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Literary Quiz
DRAFT
Wandsworth Common features in a remarkable number of literary works. Here are quotations from some of them. Can you identify the source?
Most also reveal something significant about how the Common has been viewed at different times.
(Some extracts slightly abbreviated.)
[1]
I had literally never been farther afield than Fulham or Battersea Rise. One Sunday evening, indeed, I had got as far as Wandsworth Common; but it was March, and, to my extreme disappointment, the heath was not in flower.
[2]
"Mrs. Kirk—.—.—.—put one or two leading professional questions to Amelia, to see whether she was awakened, whether she was a professing Christian and so forth, and finding from the simplicity of Mrs. Osborne's replies that she was yet in utter darkness, put into her hands three little penny books with pictures, viz., the "Howling Wilderness," the "Washerwoman of Wandsworth Common," and the "British Soldier's Best Bayonet," which, bent upon awakening her before she slept, Mrs. Kirk begged Amelia to read that night ere she went to bed.
"Mrs. Kirk—.—.—.—put into her hands three little penny books with pictures, viz., the "Howling Wilderness," the "Washerwoman of Wandsworth Common," and the "British Soldier's Best Bayonet," which, bent upon awakening her before she slept, Mrs. Kirk begged Amelia to read that night ere she went to bed.
Shorter version: "the 'Washerwoman of Wandsworth Common',"
[4]
"I've said before, and I say again, and I shall keep on saying, that you two girls ought not to live alone by yourselves in a house in this out-of-the-way corner of the world."
"Out-of-the-way corner of the world! — on Wandsworth Common!"
"For all practical intents and purposes you might as well be in the middle of the Desert of Sahara; you might shriek and shriek and I doubt if any one would hear you—.—.—.—"
[4]
I went out for a walk one evening, at the end of the second week in July, for a solitary ramble amongst the quiet Surrey suburbs, in any lonely lanes or scraps of common-land where the speculating builder had not yet set his hateful foot.
It was a lovely evening; and I, who am so much a Cockney as to believe that a London sunset is one of the grandest spectacles in the universe, set my face towards the yellow light in the west, and walked across Wandsworth Common, where faint wreaths of purple mist were rising from the hollows, and a deserted donkey was breaking the twilight stillness with a plaintive braying.
Wandsworth Common was as lonely this evening as a patch of sand in the centre of Africa; and being something of a day-dreamer, I liked the place because of its stillness and solitude.
[5]
"Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by Lord _______ on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it had been a great success."
[6]
"Are you the possessor of a handsome shirt-stud — a large diamond? "
"Well, yes" said Monty. Was the Cobra Diamond actually coming back to him?
"Well, this diamond has been discovered in the possession of a tramp — a tinker — under most suspicious circumstances. He is now being examined at Scotland Yard. He says that in the middle of a thunderstorm yesterday night he saw you on Wandsworth Common. You looked round and round to see if any one was looking, and then you threw it into a horse-pond."
"Well, well, inspector, that is the truth — I mean so far as it was presented to the mind of the tramp. The fact is that I wanted to be rid of a letter from a young lady, and I threw away the shirt-stud instead."
"It is wonderful that he recovered it."
"Yes; how did he do that?"
"He waited until dawn, and then saw the diamond glittering on the bank. You had thrown it too far."
Monty was aghast. The Cobra Diamond returned to him! A tiny stone was pitched into a muddy horse-pond on a dark night, and here it was again.
When we make a pact with Mephistopheles, he keeps us to our bargain.
[7]
Unwittingly, she had jumped into the jeep with him, what had occurred after, she would never forget.
Larry hadn't even asked her where she had lived, once in the jeep, he drove out to Wandsworth Common, then drove off the road, and bumped towards a small group of Nissan huts.
"Hey, where's this, this ain't my home Larry?"
Sure as Hell look like home to me Honey," he leaped out of the jheep, and ran around to where she sat.
"U.S. Military Detachment. 657 Depot.' was all that that was written on a large board outside the hut—.—.—.—.
Nine months later Mandy had been born.
[8]
I left the house earlier than usual this morning and, though it isn't exactly dark, it isn't yet light. The common is full of ghosts and shadows; the trees still ironclad, unyielding figures to the early gauze of spring; the bushes and brambles along the railwa line knotted and clumped: a jogger's paradise, though I try not to think abut that [—.—.—.—]. Once, out running, I saw a pari of me's pants in the undergrowth. How? It's not like Clapham Common. It's Wandsworth. We're all Labradoodles and Rusty Raquets here, not cabinet ministers in compromising positions.
[9]
Patch Cooper was smiling, deepening the wrinkles on his weatherbeaten face. If she hadn't known him so well; if his expression hadn't been so kind, why, she would have been quite terrified of him. As it was, his face didn't seem to matter at all. [—.—.—.—]
My family used to live in London," continued the gypsy. "Wandsworth Common. Aye, there were tents as far as the sky could reach. That were in my father's father's time —.—.—.— things are changed today. I do reckon we Romanies —.—.—.— we of the true blood —.—.—.—" Patch Cooper hesitated, looking down at his rough, gnarled hands that held the smooth leather of the reins. "I do reckon we be a dying people."
[10]
Though the distance between Guildford and the metropolis is only about thirty miles, evening closed in before I saw at a distance the vast and dusky dome of St. Paul's, rising in sombre grandeur from amid the yellow haze, formed by the smoke and by the myriad lights of London.
I had left behind me the little village of Wandsworth, which is finely situated on the declivities of two small hills, and was traversing the common, then a wild and open waste covered with grass, gorse, and tall waving weeds through which the roadway passed. Clouds had now obscured the stars, and the night was so dark that I had some difficulty in tracing my path, though the accumulated glare of the innumerable street lamps and other lights of the vast city was very distinct but a few miles off, rendering the foreground darker.
When about the middle of the common, I heard the sharp report of a pistol and then the scream of a woman. These alarming sounds, and the flash of the explosion, came from the very path I had to traverse, so I spurred on my jaded hack, and found a carriage stopped on the common by two armed and mounted highwaymen, with crape masks on their faces. Such gentry were at that period still in the zenith of their perilous fame.
They had fired a shot to make the postillion pull up, and were now stationed one at each window of the carriage, demanding the purses and other valuables of the travellers.
Drawing my sword, I rode boldly up and demanded what was the matter, and who fired the shot I had heard.
"You had better ride on and attend to your own affairs," replied a surly fellow, with a horrible oath, as he coolly reloaded his pistol.
"Surrender your weapon, rascal," I exclaimed, resolutely, "or I shall cut you to the teeth!"
"Fire at him, Bill," cried he to his comrade.
On hearing this, his comrade urged his horse furiously round from the other side of the carriage.
Then I heard another female shriek as he levelled a bright-barrelled blunderbuss, the bell-muzzle of which was so near my face that the light flashed on it as he drew the trigger, for happily it only burned priming; otherwise my head would have been blown to atoms, as on inspection afterwards I found this formidable firearm was loaded with slugs of lead and iron.
"Hung fire, by all that's infernal!" exclaimed the fellow; but his exclamation of wrath ended in a howl of agony, when by a stroke of my sword I hewed off half of his right hand, and the weapon fell on the road, together with three of his fingers. On this they put spurs to their horses and galloped away at a break-neck pace.
With a shout of victory I pursued them for a few hundred yards across the common, and then returned at a canter to the carriage, the occupants of which proved to be two ladies, who, by then manner and difference of years, appeared to be mother and daughter.
The younger was a very beautiful girl with fair hair and a delicate complexion, but this was all I could discern by the light of a carriage lamp, which one of the footmen — a rascal who had hitherto hidden himself among some fern — now held within the window, while the ladies were putting on their rings, gloves, and bracelets which they had drawn off to surrender at the moment I came so luckily to their rescue.
"Mamma, dear mamma, all danger is past. They are gone, and we are safe; be assured, be satisfied," I heard the soft voice of the younger say imploringly to the elder, who was excessively agitated.
"Ladies," said I, touching my cap, "be composed now, I pray you; those fellows have fled, and are not likely to return. Fortunately, I have put a mark upon one that he will not easily efface."
"Sir," replied the elder lady, in a voice still tremulous with alarm, "accept our deepest gratitude. To you we owe our rescue. Our money and jewels would have been a trifling loss, but how know we that these men might not have murdered us here on this lonely heath? and we hear of such dreadful things in these days."
[11]
Muffled in a heavy travelling coat I went out into the wet and dismal night, having no other plan in mind than that of walking on through the rain-swept streets, on and always on, in an attempt, vain enough, to escape from the deadly thoughts that pursued me.
Without having the slightest idea that I had done so, I must have walked along the Strand, crossed Trafalgar Square, proceeded up the Haymarket to Piccadilly Circus, and commenced to trudge along Regent Street; for I found myself staring vaguely at the Oriental rugs displayed in Messrs. Liberty's window, when an incident aroused me from the apathy of sorrow in which I was sunken.
"Tell the cab feller to drive to the north side of Wandsworth Common," said a woman's voice" a voice speaking in broken English, a voice which electrified me, had me alert and watchful in a moment.
I turned, as the speaker, entering a taxi-cab that was drawn up by the pavement, gave these directions to the door-porter, who with open umbrella was in attendance. Just one glimpse I had of her as she stepped into the cab, but it was sufficient. Indeed, the voice had been sufficient; but that sinuous shape and that lithe swaying movement of the hips removed all doubt.
It was Zarmi!
As the cab moved off I ran out into the middle of the road, where there was a rank, and sprang into the first taxi waiting there.
"Follow the cab ahead!" I cried to the man, my voice quivering with excitement "Look! you can see the number! There can be no mistake. But | don't lose it for your life! It's worth a sovereign to you!"
The man, warming to my mood, cranked his engine rapidly and sprang to the wheel. I was wild with excitement now, and fearful lest the cab ahead should have disappeared; but fortune seemingly was with me for once, and I was not twenty yards behind when Zarmi's cab turned the first corner; ahead. Through the gloomy street, which appeared to be populated solely by streaming umbrellas, we went. I could scarcely keep my seat; every nerve in my body seemed to be dancing " twitching.
Eternally I was peering ahead; and when, leaving the well-lighted West End thoroughfares, we came to the comparatively gloomy streets of the suburbs, a hundred times I thought we had lost the track. But always in the pool of light cast by some friendly lamp, I would see the quarry again speeding on before us.
At a lonely spot bordering the common the vehicle which contained Zarmi stopped. I snatched up the speaking-tube.
"Drive on," I cried, "and pull up somewhere beyond! Not too far!"
The man obeyed, and presently I found myself standing in what was now become a steady downpour, looking back at the headlights of the other cab. I gave the driver his promised reward.
I strode along the muddy, unpaved path, to the spot where the cab, now discharged, was being slowly backed away into the road. The figure of Zarmi, unmistakable by reason of the lithe carriage, was crossing in the direction of a path which seemingly led across the common. I followed at a discreet distance.
Zarmi went on and on along the lonely path. Not another pedestrian was in sight, and the rain walled in the pair of us. Where comfort-loving humanity sought shelter from the inclement weather, we two moved out there in the storm, linked by a common enmity.
I have said that my every faculty was keen, and have spoken of my confidence in my own alertness.
My condition, as a matter of fact, must have been otherwise, for I had failed to take the first elementary precaution necessary in such case. I, who tracked another, had not counted upon being tracked myself! . . .
A bag or sack, reeking of some sickly perfume, was dropped silently, accurately, over my head from behind; it was drawn closely about my throat. One muffled shriek, strangely compound of fear and execration, I uttered. I was stifling, choking . . . I staggered " and fell . . .
[Three chapters and numerous dramatic happenings later—.—.—.—]
"Petrie! Dr. Petrie!"
The words broke in through the curtain of unconsciousness. I strove to arouse myself. I felt cold and wet. I opened my eyes and the world seemed to be swimming dizzily about me. Then a hand grasped my arm, roughly.
"Brace up! Brace up, Petrie " and thank God you are alive! . . ."
I was sitting beside Sir Baldwin Frazer on a wooden bench, under a leafless tree, from the ghostly limbs whereof rain trickled down upon me! In the gray light, which, I thought, must be the light of dawn, I discerned other trees about us and an open expanse, tree-dotted, stretching into the misty grayness.
"Where are we?" I muttered " "where . . ."
"Unless I am greatly mistaken," replied my bedraggled companion, "and I don't think I am, for I attended a consultation in this neighbourhood less than a week ago, we are somewhere on the west side of Wandsworth Common!"
[12]
In silence we again drove for an interminable distance with the windows raised, until at last, just after midnight, the carriage pulled up.
"'You will get down here, Mr. Melas,' said my companion. 'I am sorry to leave you so far from your house, but there is no alternative. Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage can only end in injury to yourself.'
"He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away. I looked around me in astonishment. I was on some sort of a heathy common mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes. Far away stretched a line of houses, with a light here and there in the upper windows. On the other side I saw the red signal-lamps of a railway.
"The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight. I stood gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be, when I saw some one coming towards me in the darkness. As he came up to me I made out that he was a railway porter.
"'Can you tell me what place this is?' I asked.
"'Wandsworth Common,' said he.
"'Can I get a train into town?'
"'If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,' said he, 'you'll just be in time for the last to Victoria.'
[13]
JULIA (rustling newspaper): I say — Muriel Fenchurch is divorcing her husband.
FRED: That's uncommonly generous of him.
JULIA: Do you want any more coffee?
FRED: No thanks, dear.
There is another pause. JULIA goes on reading.
Julia: There was an old lady found dead on Clapham Common last night.
FRED: Another!
JULIA: Don't be silly, Fred, the last one was Wandsworth Common.
FRED: Oh!
1. Charles Kingsley, Alton Locke (1857)
2. William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair (c.1850)
3. Richard Marsh, Tom Ossington's Ghost, (1898)
4. Mrs {Mary Elizabeth] Braddon Henry Dunbar — The Story of an Outcast, (1864)
5. Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost (1887)
6. Arthur Lillie, The Cobra Diamond (1890)
7. Geoffrey Kennell, The Upper Crust (2012). Spelling and punctuation as in the original.]
8. Sabine Durrant, [Under Your Skin, (2014)
9. David Severn, A Cabin for Crusoe (1943)
10. James Grant, Second to None — A Military Romance, (1864)
11. Sax Rohmer, The Hand of Fu-Manchu (1917)
12. Arthur Conan Doyle, Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes — The Aventure of The Greek Interpreter, (1893)
13. Noel Coward, Fallen Angels (1928?).
Borribles? Henry Mayhew?
Illustrated Police News — Saturday 09 April 1910
THE RED BAND
or
The Mysteries of the Mint
By Douglas Stewart
Revelations of Life in London Seventy Years Ago
CHAPTER VI, The Mystery of Rose Lodge, Nightingale Lane.
At the furthermost end of Nightingale Lane, and facing Wandsworth Common, at the period our life romance, stood a pretty cottage-like tenement that with thatched roof and covered with jessamine, clematis, and climbing roses, was a veritable arcadia in summer, and in the winter wore a cosy, cheery, comfortable appearance.
The night following the illuminations and festivities in London [PB: ??] was a dark and murky one — the moon, in a clouded sky, only occasionally illumining the highway and open country.
Black, grim, and weird looked Wandsworth Common, with its thickly-wooded furze-bushes, brambles, and giant fern, while a finger-post at its cross-roads. in the flashes of pale moonlight, appeared like a tall, spectral form in the centre of the bleak, open waste.
Looming out in the gloom, Rose Lodge (as it was called), with its white stuccoed front and its grey roof, looked cheerful and inviting the passing wayfarer, a light from diamoud-paned window in the upper %torcy throwing out bright gleam of yellow in the murky air. Faint and dull the hour of midnight echoed over the common as it boomed out from the parish church of the old town.
At the last stroke of twelve was dying away the muffled figure of a man suddenly striding forth from Nightingale Lane made his way to the gate of Rose Lodge . . .
More to follow—.—.—.—
Berridge ending, about babies conceived on the common, as suggested by Neil Robson?
[PB: Neil Robson writes: "Another suggestion for a Starter for 10 (if you haven't used it already, of course) is Across the Common by Elizabeth Berridge (1964), which closes with words along the lines of 'I love you—.—.—.— We'll have a child, even if we have to conceive it on the common. It won't be the first to be gotten that way." CHECK wording and ADD.]
Use extra from the intros to her book?The novel about the runner finding some clothes in the bushes? Was that Sabine Durrant?
Henry Mayhew and John Binney, The Criminal Prisons of London, and Scenes of Prison Life (1862)
A marvellous account of a train journey from central London to Wandsworth Prison — published 1862, but likely to have been written earlier, c.1855 (?).
More here.
Cornelius Webbe, Man About Town (1838), Glances at Life in City and Suburb (first series, date?, and second Series, date? [REFS?]
Some Tom Taylor? Some Edward Thomas?
William Ulick O'Connor Cuffe, Earl of Desart (1845-1898), Mervyn O'Connor & Other Tales (1880), Vol 1
(Click on image to enlarge)
Given a knowledge of the whereabouts of Wandsworth Common, the finding of Manor Lodge was easy enough. Everyone knew it, and one or two shop-people of . . . " (p164)
Given a knowledge of the whereabouts of Wandsworth Common, the finding of Manor Lodge was easy enough. Everyone knew it, and one or two shop-people of . . . " (p164)
Edward Thomas, In Pursuit of Spring (1914) etc
I had planned to start on March 21, and rather late than early, to give the road time for drying. The light arrived bravely and innocently enough at sunrise; too bravely, for by eight o'clock it was already abashed by a shower. There could be no doubt that either I must wait for a better day, or at the next convenient fine interval I must pretend to be deceived and set out prepared for all things. So at ten I started, with maps and sufficient clothes to replace what my waterproof could not protect from rain.
The suburban by-streets already looked rideable; but they were false prophets: the main roads were very different. For example, the surface between the west end of Nightingale Lane and the top of Burntwood Lane was fit only for fancy cycling — in and out among a thousand lakes a yard wide and three inches deep. These should either have been stocked with gold-fish and aquatic plants or drained, but some time had been allowed [35] to pass without either course being adopted.
It may be that all the draining forces of the neighbourhood had been directed to emptying the ornamental pond on Wandsworth Common. Empty it was, and the sodden bed did not improve the look of the common — flat by nature, flatter by recent art.
The gorse was in bloom amidst a patchwork of turf, gravel, and puddle. Terriers raced about or trifled. A flock of starlings bathed together in a puddle until scared by the dogs.
A tall, stern, bald man without a hat strode earnestly in a straight line across the grass and water, as if pleasure had become a duty. He was alone on the common. In all the other residences, that form walls round the common almost on every side, hot-cross buns had proved more alluring than the rain and the south-west wind.
The scene was, in fact, one more likely to be pleasing in a picture than in itself. It was tame: it was at once artificial and artless, and touched with beauty only by the strong wind and by the subdued brightness due to the rain. Its breadth and variety were sufficient for it to respond — something as Exmoor or Mousehold Heath or Cefn Bryn in Gower would have responded — to the cloudily shattered light, the threats and the deceptions, and the great sweep of the wind.
But there was no one paint [36] ing those cold expanses of not quite lusty grass, the hard, dull gravel, the shining puddles, the dark gold-flecked gorse, the stiff, scanty trees with black bark and sharp green buds, the comparatively venerable elms of Bolingbroke Grove, the backs and fronts of houses of no value save to their owners, and the tall chimney-stacks northwards.
Perhaps only a solitary artist, or some coldish sort of gnome or angel, could have thoroughly enjoyed this moment. That it was waiting for such a one I am certain; I am almost equally certain that he could create a vogue in scenes like this one, which are only about a thousandth part as unpleasant as a cold bath, and possess, furthermore, elements of divinity lacking both to the cold bath and to the ensuing bun.
It is easier to like the blackbird's shrubbery, the lawn, the big elm, or oak, and the few dozen fruit trees, of the one or two larger and older houses surviving — for example, at the top of Burntwood Lane. The almond, the mulberry, the apple trees in these gardens have a menaced or actually caged loveliness, as of a creature detained from some world far from ours, if they are not, as in some cases they are, the lost angels of ruined paradises.
Burntwood Lane, leading down from a residential district to an industrial district, is no longer [37] as pretty as its name. Also, when it seems to be aiming at the country, it turns into a street of maisonettes, with a vista of houses terminated by the two tall red chimneys of the Wimbledon Electricity Works. But it has its character.
The Lunatic Asylum helps it with broad, cultivated squares, elms, and rooks' nests, and the voices of cows and pigs behind the railings that line it on the left hand from top to bottom.
On the right, playfields waiting to be built all over give it a lesser advantage. How sorry are the unprotected elms on that side! They will never be old. Man, child, and dog, walking in and out of them, climbing them, kicking and cutting them, have made them as little like trees as it is possible for them to be while they yet live. They have one hour of prettiness, when the leaf-buds are as big as peas on the little side sprays low down. Then on a Saturday — or on a Sunday, when the path is darkened by adults in their best clothes — the children come and pick the sprays in bunches instead of primroses. For there are no primroses, no celandines, no dandelions outside the fences in Burntwood Lane.
And Garratt Green at the bottom is now but a railed-in, perfectly level square for games, with rules on a notice-board. It is greener than when it was crossed diagonally by paths, and honoured [38] on a Saturday by gypsies and coconut-shies. Probably it now gives some satisfaction to the greatest number possible, but nobody will ever again, until After London, think of Garratt Green as a sort of country place. I went round it and its footballers in haste. Nor is that thickening portion of London beyond it easily made to appear beautiful or interesting. It is flat and low, suitable rather for vegetables than men, and built on chiefly because people can always be enticed into new houses. The flatter and lower and more suitable for vegetables, the more easily satisfied are the people with their houses, partly because they are poor, partly because they are half country folk and like this kind of land, it may be, and the river Wandel, the watercress beds, the swampy places, the market gardens, the cabbages and lavender, and Mitcham Fair, more than they would like the church-parade along Bolingbroke Grove, the bands, the teetotallers, the atheists, and the tennis-players, on the commons which have a gravel soil.
Edward Thomas (1878-1917), arguably Britain's greatest nature poet of the twentieth century, learned to love nature on Wandsworth Common. When he was ?? his family moved from Lambeth to a number of houses between the commons (Wakehurst Rd, Shelgate Rd). He attended local schools Belleville School, Battersea Grammar School, and a private crammer, before transferring to St Paul's School in Hammersmith.
Borribles
The route out of Clapham Junction, by way of the railway, lies at the bottom of a deep canyon, the track being carved through a high hill on top of which stands the Granada cinema and bingo hall. Both sides of that canyon are as high as castle walls and held in place with a million bricks which, over the years, have been covered in a grime so thick that even the beating of the harshest rain could not penetrate it nor wash those million bricks clean. There are no roads on the topside of the canyon and no high buildings save the cinema; not one glimmer of light drops down into the chasm of that cutting.
As the Borribles left the western end of platform seventeen they entered this dense blackness. They could not see where to place their feet even. They stumbled and fell, aware only of a curtain of rain an inch from their eyes. They might have been tramping to the centre of the earth but they did not grumble; after all the darkness was their friend, their protector. The longer it lasted the safer they would be.
Because of this darkness the Borribles were forced to keep closer together than was normally considered prudent. None of them wished to go astray and be found, alone and vulnerable, on the main line in the morning with slate-faced commuters staring down at them from halted trains.
So each Borrible blindly followed the person in front, and it was only as the sky lightened a little that they noticed the great walls of he embankment were sinking and that the more they advanced the lower became the precipice on either side, until at last, passing below a metal footbridge, they could look to their right and left through wire fences and see the length and breadth of Wandsworth Common.
"Not much further." Knocker's voice came back through the wind.
"But watch out for the trains, they'll be starting soon."
Knocker was right. Not long after he had spoken the ground beneath the Borribles' feet began to shake and tremble. The stones lying between the sleepers began to rattle.
"Man," said Orococco, "It's an earthquake."
"Keep well back," yelled Stonks. "Hold the horse."
The Adventurers threw themselves against the slope at the side of the track and pressed themselves into the grass. Sydney held Sam's head and talked to him quickly with soothing words. Stonks stayed close alo and stroked the animal's flanks.
Sax Rohmer was the pen name of Arthur Henry Ward, a popular writer who is best known for his series of novels featuring the evil genius – and racial stereotype – Dr Fu Manchu. A blue plaque at 51 Herne Hill marks the place where Rohmer lived between 1910 and 1919.