympathetic MPs tried from 1868 to secure the vote for women. William Gladstone's government of 1868-74 ensured that a school place was available to every child up to the age of 12. Most of these schools were run by the Church of England, or other voluntary groups Women also demanded higher education. Colleges for them were founded in London in the 1840s and by the late 1860s women were beginning to storm the ancient citadels of Oxford and Cambridge, with Cambridge’s Girton College being founded in 1869, and Newnham shortly afterwards. Oxford had its own women’s colleges by the early 1880s. Graduates of these institutions (though neither university would until the 20th century allow women to be admitted to degrees) founded and staffed girls’ schools — notably the famous headmistresses Dorothea Beale, of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, and Frances Buss, who founded the North London Collegiate School for Ladies. This supply of well-educated young women not only made it harder for governments to refuse them the vote, it also made it harder for professions that were male strongholds to refuse to admit them. The pioneering doctors Elizabeth Garrett Anderson and Sophia Jex Blake (who eventually set up a medical school together) blazed the trail, but only after having pursued their studies in Europe. The fight was a long one. Even after Garrett Anderson had qualified and been registered by the General Medical Council, it changed its rules to forbid any other women from following her — an act of discrimination that soon had to be reversed. As with so much else, all of these institutions for the education and improvement of women were founded with charitable or private money.  In an age when taxation was minimal (Gladstone, indeed, tried to abolish income tax altogether), it was far easier for the under-taxed rich to follow Christian precepts and engage in philanthropy. The greatest Victorian philanthropist was, indeed, a woman. The heiress Angela Burdett-Coutts built churches, established (with the help of Charles Dickens) a refuge for prostitutes, funded schools in Devon, built a hall for market traders in the East End (for which she was dubbed ‘Queen of the Costermongers’), funded public parks and, above all, built modern, clean apartment blocks for working people all over London, most of which still stand today. Gladstone had her given a peerage in recognition of her generosity — though she was barred, as a woman, from sitting in the Lords. Octavia Hill, best known today as a founder of the National Trust, began her philanthropic career assisting her mother in voluntary work among the urban poor in London as a girl of 14. Later, having hardly any means of her own, she raised money from private donors (notably John Ruskin) to turn decrepit properties into housing fit for human beings. Florence Nightingale used a fund raised in her name to build a training school for nurses, greatly raising standards of medical care Charitable societies, not the state, helped co-ordinate the relief of poverty, the better to ensure that help went to deserving and not undeserving cases. Florence Nightingale used a fund raised in her name to build a training school for nurses, greatly raising standards of medical care. And there were great male philanthropists too — notably George Peabody, the American businessman who showed his love for his adopted country by building apartment blocks for working people that still stand today, and Thomas Holloway, who made a fortune selling quack remedies to a people who as they prospered became more hypochondriac, founded not just a magnificent university college for women — Royal Holloway at Egham in Surrey, one of the finest buildings of the 19th century — but also a mental asylum for the middle classes. Today, vast amounts of public money, and a vast bureaucracy, would be required to achieve such monumental things — and they still would not do half so well. In their buildings and in their institutions, but also in establishing values that we take for granted, the Victorians are still with us. They invented the world we live in, and we should be conscious of the debt we continue to owe them for laying the foundations of our way of life. Above all, they proved how a troubled and struggling country could be transformed almost beyond recognition with astonishing speed — not by state meddling but by liberating the natural energy, inventiveness and idealism of its people. It’s a lesson today’s politicians would do very well to learn

Pictures of times past: Forgotten photographs give a rare and fascinating insight into 19th Century city life in Britain from Newcastle stumbled on an amazing treasure trove of street photographs which capture the city's Victorian residents going about their daily lives. Aaron Guy, who works at Newcastle's Mining Institute, discovered the 300-image collection of early glass negatives after peering into a long-forgotten box. He was moving some old furniture for the Society of Antiquaries when the innocuous container caught his eye. Children gathered outside of the station hotel, Neville street watching a performance. Women's work: Two Newcastle matrons pass the time over some knitting by the city's Quayside, while children loiter nearby. Mr Guy explained: 'The society were moving to a smaller building and were passing some of their belongings to other organisations. 'I was just being nosy really, peering into boxes, when I happened to spot that one contained some really old glass negatives. I thought they seemed interesting so we asked for permission to bring the plate boxes back to our office to have a proper look.' Further inspection revealed a whole raft of lively, high-quality images of everyday street life, dating from at least 1880. The shots feature a ragtag collection of ordinary North Easterners, and were taken at locations such as meat markets, fairs, and tiny corner shops. Experts believe at least a third of the pictures were created by the same photographer, and while many of them depict life in Newcastle, the cache also includes scenes from nearby Tynemouth and Lindisfarne. Scouting the wares: A young girl examines the window display of a city shop selling fresh veg, sunlight soap and sweets Making their own fun: Children skip and play around a lamp post Maritime legacy: Onlookers wait for the launch of a ship in Tyneside While early photography was largely the preserve of the rich, this unknown photographer went out of his or her way to document the lives of the working classes. The decision is all the more interesting because Newcastle was a thriving industrial centre by the 1880s, with no shortage of prominent people to photograph. The city was also home to industrialist Joseph Swan, who in 1871 devised a method of producing dry photographic plates which removed the need for a dark room and made photography more commercially viable. Up it goes! A doughty competitor tests his strength at the Temperance festival on the Town Moor, Newcastle A little girl looses her hat, while men in bowlers listen to a speech at the Temperance Festival on the Town Moor, Newcastle Starting young: A little girl selling cordial with meat sellers at either Paddy's Market or Bigg Market, Newcastle Pondering the collection's origins, Mr Guy said: 'We know very little about where these negatives have come from. 'They were never catalogued and the society doesn't recall how or when it came by them. 'We aren't even completely sure whether they are one photographer's archive, or if they were produced by several individuals. 'Photography would have been a very expensive hobby at that time, but this person was shooting in a very contemporary way. 'Despite the cumbersome equipment he would have been using – a large plate camera, probably on a tripod – I would describe this as observational documentary, almost photojournalistic in style. 'The work doesn't look staged, but if it was then the photographer was doing things very differently from his contemporaries. This work feels less distant and more engaged than other series I have seen. 'It may have been someone with means, or a commercial photographer with quite a distinctive viewpoint, who decided that Joe Bloggs on the street was more interesting to photograph in his spare time than the high society of Newcastle. 'He was really quite ahead of his time in that respect.' Earning a crust: A young peanut seller captured at work Catching 40 winks: A man makes time for a nap in what was then the centre of Newcastle The Society of Antiquaries is now carrying out research work in connection with the pictures, in the hope of figuring out where they were shot, and by whom. It is also keen to trace another 15 boxes of plates which the Society sent elsewhere. Mr Guy hopes the city of Newcastle will soon be able to share this insight into its history. 'I was really quite lucky to find this box,' he said. 'I don't know if someone forgot it or planned to pick it up later. The aim now is to date and catalogue the work, and then to put it out to other organisations in the city and hopefully get it seen, because it really belongs to the people of Newcastle.' Having a chin-wag: Women chat outside caravans stationed at the city's Town Moor The Mountain Nymph Sweet Liberty June 1866: Julia Margaret Cameron was one of the greatest portraitists in the history of photography Philip Stanhope Worsley: An Oxford-educated poet who translated the Odyssey and part of the Iliad into Spenserian verse, Worsley died of tuberculosis at the age of thirty. Cameron¿s portrait was made the year of his death Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Julia Margaret Cameron lived next door to the poet laureate on the Isle of Wight. It took three years of pleading before Cameron convinced Tennyson (who jokingly referred to her models as 'victims') to sit for his portrait Zoe, Maid of Athens: Here Cameron photographed May Prinsep, her sister's adopted daughter. By allowing Prinsep's slight movement and by intentionally softening the focus, Cameron instilled a sense of breath and soul in this living apparition Kate Keown: In spring and summer 1866, having purchased a new, larger camera capable of making twelve-by-fifteen-inch negatives, Cameron produced a series of twelve life-sized heads. Christabel: Coleridge's unfinished poem 'Christabel' (1816) tells the story of a young woman debased by sorcery. A dark poem, full of rolling fog and lesbian innuendo, 'Christabel' was the kind of tale that appealed to the Victorian palate A Study: This image, also titled After Perugino / The Annunciation, is one of more than 130 religiously themed images inspired by Cameron¿s deep Christian devotion and her artistic admiration of Italian painting of the early Renaissance Sappho: Mary Hillier, a beautiful young house servant at Cameron's home was often pressed into photographic service, frequently in the role of the Virgin Mary. She managed to assume her various guises in a remarkably unselfconscious way The Parting of Lancelot and Guinevere: In 1874 Tennyson asked Cameron to make photographic illustrations for a new edition of his Idylls of the Kings. Cameron willingly accepted the assignment. Costuming family and friends Pomona: The Roman goddess of gardens and fruit trees. Here, Alice Liddell (1852¿1934) who, as a child, was Lewis Carroll¿s muse and frequent photographic model - posed for Cameron a dozen times in August and September 1872 King Lear Alotting His Kingdom to His Three Daughters: The three Liddell sisters¿Lorina, Elizabeth, and Alice¿posed with the photographer¿s husband playing the tragically deceived King Lear in one of Cameron¿s few Shakespearean compositions Mrs. Herbert Duckworth: The success of this portrait of Julia Jackson, lies partly in its subject¿s actual beauty and partly in the way the photographer modeled it to suggest Christian and classical ideals of purity, strength, and grace Sir John Herschel: Sir John Herschel (1792¿1871) was Victorian England¿s preeminent scientist, astronomer, and mathematician, considered the equal of Sir Isaac Newton. Cameron met him in 1836 in Capetown, South Africa

Queen Victoria's ravishing daughter, a secret love and a sex scandal the Royal Family's STILL trying to cover up Mysteries about Princess Louise revealed in new biography She allegedly gave birth before she was married and hid her pregnancy Comes nine years after Nick Locock claimed he was her great-grandson Court rejected plans to exhume body of Henry Lock to prove his royal ties Every few years, some (usually) deluded soul tries to persuade the newspapers or the courts that he’s a direct descendant of some dead member of the Royal Family or other — invariably from the wrong side of the blanket. Little wonder, then, that no one paid much attention when Nick Locock took to the law in 2004. Once and for all, he said, he wanted to prove that he was the great-grandson of Princess Louise, the most beautiful — and least conventional — of Queen Victoria’s five daughters. His claim seemed unlikely, to say the least. If the as yet unmarried princess had indeed given birth secretly to his grandfather, Henry, he was asking us to believe that Queen Victoria — the moral guardian of her era — had colluded to wipe the record clean. Ravishing: Princess Louise was the fourth daughter and sixth child of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert But Locock, a retired racing commentator from Hampshire, was so convinced that he wanted the court’s permission to retrieve a sample of Henry’s DNA. This would have involved drilling a hole in his grandfather’s coffin at the Locock family vault in Sevenoaks, Kent, and removing a sample of bone. After that, Nick maintained, Henry’s DNA could conceivably be compared with an existing DNA sample from one of Queen Victoria’s granddaughters. The courts, however, turned down his application, citing ‘the sanctity of Christian burial’. This left Locock both disappointed and bemused. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if the very same church hadn’t recently moved about 200 bodies to make way for a coffee shop,’ he said. And there it all rested, until author Lucinda Hawksley began working on a biography of the lovely Louise — a woman so far ahead of her time that she became a respected sculptor and campaigner for women’s rights. Family ties: Nick Locock (left) wanted to prove he was the great-grandson of Princess Louise in 2004 (pictured right with Queen Victoria riding on horseback) Like all researchers into the Royal Family, Hawksley applied to visit the royal archives at Windsor. To her surprise, she was told that Princess Louise’s files were ‘closed’ to the public. Next, she tried several times to get access to the archives of Louise’s husband’s family — the Argylls — at Inveraray, Scotland, but again she was firmly rebuffed. Stranger still, she ran against the same brick wall when she asked to see papers connected to people Louise had known — from fellow artists to servants and friends. And Hawksley wasn’t the only one who wondered what was going on. The archivists she approached at the National Gallery, the Royal Academy and the Victoria & Albert Museum, as well as at various overseas collections in Malta, Bermuda and Canada, were frankly bemused to discover that all the papers she’d requested had been ‘removed’ to Windsor. By then, Hawksley was all the more determined to get to the bottom of this most tantalising of royal mysteries. Why, she wanted to know, had the detailed records of the most popular of Victoria’s daughters been locked away in the archives? What was it about her that was deemed too scandalous or dangerous to be revealed? Fortunately, enough clues remained to untangle Louise’s remarkable story.  Victoria made no secret of the fact that she was disappointed in her children. As babies, they bored and even revolted her; as children, they were dressed up like dolls to be formally presented to her a few times a day. By the time her sixth child and fourth daughter, Louise, came along, the Queen had all but lost interest. For the most part, the tall, flaxen-haired child was either belittled or ignored — a misfortune that evidently marked  her deeply. She reacted by often misbehaving, which led the Queen to dismiss her frequently in her letters and diaries as ‘backward’, ‘difficult’, ‘awkward’, ‘naughty’ or ‘rebellious’. The legacy of this treatment was that Louise throughout her life had a desperate longing to be noticed. Princess Louise's (right) purported son Henry Locock (left). Nick Locock maintained his DNA could be compared with a sample from one Queen Victoria's granddaughters to prove he was related And, at 18, when she flowered into the type of curvaceous, regular-featured, blue-eyed beauty most admired by Victorian men, she was indeed noticed. But was she also seduced? Lieutenant Walter George Stirling, of the Horse Artillery, had been hired in March 1866 as the latest tutor for her delicate younger brother, Leopold, who was a haemophiliac. An important addition to the Royal Household, Stirling also joined various family outings, parties and dinners. Leopold blossomed under his care, and there was certainly no sign that Victoria was anything but pleased with the handsome young officer. Louise, meanwhile, was spending a great deal of time with both her brother and his tutor. So it came as a shock when Stirling was abruptly dismissed from his post just four months later. The official explanation was that the Queen had decided Leopold needed a tutor more used to dealing with ‘persons of delicate health’. But this makes little sense, as the boy was promptly placed in the care of a notoriously brutal servant, who regularly abused the prince — extremely dangerous for a child at risk of bleeding to death. Siblings: Prince Leopold with his sister Princess Louise So why did Victoria sack Stirling? What we do know is that, shocked at her precipitate action, two of the Queen’s senior advisers — who knew that Stirling was a man of great qualities — suggested she give him an alternative job training another of her sons, Prince Arthur, for the Army. But although Stirling would have been ideal for the job, she refused. It wasn’t long before the entire Royal Household was in a ferment of gossip about his abrupt departure. But the persistent rumour that he’d actually made Louise pregnant emerged only a year or two later. Surely, you’d think, someone would have noticed the Princess’s expanding girth? Possibly, but the fashions of the time conspired to make baby bumps all but invisible. Louise would also have had recourse to one of the special boned corsets for expectant mothers, which were tightly laced to create as small a waist as possible. Muffs and shawls also helped hide a tell-tale bump, as did the fashion for frills, pleats, padding and decoration. Normally, Louise avoided all of these and, intriguingly, there are many references in 1866 to the fact that her dresses were suddenly highly decorated with ribbons, bows and pleats. How could the Princess have hidden her pregnancy from her dresser? Simple: as Victoria herself noted in her diary for autumn 1866, Louise, at this date, did not require servants to help her dress. She certainly wasn’t her usual self in 1866. That July, Louise wrote to a girlfriend that she was feeling ‘low and sad’. The letter went on: ‘[I] sit in my room and cry. I cannot write and tell you why, there are so many things ought not to be as they are . . . I am expected to agree with them and yet I cannot when I know a thing to be wrong.’ It’s also notable that Louise made few public appearances in the winter of 1866 — and that, when she did, she rarely left her carriage. Grave: The Locock family vault in the grounds of St. Nicholas's Church in Sevenoaks, Kent If she was indeed pregnant, her baby would have been born towards the end of that year or the start of the next. All that the available records tell us is that she was apparently back to her slim self by February, when she attended the Opening of Parliament in a dress of white satin. That same month, her brother, Bertie — the future king — and his wife, Alix, provoked Victoria’s wrath by deciding not to name their newborn daughter after the Queen. Instead, they called her Louise. Was naming the young Princess’s niece after her their way of alleviating Louise’s pain at having to give up her own baby? Certainly, she was reported to be delighted at the tribute. A few months later, her brother, Prince Arthur, included a cryptic line in a letter to her suggesting he’d mentioned a taboo subject. ‘As to the great secret,’ he wrote, ‘I did not know that I could not mention it to you: of course, I would not speak of it to anybody else.’ Meanwhile, Queen Victoria was fretting. Although Walter Stirling had been sent back to the Royal Horse Artillery — and was later posted overseas — she feared he might be indiscreet. To her friend Lady Biddulph, the Queen wrote: ‘I dread [Stirling’s] indiscretion & thought to wound’ — an odd thing to write about an upright Army officer who’d come to the Royal Household highly recommended. Yet despite her obvious animosity towards the young lieutenant, she gave him a pay-off: the official title of Royal Groom — without any duties — and a respectable annuity. Given that Stirling had been Leopold’s tutor for only four months, this seemed an outlandishly generous gesture. In return, however, Victoria was rewarded with his silence. Buried: Plans were being made by Nick Locock to exhume Henry's body and investigate possible royal connections So if Louise did have an illegitimate child, what could have become of it? Naturally, there would have been no question of a Princess of the blood keeping such a baby. And this is  where the Locock family comes into the picture. Sir Charles Locock was Queen Victoria’s accoucheur — or gynaecologist — who’d attended the births of all her children. No one could have been a more natural person for the Queen to turn to if Louise had become pregnant. His presence, as a senior member of the Royal Household, would have caused no comment; and if he did indeed deliver the Princess’s baby, absolute discretion would have been assured. Various events in 1867 support a belief that he took a hand in the affair. In the spring, Frederick, one of Sir Charles’s grown-up sons, suddenly moved into a flat near St James’s Palace, which may have been a grace-and-favour apartment. Then Sir Charles’s wife died unexpectedly. Victorian convention demanded at least a year of mourning — yet Frederick married his fiancee Mary Blackshaw just six weeks after the death of his mother. Four months later, in December, the couple adopted a baby boy. At around the same time, Sir Charles received a visit from a Lady Stirling — the mother of Lieutenant Walter Stirling, the likely father if Louise had given birth. Not only that, in the very month the child — named Henry — was adopted, his new father Frederick Locock began to receive a large and unexplained allowance. Indeed, when Frederick died in 1911, he left more than £100,000 — a fortune in those days. Yet he’d never earned anything approaching that amount in his lifetime. So if Louise did give up a son, did she ever see him again? According to the Lococks, she visited Henry all through his childhood. As Lucinda Hawksley discovered, the Princess was known to adore spending time at her country home of Dornden in Kent. Was it coincidence that the house next door was owned by Sir Charles Locock — and that little Henry and his adoptive parents were regular visitors? As he grew up, Nick Locock — the man who later brought the court case — found that he wasn’t the only Locock child to have been told that his grandfather Henry’s natural mother was Princess Louise. ‘Subsequently,’ he told Hawksley, ‘I realised that not only my brother and sister, but each of my 11 cousins had been told the same story by their parents.’ Family: Princess Louise and her younger brother Leopold pictured in 1886 Clearly, Henry had told each of his  own children that his mother was Princess Louise. If he’d been a fantasist, you’d expect his adoptive father Frederick to have denied Henry’s claims — but he never did, simply maintaining a discreet silence. What’s more, the Locock family still have in their possession a number of artefacts from the Royal Family. One of these is a bronze sculpture of a baby given to Sir Charles by Victoria, which may well have been made by the Princess. There’s also a photograph of Henry as a baby in a special frame, hand-decorated in a style, according to Hawksley, that suggests Louise, an accomplished artist, may have painted it herself. After Henry grew up, he married and had six children. Sadly, he died young in 1907 after falling out of a train in Canada. The story was that he’d gone to Canada to buy land. But, by a strange coincidence, Walter Stirling — his possible natural father — had emigrated to Canada: was Henry on a mission to find him? Six months after Henry’s death, a trust fund of nearly £60,000 was mysteriously set up for his six children — money the Locock family have always assumed came from the Princess. As for Louise, she’d been bullied by her mother into marrying the son of the 8th Duke of Argyll — who turned out to be homosexual. The couple had no children. Although Hawksley wasn’t granted access to the Argyll archives, she’s been told by a researcher who has seen them that they contain a letter from Queen Victoria to the duke. Written before the wedding, it states that Louise is ‘barren’. How could the Queen possibly have known that? The likeliest explanation is that complications had occurred during Henry’s birth which made it impossible for the Princess to have another successful pregnancy. For many years, both before and after her unfortunate marriage, Louise enjoyed a sexual relationship with one of the top sculptors of the day, Joseph Edgar Boehm. As Hawksley’s biography reveals, Boehm almost certainly died in the Princess’s arms while they were making love — another affair that was quickly hushed up. An accomplished flirt, Louise also narrowly avoided being involved in another scandal when she became too close for comfort to the good-looking husband of her younger sister, Beatrice. In short, there can be no doubt  at all that the Princess’s long life — she died aged 91 — has been deliberately sanitised and edited for public consumption. Yet with so many papers relating to Louise still under lock and key, there’s still no conclusive proof that she gave birth to an illegitimate child. True, plenty of circumstantial evidence suggests that she did — but, as Hawksley recommends, you must make up your own mind.

http://