A Victorian Marital Disaster

by Stephanie Williams

In the 1850’s the public breakdown of the marriage of Edward Bulwer-Lytton and his wife Rosina filled the press with a scandal that resounded through the drawing rooms of Mayfair and the back-rooms of Westminster. It’s a case that makes Johnnie Depp and Amber Heard look like a walk in the park.

You only have to look at his portraits to know you are dealing with a rogue. That knowing gaze, the laid-back look, the ringlets and slightly unkempt auburn hair.

Edward Bulwer-Lytton © Henry Lytton Cobbold 

Edward Bulwer-Lytton, first Baron Lytton – of Knebworth Hall – member of parliament, and for a brief time Secretary of State for the Colonies, has a reputation for being a wit and a dandy. He is also a famous and prolific writer – in his time selling almost as well as his good friend Charles Dickens. To Bulwer-Lytton we must credit such phrases as ‘pursuit of the mighty dollar’, ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’, ‘the great unwashed’, and ‘it was a dark and stormy night'. The Last Days of Pompeii, published 1834, was a best-seller for decades; his melodrama inspired Wagner.

As a Cambridge student, his virginity is lost to Bryon’s famous lover, Lady Caroline Lamb, in 1824. He is 21, she is nearly 40. When their affair comes to an end, he consoles himself in Paris among the fashionable ladies of le beau monde.

On the day before his 23rd birthday, Edward returns to London. That evening, his mother takes him to what he fears will be a very boring soirée. There he sets eyes on green-eyed, dark haired Rosina Wheeler, a noted and well-educated Irish beauty.

© National Portrait Gallery, London

You could say it was doomed from the start 

 His mother wanted him to marry money. She forbade the marriage, cut off his allowance, refuses to speak to him and forces him to work. Rosina’s mother, Anna – who at this time Rosina finds slightly embarrassing -- is regarded as a dangerous radical: a socialist and one of the nation’s first campaigners for women’s rights. She thinks Edward is a worthless dandy.

In 1827 the couple set up home in an expensive house in Oxfordshire.

Edward, who had won the chancellor’s medal for English verse at Cambridge, has no choice but to write for his living. Once inspired, he is in a state of fierce concentration. When finished, he sinks into depression. In May 1828 Rosina is in the final weeks of her first pregnancy when half-way up a ladder in the library fetching a book for him, she tells him she feels faint. 

‘He stared at me blankly for a moment, and then suddenly sprang to his feet. A look of hideous fury filled his face. He made a vile curse and pushed me to the ground. The next thing he did, was kick me in the side with such savage violence that I fainted from the pain.’

The next day, he is all sweetness – brushing away any reference to what had happened. Rosina cannot believe his behaviour. Meanwhile, he tells the servants she merely had fall. When their daughter Emily is born a month later, she is immediately given to a wet-nurse. From that time Rosina is scarcely permitted to see her. With his literary career flourishing, they move to London. Edward adds politics to his workload. The birth of a son in November 1831 does nothing to rekindle the marriage. By his own admission, Edward, with his tendency to melancholy, has a vicious temper and voracious sexual appetite. And is now flaunting an affair with a society beauty, Mrs Robert Stanhope. 

In an attempt to repair the marriage, Edward and Rosina travel to Italy – to Rosina's surprise, Mrs Stanhope, with her husband in tow, appears on the Channel crossing to accompany them. Terrible scenes erupt in Naples, where Edward, accuses of her of infidelity with a Neapolitan prince. He attacks her again, this time with a knife. 

'I had frightened myself, as well as Rosina… I possessed a temper so constitutionally violent that it amounted to a terrible infirmity. She should, after all our years together have understood that it was inhumane to tamper with so terrible an infirmity as mine. '

Back in England, they agree to separate. Both are just 33. Edward awards Rosina an allowance that is pitiful. She is denied access to her children. Rosina is forced to write. She does not hold back. Her 1839 novel, Cheveley, or the Man of Honour, takes Edward apart revealing such physical abuse that The Age newspaper dubbed him ‘Wifewhack’.

They are now equally obsessed with loathing one another. In 1847, their daughter Emily, who had spent her life consigned to various governesses, died of typhus fever in poor lodgings, aged nineteen. Rosina, who had to force admission to her death bed, accused him of wilful neglect.

Emily, © Henry Lytton Cobbold

Now Rosina pursues him with embarrassing public pronouncements at every opportunity: writing to Prince Albert decrying the Queen’s support for such a scoundrel by giving a royal premiere of his play, Not So Bad as We Seem in 1851, and posting advertisements around Devonshire House for Even Worse than We Seem by 'Sir Liar-Coward Bulwer Lytton, who has translated his poor daughter into Heaven, and nobly leaves his wife to live on public charity.'

In June 1858, Edward canvasses for re-election as Colonial Secretary in Hertford. Rosina plasters the town with flyers denouncing him. She takes to the hustings herself to tell the world what a man he is. In response, he has her committed to a lunatic asylum. 

 The outcry against him – spearheaded by Rosina’s women friends -- will not be silenced. He has a chat with Dickens at his club who warns him this is a scandal he will not survive. Within three weeks, Rosina is released. 

Both make extensive records of their feelings. As time goes by Rosina’s prose gets wilder and wilder. It may be the drink – of which he accuses her – speaking. But by now she has also realised the validity of many of her mother’s ideas on the rights of women. She will go on to publish a further 20 novels exposing the ill treatment of wives, haunting him for the rest of his life.

'The representative of Romance.'

Vanity Fair, Oct 29 1870

Bulwer-Lytton dies in 1873. Lonely and ill, still often mocked, he is covered in honours: a baronetcy and a peerage, knight grand cross of St Michael and St George and is buried with huge pomp in Westminster Abbey.

She lives on, still beautiful, troubled by pain, sorrow and debt. She dies in obscurity in 1882. Her own grave in Upper Sydenham lay unmarked for over one hundred years, until in 1995 when her great-great grandson arranged for a tombstone with the inscription she had requested: 'The Lord will give thee rest from thy sorrow, and from thy fear, and from the hard bondage wherein thou wast made to serve.'

Rosina’s most immediate legacy was passed to her granddaughter Lady Constance Georgina Bulwer-Lytton (1869–1923), who became one of the heroines of the Edwardian women's suffrage movement. 

But that’s another story.

Wedding Lintels & Marriage Customs by Catherine Hokin

 Marriage Lintel from 1610, Falkland

I have developed a couple of new obsessions since moving to Scotland six years ago, not all of which revolve around whisky. Moody looking castles are up there, as is the tooth-destroying confectionery known as Tablet, but the one currently leading the pack is hunting for marriage lintels.

A marriage lintel (also known as nuptial, marriage or lintel stone) is a carved inscription above the doorway of a house owned by a newly-married couple. They are a feature of the east coast of Scotland and date primarily from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries - the one pictured from 1610 is one of the best examples and commemorates the marriage of Nicol Moncrief, a servant of James VI. All feature the year of the wedding and the couple's initials and some also include pictorial details - there is a particularly lovely one on what is now known as the John Knox House on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, commemorating the marriage of goldsmith John Mossman to Mariotta Arries.

 Stone from 1801

The lintels serve as a record of a marriage and the joining together of two families, who were often aristocratic or monied. Lintels could be added to a building which was built specifically for the married couple, or were carved into a pre-existing lintel. They were always set over the main entrance and some also appear inside houses, above the most visible fireplace. Wherever they were placed, they were meant to be seen: perhaps we should think of them as an early form of social media - Mr and Mrs Smug-Married boasting about their updated status and their swanky new home. 

There is, unfortunately, little information about the lintel stones beyond what they symbolise - or little I can find. There's no list of the surviving stones (although Wikipedia cites some examples if you want to go hunting) and, as you can see in the third photo, many have become detached from their original position. 

The custom of marriage lintels had died out by the end of the nineteenth century, as have some of the other traditional Scottish practices. Grooms are no longer expected to carry a creel (a large basket) filled with stones around the village until their bride releases them from their burden with a kiss. Brides might still find themselves standing to the groom's left but hopefully no one is still doing it because the 

bride is the ‘warrior’s prize’ who the groom needs to hold with his left hand so he can fend off her family and other foes with his right. Similarly presenting swords from one family to the other as a sign of extended protection and acceptance isn't regarded as quite so crucial anymore.

 A quaich

Some customs do, however, continue. Although grooms aren't necessarily required to bring 'siller' (silver coins) to the ceremony anymore, a traditional wedding will still involve a scramble - throwing coins in the air for the children to collect. Wedding walks still take place, where the wedding party walk to the church preceded by a fiddler. Whether they have to turn around and start again if they meet a pig or a funeral as the rules once dictated is presumably a matter of choice these days, or very bad luck. Many couples still use a quaich, a two-handled 'loving cup' for the first toast to symbolise the joining of their lives. This tradition stems, as many of these practices do, from clan customs: the quaich was once used by two clans to celebrate a bond between them, with each leader sharing the whisky it contained. In a similar vein to sharing the quaich, some couples will still 'pin the tartan' - swapping rosettes to show that both husband and wife are accepted by the other's families. For anyone wanting to delve further, there are some excellent oral histories here, including blackening, the breaking of the bride-cake and betrothal customs. 

 The Goddess Juno

Where Scots have broken with custom is the wedding date. Traditionally the most popular auspicious month to marry was June - this was partly because the goddess Juno (for whom June is named) was the protector of women, particularly in marriage and childbearing. On a more practical note, others chose June in order to time conception so that births wouldn’t interfere with harvest work. Last year, however, the most popular month in Scotland was September - no doubt because this is the one month of the year when the weather is at its most predictable. A Scottish June bride needs a dress that co-ordinates with wellies, an umbrella and, this year at least, a winter coat! 

If you and yours are struggling to choose the right month for an upcoming ceremony, perhaps this poem might help. The message about May does seem rather clear...

Married when the year is new, he’ll be loving, kind and true.

When February birds do mate, you wed not dread your fate.

If you wed when March winds blow, joy and sorrow both you’ll know.

Marry in April when you can, joy for Maiden and for Man.

Marry in the month of May, and you’ll surely rue the day.

Marry when June roses grow, over land and sea you’ll go.

Those who in July do wed, must labour for their daily bread.

Whoever wed in August be, many a change is sure to see.

Marry in September’s shrine, your living will be rich and fine.

If in October you do marry, love will come but riches tarry.

If you wed in bleak November, only joys will come, remember.

When December snows fall fast, marry and true love will last.
–Anonymous

Which ever you go with, have the happiest day and, in the words of this Scottish blessing: May your blessings outnumber the thistles that grow and may troubles avoid you wherever you go. Now let's see if you can still recite that when the bills come in... 

THE ESSEX SERPENT by Sarah Perry. Adèle Geras

This is the wonderful cover of a novel which I read as a plain black and white proof.  I was enchanted from the first page, carried away by a rich confection of many different elements. It's a historical novel. It has a fantastical/mythical strand.  It's about developments in medicine and social conditions in the 1890s. It unrolls a landscape before our eyes. Above all, it's about love: different kinds of love but most especially that between Cora, the heroine and  William, a married vicar of an Essex parish, father to children and husband to a woman suffering from tuberculosis. 

I recently sent a few questions to Sarah Perry and she very kindly agreed to  answer them, so here is  what  the writer herself has to say. I'll add a few words  at the end of her remarks about my experience of the novel. 

ME: Can you remember your first inkling/tingling feeling/vision  before you started to write the book or began researching it? What was the (hate to say inspiration) little seed of the idea that impelled you? 

SARAH: I can remember very clearly, which I suspect is quite rare! About 4 or 5 years ago I was in the car with my husband driving through Essex, and we passed a sign to the village of Henham-on-the-Mount. He asked if I knew about the Essex Serpent – and I didn’t! He’d been reading an old 1930s book called Companion Into Essex, which had a chapter devoted to the Serpent and various sightings of mysterious beasts in the county. It immediately set off my imagination – I remember planning – out loud! – the novel, and by time we got home I already had most of the characters in mind. 

ME: Can you tell us a bit about your process? Did you do all the reading before you started writing or as you went along? Are you a diligent writer or a lazy one? Are you fast or slow? Do you edit as you go? At the end? Do you plan out everything very carefully? 

SARAH: I do have a process of a kind though I don’t think it’s a very good one. After I had that initial idea I did absolutely nothing – no notes, no planning – for a good couple of years. But the whole time I was thinking and pondering, and letting the characters develop, and reading here and there in books about surgery and the history of Colchester. Then, when I felt that it was about to burst, so to speak, I sat down in February 2014 and began to write. I got up again nine months later with a first draft. 

I do plan – but in my head, largely. I am not one of those writers who has lots of wonderful notebooks and handwritten drafts. Once or twice I had a stab at a plan on sheets of paper – but then I just never looked at them again. I think I leave it to my mind to sift and sort – and although I’m sure I forget lots of things. I always think that if something is worth making it into the novel, I will remember it! However, I did draw a little map of the village of Aldwinter and posted it over my desk.

I tend not to do too much editing of the draft as I go – that would be horribly dispiriting. Instead I get to the end and then print it out, and read through, and make marks on the manuscript. 

However, this time I was working to a deadline as my marvellous agent was going on maternity leave and I wanted her to see it before she went – so I didn’t do much editing of that first draft until it was in the hands of my editor.

So I suppose I am both lazy and diligent! It is very typical of my writing and indeed my character to do very little for a long time, and then to work with grim determination for many hours every day, neglecting myself and my family and friends in the process, until it’s done. 

ME: Do you have someone who is with you from the beginning and shares the work or do you hide it till it's done? Are you good at taking editorial or other advice?

SARAH: I occasionally discuss a line or a paragraph with my husband – or I might read him a section I am concerned about – but generally I kept it entirely to myself until my agent saw it, and intend to do the same with my current novel in progress. I think (though I suspect I am not the best person to ask!) that I am good at taking editorial advice, for two reasons: firstly, an MA and PhD taught me many a hard lesson in humility, and secondly, I trust both my agent and my editor implicitly. I think of their editorial skills as being essentially sorcery: with both books they have this uncanny knack of knowing precisely what I am trying to achieve, and how to help me achieve it. More than once, there has been a little scene, or a sentence, which in my heart of hearts I have know full well doesn’t work, but have tried to slip past them.  Unfailingly, they spot it! 

ME:  I think of the book as a many- stranded plait. What pulls readers through it and unites all the strands, so to speak is the Serpent. We do want to know what/if/how it is. How important is the element of mystery and discovery in the book?

SARAH: Vitally important, I think. All my life I have been a devotee of detective fiction, and I think it has trained me in the importance of some degree of mystery in every book – something to keep the reader turning the pages. And I think most very great fiction is, in some way, a whodunit, or a whydunit, or a willtheydoit! In Great Expectations we want to know who Pip’s benefactor is, in Crime and Punishment we want to know if Raskolnikov will get away with it, and so on. I don’t think there necessarily has to be a very definite answer  - but ideally there will be a solution, and it will not be one the reader could have predicted – but once revealed, will make absolute sense, the novel having been read! I don’t think I have successfully pulled this off yet but it’s something I hope to achieve one day: a good mystery, with a totally satisfactory ending.

ME: Do you read any contemporary novelists? And if so, who do you admire?

SARAH: Speaking of mysteries and endings: one of my favourite contemporary novelists is Sophie Hannah. Her mysteries are masterpieces of corkscrew thinking: I read them with my mouth open in awe. I’ve spoken to her a couple of times about writing and one of the marvelous things is that you realise she is an expert in the craft, really understanding it in the way a great pianist understands musical theory. The great love of my life is Hilary Mantel – I realise this seems an obvious response, but (as I am fond of telling everyone at the drop of a hat) she has been my idol since long before Wolf Hall. I stand in awe of her intellect, her wit, her bravery in her writing, the majesty and beauty of her prose, and her great kindness. I long to meet her but absolutely cannot, as I would probably just burst into tears. Until recently there were two novelists whose books I’d buy in hardback the day of release: Mantel, and Terry Pratchett. I wept so hard when I heard he’d died that my husband heard it from downstairs and came running up to see what the matter was. AS Byatt once called him ‘The Dickens of the twentieth century” and I absolutely agree: he was a master storyteller, and had a wit like a razorblade, but was also fundamentally kind and compassionate - that's rare to come by, I think. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------
And so to my opinion of The Essex Serpent. 

We start with  a short, mysterious prologue in which we almost meet the eponymous Serpent. We are intrigued and spooked,  but on the first page, in the first sentence, Perry gives a nod to Dickens: "One o'clock on  a dreary day and the time ball dropped at Greenwich Observatory."  We are once more in the real world.
The back cover of the novel lists the things you will find within it and I'm reproducing it because it sums up very well what readers will discover and enjoy. 

What this list can't tell you is how well Perry writes. She has found a language which is both plain and rich. Her descriptions of landscape bring the places she's describing to life in a way that takes you right into them. 

'The drizzle subsided and cleared the air, and without any sunlight breaking through the low white canopy the air flushed with colour. Everywhere reddish banks of last year's bracken glowed and above them gorse thickets burned with early blooms of yellow. "

Every character is so well described that you'd recognise them if they walked into the room. The love relationships are drawn with great sensitivity. We learn much about medical advances through the fascinating character of Dr Luke Garrett and about housing problems in London in the relationship between Martha, Cora's companion and maid and Luke's friend, Charles. Stella, the vicar's wife, is a very  unusual character who becomes more and more unhinged as the novel processes, partly because of the tuberculosis which ravages her body but maybe also partly because of something else... divine possession? 

And the Serpent? What's all that about? I am not going to tell you, but what  I will say is: the ending is most satisfactory. I can't give away important surprises that occur on the way to that conclusion, but there are losses and recoveries, visions and dreams,  arguments and debates. And everywhere love which is both destructive and creative, but in all events, unforeseeable. 

I reckon this book will be on many prize shortlists this coming year and if not, I will be very  put out. I loved it.   

Art Lovers

It ought to be illegal for an artist to marry.... If the artist must marry let him find someone more interested in art, or his art, or the artist part of him, than in him. After which let them take tea together three times a week.

EZRA POUND, letter to his mother, 1909

Thinking of this post, I did a search for 'art lovers' (with varied success), then 'writers and marriage'. Alarmingly, the first few posts suggested were not how gloriously creative life can be, but - to paraphrase - '41 Reasons You Should Not Marry Writers'. (Or Artists). 'Why Writers Should Not Marry'. 'A Spouse's Survival Guide ...' You get the picture. Which begs the question: what's so hard about being the partner of a creative person?

I'm just back from a recharging visit home, and a couple of literary festivals in Cornwall and Hampshire, talking about the inspiration for the first two novels. The idea of writing about a creative partnership in my next book is bubbling away at the back of my mind, and I was interested to notice again that none of the writers I met had partners who were writers or artists. Not one. Is it a case of when writers or artists pair up with their peers it can be very, very good - or totally disastrous?

I'm hoping people will offer up suggestions of successful pairings - creative and romantic partnerships fascinate me. Lee Miller and Man Ray, for example, whose brief relationship burnt out but left a great legacy of photographs. Shrugging off the mantle of surrealist muse, Miller went on to have an incredible career as a war photographer.

Hemingway's romantic life has inspired some wonderful novels lately - Paula McLain's 'The Paris Wife' and Naomi Wood's 'Mrs Hemingway.' 

Hemingway and Gellhorn

In 'Die letzten Tage des Sommers', just published in Germany, I wrote about the summer Andre Breton and his wife Jacqueline Lamba spent as refugees in the south of France during WW2, sheltering in a fishing shack in Martigues. Breton was the magnetic heart of the surrealist movement, Lamba a mercurial painter who was earning a living as a nude underwater dancer in Paris when they met. It was a passionate and equal pairing tested to its limits by the danger they faced during the war.

 Andre Breton

 Jacqueline Lamba (left) with Frida Kahlo

Kahlo and Rivera are another interesting pair - perhaps the secret to creative and romantic success is space (in their case, separate houses if not tea three times a week as Pound suggested). I'd like to think creative partnerships are about inspiration, challenge and support but perhaps finding balance in a relationship is difficult enough without throwing professional competition into the mix. 

How many truly successful pairings between writers, artists and musicians do you think there have been through history - who are your favourite art lovers?

Die letzen Tage des Sommers published August 2014 by Piper

Hats On for St Catherine - Joan Lennon

Today is the Day of St Catherine - patron saint of unmarried women.  (Well, one of them.  There's also St Andrew, St Agatha, and a disconcertingly large number of others.)  I've always envied Roman Catholics all their saints for odd things.*  And I love the way something as ghastly as martyrdom can morph over the years into, for example, a day of wearing outrageous hats and celebrating the notion that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.  

It didn't start that way, of course.  According to good old Wikipedia:

The French say that before a girl reaches 25, she prays: "Donnez-moi, Seigneur, un mari de bon lieu! Qu'il soit doux, opulent, libéral et agréable!" (Lord, give me a well-situated husband. Let him be gentle, rich, generous, and pleasant!") After 25, she prays: "Seigneur, un qui soit supportable, ou qui, parmi le monde, au moins puisse passer!" (Lord, one who's bearable, or who can at least pass as bearable in the world!") And when she's pushing 30: "Un tel qu'il te plaira Seigneur, je m'en contente!" ("Send whatever you want, Lord; I'll take it!"). An English version goes, St Catherine, St Catherine, O lend me thine aid, And grant that I never may die an old maid. 

And there was certainly a side to the St Catherine's Day festivities that was aimed at humiliating unsuccessful (i.e. unmarried) women - just look at that mocking gargoyle face peeping round the corner below!  

(Two Catherinettes in Paris in 1909)

But then look into the faces of the Catherinettes themselves and see the confidence.  The strength.  The sisterhood. 

(A bevy more in 1932)

(Henri Matisse drew this sketch of a Catherinette in 1946.)

(And here are Issaac Israel's confident beauties)

I look at these images and I see subversion!

If I'd known about it, I would have loved being a Catherinette, tromping about the place in a crazy hat and enjoying being taken out to lunch and given flowers and drinks all day.  Sisterhood, solidarity, and silly hats.  St Catherine, I salute you!


*  To read more History Girl posts on saints look here.  My favourite so far is still St Neot, patron saint of fish.  With or without a bicycle. 


Joan's website.
Joan's blog.

(Thank you to On this day in fashion, Blackriders  and Wiki commons for these images.) 

The White Swan, The Gay Brothel in Vere Street - Lucy Inglis

This weekend, the new Archbishop of Canterbury invoked the Easter spirit of tolerance and forgiveness into the debate over gay marriage and female bishops. As a state (if not a nation), we are still struggling to come to terms with the idea that gay people exist throughout society and may wish to avail themselves of the same legal rights and social status as their straight counterparts. I spend much of my working life researching and writing about the people on the margins of society in eighteenth century London, and in that work come across many ordinary gay men and women, trying to make their own way regardless of the strictures of their society. Gay men are usually more visible as their relationships were deemed criminal at the time and so it is court cases that illuminate their world. Two of the most famous are Mother Margaret Clapp's Molly House (details of which can be found in the Old Bailey Online records) and The White Swan in Vere Street. Margaret Clapp's was more of a coffee-house primarily for homosexual clientele, rather than a place where gay sex was traded for money and The White Swan was one of the first and most accurately recorded establishments had been set up with the aim of making money. It stood in a medieval street just to the west of Lincoln's Inn and was part of the area of London obliterated by Kingsway.

On the 8th of July, 1810 the Bow Street Police raided The White Swan, a tumbledown pub of Tudor origin near Drury Lane. Twenty-seven men were arrested on suspicion of sodomy and attempted sodomy. The Swan had been going for less than six months, established by two men, Cook and Yardley, but already had a considerable following. Cook, whose wife ran an ordinary pub nearby called the White Horse, was proud of his amenities, and his clientele. 'Cook states that a person in a respectable house in the city, frequently came to his pub, and stayed several days and nights together; during which time he generally amused himself with eight, ten, and sometimes a dozen different boys and men!'

Cook and Yardley had furnished their establishment for its purpose. 'Four beds were provided in one room - another was fitted up for the ladies' dressing-room, with a toilette, and every appendage of rouge, &c. &c....The upper part of the house was appropriated to youths who were constantly in waiting for casual customers; who practised all the allurements that are found in a brothel, by the more natural description of prostitutes. Men of rank, and respectable situations in life, might be seen wallowing either in or on beds with wretches of the lowest description'.

The account of The White Swan raid and the subsequent trials was told in 1813 by Robert Holloway, later Cook's lawyer, who sold many copies of his account. In it there are some excellent observations of the behaviour within the house, where faux marriages were conducted to 'bless' the coming union. The descriptions of these weddings make them appear parodies of the traditional service, but they were common enough that on some level they must have had meaning for those performing in them.

Many of the clientele assumed feigned names, though often not very appropriate to their calling in life. 'Kitty Cambric is a Coal Merchant; Miss Selina a Runner at a Police Office; Blackeyed Leonora, a Drummer; Pretty Harriet, a Butcher; Lady Godiva, a Waiter; the Duchess of Gloucester, a gentleman's servant; Duchess of Devonshire, a Blacksmith; and Miss Sweet Lips, a Country Grocer. It is a generally received opinion, and a very natural one, that the prevalency of this passion has for its object effeminate delicate beings only: but this seems to be, by Cook's account, a mistaken notion; and the reverse is so palpable in many instances, that Fanny Murry, Lucy Cooper, and Kitty Fisher, are now personified by an athletic bargeman, an Herculean Coal-heaver, and a deaf Tyre-Smith.'

It is Blackeyed Leonora, the drummer who stands out amongst this motley crowd, for Leonora was in fact most likely Thomas White, a 16 year old drummer in the Guards. Thomas was one of the 'youths' who stood and waited in the upper part of the house. He was a great favourite amongst the 'more exalted' visitors to the house, according to Holloway. Almost every single one of the people at The White Swan had an mainstream occupation. Of course, some were visitors, but White worked there. No doubt it was his youth, and probably his looks that drew attention from the richer customers. 'White, being an universal favourite, was very deep in the secrets of the fashionable part of the coterie.'

Poor Thomas, who wasn't even at The Swan on the night of the raid, was too quick to confess, and was executed for his 'crime' after almost a year in prison, although there was no doubt he was guilty of the charge. With him died a man called John Hepburn, aged 46, who had procured White's services with the help of a witness who testified against him. White was prosecuted as the giver, rather than the receiver which made it almost impossible for the court to avoid the death sentence when the jury convicted him of 'buggery'. At White's execution, various people of note were recorded. 'A vast concourse of people attended to witness the awful scene. The Duke of Cumberland, Lord Sefton, Lord Yarmouth, and several other noblemen were in the press-yard.' The Duke of Cumberland had avoided a homosexual scandal by a razor thin margin in June 1810 when his servant was found with a cut throat after threatening to out his master after catching the Duke and his valet 'in an improper and unnatural situation'. Perhaps Cumberland was one of White's 'fashionable' guests.

Of the other 25 or so, only six were found guilty and they were pilloried and imprisoned, including Cook the landlord. Yardley seems to have got away with the whole thing. The White Swan affair raised the public ire, and the convicted men suffered at the hands of a mob. 'The disgust felt by all ranks in Society at the detestable conduct of these wretches occasioned many thousands to become spectators of their punishment. At an early hour the Old Bailey was completely blockaded, and the increase of the mob about 12 o'clock, put a stop to the business of the sessions. The shops from Ludgate Hill to the Haymarket were shut up, and the streets lined with people, waiting to see the offenders pass....A number of fishwomen attended with stinking flounders and entrails of other fish which had been in preparation for several days.'

Cook refused to implicate any more clients, but on his release he began to blackmail two members of the clergy who had escaped prosecution during the raid and investigation. In what was probably a set-up, he ended up in prison for assault and debt and his whole family were systematically ruined in a series of evictions and persecutions that Holloway attributed to 'influential persons'. Just how influential, we will never know.