When London Became An Island

The woman who launched a thousand coal barges

A celebrated Duke

Given the number of miniature gardens flourishing on the Regents and Hertford Union canals, combined with a thriving fuel delivery service, it seems reasonable to suppose many boaters subscribe to the idea that coal and flora may co-exist quite comfortably. This link is underscored now the Royal Horticultural Society has opened the new Bridgewater Garden as it stands by the Bridgewater Canal, which initially linked coal mines owned by Francis Egerton, 3rd Duke of Bridgewater, to the markets of Manchester.

The Bridgewater Canal was directly financed by the Duke himself and, despite raising the prospect of his bankruptcy when under construction and extended, it was ultimately a spectacular success and helped stimulate the construction of a country wide canal network. These days the prospect of a new coal mine is likely to lead to a furore due to environmental concerns but, in the C18th, cheap coal for the fires of the poor was often celebrated in songs specially written to mark the opening of a newly constructed waterway. Take this verse published when the Grantham Canal was completed in 1793;

And thanks to Heav’n since tis perform’d,

The poor will now be clothed and warm’d,

‘Gainst wintry winds and tempest arm’d,

The old and young with equal joy,

Will raise their voices to the sky,

And children yet unborn will cry,

Bless’d Grantham Navigation.

Opened in 1761 the Bridgewater is often regarded as the first true canal in England but, given its importance, it may come of something of a surprise to realise there may never have been a coal orientated Bridgewater Canal nor, in consequence, a green focussed Bridgewater Garden had it not been for the Duke’s broken romance with one of the most famous beauties of Georgian England.

Considering the impact the expanding canal infrastructure had on industrial development it is understandable that the Duke’s contribution was repeatedly recognised. Indeed, years after his death he was often toasted at functions following the completion of yet another part of the network. On June 18th 1819, for example, the completion of the final section of the Lancaster Canal to Kendal was marked with a chain of events very similar to those seen in London nearly fourteen months later when the Regents was opened. It is an interesting coincidence that the inauguration of the canals completing the link between one of the most distant towns in north-west England with the docks east of London should have occurred so closely together. The Times report about the Regents was not as detailed as one in the Westmorland Gazette hailing Kendal’s new access to the south, but we may imagine that toasts at the traditional celebratory dinners were similar.

According to the Westmorland Gazette, as a procession of boats made its way to Kendal, it passed under a tunnel (at Hincaster) and subsequently ‘every bridge and elevated spot was crowded with spectators who occasionally evinced their feelings by loud huzzas’. The number of spectators, many of whom had a perfect view from Castle Hill, which dominated the town, ‘was beyond all calculation’. This must have pleased the ‘Corporation, the Committees and Gentlemen’ as they disembarked and made their way to the Town Hall, where they sat down to an excellent meal. Here toasts were proposed to, amongst others, the Duke of Wellington (it was the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo) and ‘the memory of the Duke of Bridgewater, the Father of Inland Navigation’. Glasses were then raised to a succession of resolutions to which no one could object. Who could deny that we should ‘Never crack a joke to crack a reputation’ or that we ‘May never feel want or ever want feeling’ and many would have nodded at the commendation that ‘May the hinges of hospitality never grow rusty’. When the dinner was over the dancing began with a hundred and two ladies and gentlemen present. It lasted until three in the morning, which suggests you didn’t have to be in London to enjoy yourself in Regency times. Should you be wondering what the fashionable dances may have been you are in luck. Just click on the button to the left and you will see one that is for just six dancers, although now, of course, it wouldn’t matter if there were 60 or even 600!

So who was the Duke of Bridgewater and why did he embark on a project that threatened to bring financial ruin before all obstacles were overcome? The reason apparently lays in an affair of the heart, a view held by, amongst others, his great nephew, the Earl of Ellesmere, who was to write if the duke had become the husband of the most beautiful woman of her day he might indeed have become the father of a race of Egertons, but not of inland navigation. Consequently, if legend has it that the beauty of Helen of Troy was indirectly responsible for launching a thousand ships it seems reasonable to suggest that the termination of the Duke’s betrothal to a beautiful Dowager Duchess was indirectly responsible to the launching of a thousand (and more) coal barges.

 

Francis Egerton was born in May 1736. His father, Scroop, died in 1745 and at the age of 12 Francis became the 3rd Duke of Bridgewater on the death of the last of his elder brothers. He inherited a considerable fortune in property held in various parts of the country but his later boyhood was not particularly happy as he was neglected by his mother and mistreated by his step-father when she re-married. Nonetheless, when Francis was 16, as was the fashion of the time, he set off on the Grand Tour, escorted and guided by Robert Wood, an experienced tutor and scholar with a liberal turn of mind. The Duke was away for a little over two years during which time he drank a lot, spent a lot and benefited enormously from exposure to new places and people. On his travels, as might be expected, he purchased numerous ‘objets d’art’, perhaps anticipating such treasures would one day grace a fine family home. Under the guidance of Wood he learnt about various aspects of European culture and also, according to the Earl of Ellesmere, Undoubtedly …. studied the canal works of Italy, Holland and other countries. One of these ‘other countries’ was France where he was evidently impressed by the ‘Canal royal en Languedoc’, a C17th waterway built to link the Mediterranean with the Atlantic and on the route of which was Europe's first navigable canal tunnel. If the Duke had investigated this tunnel, at Malpas, it may well have paid great dividends when he started his own canal projects, but the cases of fine art realised no return for, once delivered, they were to remain neglected, indeed probably unopened, for the rest of his life. Nonetheless, the Duke retained a fine eye for paintings and when in Rome laid the foundation of a notable collection.

In the years before the Duke crossed to the Continent to round off his education he may have become aware of the reputation of the woman to whom he was to be eventually betrothed. She, after all, was the ‘talk of the town’ for quite some time and, as stories and rumours about celebrity were grist to the mill in market day conversation, ale house pontification and drawing room gossip, they would doubtless have penetrated all corners of the country and all levels of society too. Not all remarks about the subject would have been complimentary, but that undoubtedly enhanced public interest.

Two poor girls of surpassing loveliness

Elizabeth Gunning, along with her elder sister, Maria, made a triumphant entry into London society in 1750 from Dublin, where they had already made a name for themselves. The sisters were the daughters of John Gunning and the Honourable Bridget Bourke and, although born in England, spent several years living in Roscommon on the family estate. Unfortunately, their father was less than adept at maintaining the family fortune and although tenuous links to the higher reaches of the aristocracy were useful, they did not promise financial security. According to one commentator, both girls were apparently, well born and of surpassing loveliness but this was only equalled by their poverty. In an attempt to improve their standard of living Mrs Gunning abandoned rural life in favour of more permanent residence in Dublin, taking Elizabeth and Maria with her. This did not, at first, help the financial situation. So destitute of funds were the sisters that when they were invited to a ball at Dublin Castle in October 1748, they had absolutely nothing to wear and were only rescued after the manager of a local theatre allowed them to select costumes from his stock. One may imagine the raised eyebrows and gasps as Lady McBeth and Juliet were presented to the Earl of Harrington, the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. The Earl was impressed but this did not immediately raise the threat of penury and when the wolf, which must have shadowed the family from Roscommon, appeared at the door of their lodgings they were only saved from a mid C18th episode of ‘Can’t Pay? We’ll Take It Away’ by their furniture being passed out of a window as bailiffs demanded entry.

Over the next two years the beautiful Gunning sisters were feted in Dublin society and reports of their physical attractiveness soon spread to the rest of Great Britain and, indeed, to the Continent and the American colonies too. In the view of Mrs Gunning the time for making good marriages would soon arrive and she evidently thought these might be better made in England than Ireland. Consequently, after managing to obtain a pension from the government, Mrs Gunning and her daughters crossed the Irish Sea and returned to their original home in Huntingdon. From there the campaign to find suitable matches commenced, aided by arrangements for seventeen year old Elizabeth and eighteen year old Maria, to be presented at the Court of St James.

1751 was the first of a series of notably wet summers in London but, once they had been ‘presented’ nothing appears to have dampened the spirits of either sister or the enthusiasm of the public to catch sight of them. Indeed, the young women seemed to have generated something of a frenzy whenever they appeared outdoors, so much so that it was suggested a military escort should be provided to ensure safe passage through clamouring crowds. At one indoor event onlookers, some of whom were dignified members of the Court, climbed on tables and chairs seeking a glimpse of the phenomena and audiences at the opera evidently paid more attention to the box where the sisters were seated than the performance. Moreover, there was one reported occasion when a woman from New York crossed the Atlantic just to see the sisters for herself and having met Maria said that her beauty surpassed all she had expected.

Nine decades before the invention of photography it is understandable that only first-hand observation could validate an opinion about how good looking the sisters really were and such a sighting must have conferred a certain status on the spectator. Horace Walpole, ever the shrewd eye on the follies of his time, remarked how popular a topic of conversation the Two Misses Gunning had become and noted they make more noise than any of their predecessors since the days of Helen, and who are declared the handsomest women alive. He, naturally, made a point of seeing them and forming his own opinion, which was There being two, so handsome and both such perfect figures is their chief excellence, for, singly, I have seen much handsomer women than either.

Whatever Walpole’s opinion there were plenty of young men eager to form an attachment to either of the celebrated sisters but it is not clear how pleased their mother was when, at the turn of the year, the youngest bowled over James Hamilton, 6th Duke of Hamilton, who was reputed to be the premier ‘rake’ of his generation and very fond of the card table at which, unfortunately, he often lost a good deal of money. One night, dazzled by the sight of Elizabeth, he reputedly lost concentration on the game in hand and lost a lot more, but the misfortune had no impact on a new determination to win a greater prize. On St Valentines Day 1752, at a ball at Bedford House, he insisted he wanted to be married that very night. Elizabeth agreed but, as the banns had not been called and there was neither a licence nor ring, a conventional parson could not be persuaded to play his part. The only alternative was to adjourn to the private May Fair Chapel in Curzon Street where a maverick clergyman, Alexander Keith, offered an unusual, but legal, service. Half an hour after midnight, Elizabeth Gunning became the Duchess of Hamilton in a ceremony sealed with a ring from a bed-curtain.

Horace Walpole was not impressed by the way Hamilton had courted his bride and very critical of the way the couple behaved subsequently.

Duke Hamilton is the abstract of Scotch pride: he and the Duchess at their own house walk in to dinner before their company, sit together at the upper end of their own table, eat off the same plate, and drink to nobody beneath the rank of Earl-would not one wonder how they could get any body either above or below that rank to dine with them at all?

It is doubtful if the couple cared much about Walpole’s opinion, but the main blame for such haughty behaviour almost certainly lay with Duke as the Duchess always seems to have had a reputation, unlike her sister, for amiableness as well as beauty. I think this comes across in the painting by Gavin Hamilton displayed in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, which may be viewed by clicking the button to the left.

The marriage, which began in such an unconventional fashion, lasted almost six  years during which time three children were born. However, the Duchess became a widow shortly after her 25th birthday when her husband died of (according to contemporary newspaper reports) inflammation of the bowels. As she was still a striking beauty whose looks, some thought, had even improved during her marriage, it is doubtful if anyone anticipated the Dowager Duchess would stay single for long. It was at that point the Duke of Bridgewater appeared in her life.

Next

Castle Hill, Kendal

(from the derelict canal basin, 1979)

or how a broken romance opened the Canal Age