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William Heath Robinson was a cartoonist and illustrator best known for drawings of ridiculously complicated machines. Even today, the term ‘Heath Robinson’ is used by many to describe a complex complicated machine that is constructed from everyday items.
However , he had a brother Thomas who was also a talented cartoonist and illustrator and was known for his book and magazine illustrations, and it was looking through a Strand magazine of 1905 when I came across these illustrations.
The article it illustrated was “”Off the track in London” by George R. Sims which I have featured before, but the illustrations bring some of the article to life.
The first illustration is ” Ye Olde Jimmy Thicks ” which was apparently an eating place in Three Colt Street, Limehouse, the article gives us a little more information.
At the end of the Causeway are a few two-storey houses built into railway arches. The trains run over the top-floor ceiling. Outside they are peaceful-looking dwellings. How much peace there can be on the top floor when an express or a heavy goods train passes over them one can only conjecture.
Leaving these quaint specimens of architecture on the right, we wander in and out of a network of narrow by-ways and quaint old-world thoroughfares to find ourselves presently in Three Colt Street. We have left Oriental Limehouse behind us. Here the environment is typical of the old-fashioned Cockney district with a strong leaven of the Irish element.
Here are plenty of public-houses well filled, and here are the local gentlemen who loll against the wall and the local ladies who gossip at street corners, basket or bag on arm and latchkey on forefinger.
Three Colt Street is a shopping neighbourhood, and one in which the shoppers take the middle of the road, for here are stalls and barrows with comestibles to suit the purse of the humble housewife whose allowance from her lord and master compels her to buy in the cheapest market.
Half-way down the street is a block of old-fashioned wooden houses, which are in curious contrast to the up-to-date bustle of the inhabitants.
One of these, an eating-house, boldly announces itself as ‘Ye Olde Jimmy Thicks,’ and I take it that the ‘thicks’ are the slices of bread and butter, which are better known at the coffee stalls of the people as ‘door-steps.’
Nearly opposite these wooden houses is a public house, in the window of which the programme of a. summer outing is already displayed. ‘An outing will leave here for a day in the country first Monday in July; five shillings, including tea, cornet-player and hat.’
The hat is given that the party in the brake may all be similarly headgeared. It is a light white sun hat, suggestive of a song and dance in the cotton fields. That you may see yourself in one before you start, a photograph of the company in a former excursion, all in the ‘included hat,’ is also exhibited in the tavern window.
The second illustration ” Desolation Land” offers a view from what is now Mudchute Park and Farm looking towards the Viaduct that is now in Millwall Park.
George Sims surveys the waste land and wonders if it could not be used for better purposes, which is of course what happened with the creation of Millwall Park and Mudchute Park and Farm.
In the centre of the island lies Desolation-Land, a vast expanse of dismal waste ground and grey rubbish heaps. All round the open space is a black fringe of grim wharves and of towering chimneys, belching volumes of smoke into a lowering sky that seems to have absorbed a good deal of the industrial atmosphere.
This waste land is spanned by the soot-dripping arches of the railway, which is the one note of hope in the depressing picture, for occasionally a train dashes shrieking by towards a brighter bourne.
Across the waste, as we gaze wearily around it, borne down by our environment, comes a lonely little lad, who wheels his baby sister in a perambulator roughly constructed out of a sugar box. They are the only human beings in sight.
Years ago this desolate spot was farm land. It might yet be secured and made into a green play ground for the children, who at present have only the roads and the miniature mountains of rubbish that have gradually risen at the end of side streets closed in by factory walls. If this central desert could be secured and ‘humanised’ and turned into a healthy playground, it would be a grand thing for the Millwall that is – a grander still for the Millwall that is to be.
The third illustration is named ” St Cuthbert’s Lodge ” which regular readers of the blog will know was the home of the Reverend Free whose book Seven Years Hard has been featured on the site.
In Ingleheim Street, a turning off West Ferry Road, there is a quaint brick building that at once attracts your attention, for above it is a flagstaff, and in the wire-protected windows there are flowers.
When you go down over the rough bit of roadway that ends in a wall of corrugated iron and a suggestion of black sheds beyond you read above the doorway of the quaint building the words, ‘St. Cuthbert’s Lodge,’ and you remember that this is the address of the Rev. Richard Free, the author of that intensely human document, ‘Seven Years’ Hard,’ the story of seven years’ patient, and often heart-breaking, work among the poorest population of a land of drudgery and desolation.
When we came first upon St. Cuthbert’s Lodge, not knowing what it was, the oddness of the building struck both my colleague and myself. The suggestion it conveyed to my mind was that of a lifeboat station or ark of refuge on a lonely shore. Why it conveyed that impression I cannot say. I am inclined to imagine that somewhere on the Yarmouth shore I have, in years gone by, seen something like it.
A veritable ark of refuge has this quaint little building – with the ship masts stretching high above it – proved to many in Millwall.
Mr Free and his wife, cut off from the world, with which their one link is the little, conductorless one-horse ‘bus, have brought the love of light and colour into houses of grimness and gloom, and, taking the human view of our poor humanity, have become popular characters in the island of mighty tasks and mean surroundings, of noxious trades and pleasureless lives, an island in which there are no places of amusement of any kind.
Anyone reading Mr Free’s book would know that his stay in Millwall was not quite that easy and Millwall was not quite as grim as George Sims suggests.
Thomas’ younger brother William Heath Robinson produced a series of humorous sketches in the First World War which showed his trademark sense of humour.
The German Button Magnets 1915
After the First World War his designs become even more complex and were used in books and advertisements.
He died in 1944 but his designs are still popular and there is a move to build a Heath Robinson museum in Pinner where he spent most of his adult life.
Update : The William Heath Robinson Museum is due to open in October 2016 and an exhibition that will feature the work of both of the brothers will open in 2017.
Many thanks to Peter Higginson of the William Heath Robinson Trust for the latest updates.
Plants for the Poor (part of the Window Gardening Society) in Millwall
It has been a while since I posted an excerpt from the Reverend Free and his very entertaining book Seven Years Hard published in 1904. The Reverend undertakes his missionary work with enthusiasm, however he often despairs about his congregation and the world at large at the beginning of the 20th century.
In the following excerpt the Reverend contemplates his lack of success of attracting the locals into his church.
Christianity does not ” count ” in the East End. There are eminent exceptions to the rule, but that is the rule. The average East-ender’s indifference to, and ignorance of, Christianity and all that appertains to it are almost beyond belief In my early days at Millwall it was an impracticable feat to secure at any religious service a ” quorum,” if I may be allowed the expression. Try how we might, we could not succeed in “gathering together” even the “two or three.” It would be impossible to exaggerate the heart-sinking that would seize me when, on arriving at our temporary chapel on Sunday mornings, I would discover half-a- dozen tiny children, hand in hand, waiting for the doors to open. ” There’s our congregation ! ” I would say, not without bitterness. It seemed to me so strange and terrible that Christianity should be considered no religion for strong men and kind women.
In view of religious backwardness or shyness, one of my evangelists proposed a series of extremely simple mission services. I heartily concurred and provided him with some thousands of handbills. With these he called personally on several hundred families, from most of whom he obtained a definite promise to come to his first meeting. The good man was new to the East End, and was full of hope that he would have a crowded house. When the great evening arrived, his congregation numbered exactly twelve persons, eight of whom were regular church-goers.
Our Window Gardening Society caught on amazingly, and enormous quantities of seeds, bulbs, and plants were distributed gratis to its members. In the third year of its existence, I inaugurated an annual service, which thirty stalwarts entered into a solemn league and covenant to support, seeming really anxious to show their appreciation of the encouragement given them to cultivate flowers. ” We shall have thirty, anyhow,” observed my wife, brightly. On the appointed day we got two.
This appalling irreligiousness is one of the things it takes so long to understand. I had a notion, founded on previous experience, that a well-known man, who was both earnest and unconventional, might draw. So I invited the Rev. J. L. Lyne, the ” Llanthony Monk,” to come and stir us up. At that very time, this popular preacher was attracting immense crowds of men in the middle of the day at St. Sepulchre’s, Holborn ; but, although I advertised him unstintingly, a mere handful of people came to hear him. Millwall declined to be drawn even by his shaven pate and sandalled feet.
Apropos of Mr. Lyne’s visit, a significant story reached me. About half-an-hour before the advertised time of the meeting, one of my choirmen remarked to his brother — “I must be off, Sam. Father Ignatius is preaching to-night. There’s sure to be a fearful crush.” ” Fearful crush ! ” echoed Sam. ” Do you know Milhvall, Alf ? Why, if the Queen was advertised to do a skirt-dance, there wouldn’t be fifty people to see her.”
Well do I remember the preparations I made for the first anniversary of the dedication of St. Cuthbert’s. I invited several clergymen to preach ; I worked the choir up to tackle a special anthem ; I advertised our proposed doings on huge posters. Dedication day arrived. It was a magnificent evening. I was jubilant. ” The weather won’t keep people away,” said I to myself; ” I positively believe we shall have a congregation.” When the hour of service struck, there was not a solitary soul in church. Everybody, including the choir, had scampered off to see a procession a mile away.
Nor were we Church folk peculiar in our failure to get people interested in Christianity. At one time a determined effort was made by the Salvation Army to attract a crowd in the West Ferry Road. The men stood in the doorways, smoking their pipes with unstudied indifference ; the women foregathered at convenient corners, nursing their babies and discussing the latest scandal. A long-legged boy swung down the street, shouting, ” Are you saved ? Come to Jesus ! ” A woman cried out, ” Wy, ‘ere’s the Army now ! ” and a neighbour added, with a shrill squeal that was intended for a laugh, ” Well, I’m blest ! Let ’em all come ! ”
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