Dig For Plenty

More on the agricultural/food-growing theme.

The 'Dig For Victory' campaign of WW2 is well established in folk memory; in people over 40 it is every bit as much a part of the historical consciousness of the war as the beaches at Dunkirk, storm-tossed merchant convoys, the Blitz, the Home Guard and so forth. But - and it was news to me - there was also a 'Dig For Plenty' campaign in the immediate post-war period, as the nation faced serious food shortages. More on this can be found in WORK 16/1718 at The National Archives: much of the rationale behind the campaign - national food insecurity and an inability to feed ourselves, political chaos, supply-line disruption - still makes sense in 2024, although it's hard to imagine an equivalent campaign today, more's the pity. Still, the 'Dig For Plenty' campaign might be worth researching further; and contemplating the state of the world (admittedly never a good idea), we might need all the help we can get in dealing with what's coming down the track.

Here's a shot of the campaign leaflet cover:

 

Hop-Picking and Pea-Picking in East London

I believe that the well-known tradition of East End families decanting to Kent to spend a few bucolic weeks in late summer hop-picking persisted into the post-war period; and to judge from photographs and other accounts, the whole thing seems to have been thoroughly enjoyed by everybody involved. 

There seems to have been something of an equivalent in the farther reaches of east London - way out in the Barking and Dagenham area. However, there it was not hops that were being picked but peas - presumably to supply the London market. This curio came to light after a recent trip to look at some school records at Barking & Dagenham Archives. The detailed logbook of Beacontree Heath School (presumably kept by a very diligent Headmaster (ref. BD213/2/2)) records very low attendance in July in the mid-1920s, and disapprovingly notes that many of the pupils were off pea-picking. 

Perhaps pea cultivation in Essex never became as established as hop growing in Kent, or maybe pea-picking by children was undertaken purely out of hard economic necessity and it never acquired the golden, quasi-holiday aura that seems to have become attached to the hop-picking excursions. Whatever the reason, summer pea-picking as a tradition hereabouts seems to have faded entirely from the popular consciousness: I had never heard of it prior to browsing the school logbook, which is perhaps no surprise in itself, but nor had any of the staff at the archives - surely an indication of just how deeply summer pea-picking had become buried in the unexcavated past.

Names, names, names

Sometimes the name just leaps off the page, and there is a breathless moment where one asks: 'Really? Is that him/her?' Try these recent examples, both of which relate to architectural history:

TNA, SP 78/105/85 [f. 327]: Battière to Coke, 11/21 May 1638, wherein we find mention of Inigo Jones, shortly to be sent some test moulds of a bust by a Mr Borrard (who, by the by, is feeling under the weather and 'keepes his bed').

Tower Hamlets Local History Library and Archives, P/MUN/5/1: two meetings of the Stepney Reconstruction Group in April and May 1942 which where attended by the unforgettably named Erno Goldfinger (cue blaring James Bond theme music). The great man is recorded offering free technical advice on housing to the Group.

And always when this happens, I think: do the biographers know about this? Because they should.

The not-so gentle pursuit of natural history

I was glad to read that the Linnean Society has recently catalogued the vast collection of correspondence (around 1200 letters!) of the physician and botanist Richard Pulteney (1730-1801). The coming together of medicine and botany in the person of Pulteney got me thinking about how the quest to find and exploit new species of plants and animals is one of the hidden motors of history, a driving force largely unknown to most people. 

For those who are interested in this sort of thing there is definitely a romantic appeal in the idea of the dauntless field naturalist enduring privation and danger in some distant spot, the prize being a species as yet undescribed by science. That's the myth: it all depended on the knowledge of local people who never got any credit, of course, and it could all end badly anyway. Witness some sombre 1902 correspondence in Foreign Office papers (FO 118/258, f. 280 to be precise), between Michael Rogers Oldfield Thomas of the Natural History Museum and the British Consul at Valparaiso Sir Thomas Berry Cusack-Smith, which records the brutal murder in Chile of one of Thomas's most valued field collectors - a Perry O. Simmons. Poor Perry was apparently foolish enough to flash his cash among the locals, and that was it - followed to some lonely spot and unceremoniously bumped off. Curiously, this correspondence is the only sign that the man ever existed - can't find a thing about him.

It's a small (historical) world

It's a small world, so they say, and it can sometimes seem like that in the field of historical research: people crop up in the most unexpected places, and entirely separate casework can suddenly coincide in very curious ways. The following example of this would be hard to beat.

A current project has me looking for the papers of the eminent scholar Sir Ernest Alfred Thompson Wallis Budge - now there's a name - and yet just today, working on an entirely different case, the same man leaps off the page of a 19th-century gossip magazine called The World. Said magazine was the work of the author and journalist Edmund Hodgson Yates; in fact it made his fortune, and he obviously had a keen sense of what sold as it was very much the Hello! of its day, complete with 'at home with' type articles and breathless accounts of the doings of various celebrities of the day. Not then, the sort of publication where one would expect to find a severely intellectual man such as Sir Ernest, but there he was alright, twice mentioned in a lengthy puff piece about the novelist Henry Rider Haggard. Budge apparently wrote letters to Haggard in Egyptian hieroglyphics - I'd have been disappointed if he had not.       

Advertising

'Persuading the publick to part with money they do not have in exchange for goods or services they neither need nor require.' 

Thus Dr Johnson's definition of advertising in his famous dictionary, published after much labour in 1755. Well not quite (although the word is there, differently defined), but I like to think it's the sort of thing he might have come up with had he witnessed the modern advertising industry in the full vigour of its operations. Rather than the deception and malevolent guile which we are accustomed to today, I prefer the rather blunter methods of an earlier age - this no-nonsense advertising gem aimed at the farming community appeared in the Buckinghamshire Herald of 16 December 1949, and made me smile:

Rats cannot resist RODINE

They eat it greedily and die!

All it needed was a picture of one of the brutes writhing in its death throes, but the editor of the Herald spared us that. 

  

A sobering thought

I'm one of the rather rare breed that is fascinated by the history of local government, but even I will concede that you don't start reading the annual reports of the St George-in-the-East Metropolitan Vestry (established, as you will all know,  by the 1855 Metropolis Management Act) expecting much in the way of historical interest or drama. Yet then on page 31 of the Vestry report for the year ending March 1861 - the Medical Officer's list of 45 coroner's inquests for that year - you come across six simple words:

'No. 23. From exposure and want - a Chinaman'

And it seems to me that there is a whole world of life and tragedy here. Who was he, this Chinese man who succumbed to a lonely death on the streets of Wapping over 150 years ago.? Did anyone, anywhere, mourn his end? I would like to think that there was someone, but this terse and unforgiving statement in the 1861 annual report of the St George-in-the-East Vestry is probably the only evidence - and faint at that - that he ever lived upon this earth. Without it, he would have gone down in utter silence. A sobering thought indeed.