In 1848 Edmund Snee was 55 years old and had worked for the Regents Canal Company for over 35 years. In a way the Regents Canal, and the extension of the Lancaster Canal to Kendal, were the last pieces of a water transport jigsaw puzzle still recognisable today. As such they belonged to the C18th when the pace of relatively low-cost, long distance transport was set by the time it took to fill and empty locks and the steady work of strong horses. Then the C19th arrived in clouds of steam, shrill whistles and much clanging. It is not surprising projects were soon mooted to replace the Regents with a railway but all failed, although trans-shipment points from wagon to barge were to be built at various points on the canal. It is unlikely that, as company secretary, Snee would have welcomed the canal being drained and replaced by a railway even if he was promised continued employment with a new enterprise.
From the day it was inaugurated in August 1820, the area adjacent to the canal, which for the most part had been open country when the prospectus was issued, developed quite quickly, the establishment of gas works being particularly notable. Much construction was done with building material landed at convenient wharfs, but, unfortunately, the homes in new residential districts were far from being of a universally good standard. The area around De Beauvoir Square, built for relatively wealthy residents, was of high quality but Agar Town, a development that was some distance away from City Road Basin on the other side of Islington Hill, left a lot to be desired. The whole area was, according to the The Builder, lacking basic drainage or of any other arrangements necessary for health.
Industrial development during and following the Napoleonic wars brought increased demand for political changes. The rise of a substantial middle class led to the Great Reform Act of 1832, ushering in an era of increased control of various aspects of civil life over which central governments had previously exercised only a light touch. One example was the Municipal Corporations Act, reforming local government and paving the way for an improvement in conditions in urban areas. Another, far less beneficial to those affected, was the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834, based on a radical philosophy espoused by Jeremy Bentham. This legislation changed the arrangements made for assistance given to the destitute or cyclically unemployed or those just earning too little to keep themselves or their families. The first Poor Law had been introduced in 1601 but no centralised control had been created. Although workhouses were gradually established, help was often given in the form of outdoor relief, which, by the early C19th, was particularly needed by poorly paid agricultural workers in the south of England. The 1834 Act aimed at ending relief given beyond the workhouse door matched by new internal regimes which were deliberately made so gruelling that only those who had fallen on really hard times would consider admittance. In many cases elderly people who had no other means of support would find there was no alternative to entering such an institution, a step that was, understandably, greatly feared.
Today, set above a window in a street that leads off from Wharf Road is a stone block, bearing the date 1835, which indicated the position of a boundary between two parishes. Many of the workers at the Gutta Percha Company factory may have lived in the parish of St Leonard Shoreditch and, if so, they would have had a good chance of being spared the worst excesses of the Poor Law Amendment Act should they ever have had the misfortune to enter the local workhouse. The parish authorities administering that institution could, and did, claim exemption from most of the provisions of the new legislation and this was also true of nearby St Mary’s, Islington and St Luke, Old Street. Although the Poor Law Commissioners, who were charged with running the whole new system, disputed a claim by St Pancras that it too was exempt, the matter was not settled until the matter went before the Court of King’s Bench. There the judgement went in favour of the parish.
Close to the stone is a sign indicating the side street is called Micawber Street. At the time the gutta percha factory was built it did not have this name but Micawber is a reminder of the association of this whole area with Charles Dickens. In the 1840s the works of Dickens were being read all over the world. For example, W H Hudson wrote about being enthralled in his home on the Argentinean pampas by a teacher who displayed great talents as an actor as he impersonated characters from the novels. Mr Micawber was undoubtedly one character who was conjured up, a favourite quotation usually being;
Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen pounds nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds naught and six, result misery.
Amusing though Mr Micawber’s embarrassment might be a shortfall of sixpence could certainly to bring misery to ordinary working families given it would certainly impact on the provision of all the essentials of daily life. Consequently, it is not surprising the removal of outdoor relief after the introduction of the Poor Law Amendment Act was resented and one consequence of the change was an increase in social unrest and growing support for a movement supporting extension of the franchise to the working class. The name Chartists was given to supporters of this movement as the political demands were presented in a charter, first drawn up in 1838.
The Chartist movement had its greatest support in those parts of the country where there was considerable dependence on single industries, particularly in the north of England. There, in the event of a collapse in demand, transport related businesses would soon feel the effects and although the Regents Canal was sustained by the diversity of the London economy it was not able not escape the cyclical nature of trade completely. A severe recession could certainly affect toll income so, to offset this threat, the company directors would have been open to the establishment of new, well capitalised businesses adjacent to the canal as they offered the prospect of a rise in revenue. For this reason alone the arrival of the gutta percha factory on Wenlock basin would have been welcomed.
As the months went by those working in the basin would have become used to seeing the arrival of blocks from the docks and onward transport of finished articles. The quantities transported along the Regents were relatively small compared with the amount of coal or building material being landed on wharves but, nonetheless, contributed to a rise in canal company profits. This allowed a dividend of 12 shillings and sixpence per share to be announced at the half yearly meeting in the summer of 1847. It was not a huge amount, but sixpence more than that paid the previous year. The chairman of the company, John Bethune Drinkwater, on whom gravitas was bestowed by being the son of Colonel Drinkwater, was always conscious of the need to show fiscal responsibility. Consequently, he told the assembled shareholders, some of whom could be quite vituperative, that, given the strength of the opposition and cost of an anticipated bill, the latest railway proposal had been abandoned. He didn’t mention that the strength of the opposition lay with Her Majesty’s Commissioners of Woods and Forests, a body always keen to preserve Regents Park from the intrusive incursions of industrialisation. Perhaps Mr Snee had no comment to make but I think he would have been rather pleased, happy that the relative tranquillity of waterway transport would be preserved.
Content though shareholders might have been at the dividend increase nothing could be guaranteed for 1848. Serious disruption to trade could mean that far from paying a dividend the canal company could show a loss, which itself might prompt new pressure from the pro-railway lobby. When reports came in in early 1848 about revolution spreading on the continent things began to look ominous but London remained relatively peaceful, although preparations were being made for the first copies of the Manifest der Kommunistischen Partei to roll off the printing press in Liverpool Street, which was not too far from the City Road and Wenlock basins. Given this publication was in German it had little immediate effect and there was no contemporaneous English edition. Tension continued to grow, however, and was increased further when the Chartist movement announced a mass meeting would be held on the south bank of the Thames at Kennington Common. Now the government decided to act. Legislation with severe penalties for trying to make war against the Queen was introduced, the Queen herself leaving Buckingham Palace for the Isle of Wight via the railway to Gosport. Sandbags and gun barrels appeared at the Bank of England and 85,000 special constables were recruited to help snuff out any flaring flames of revolution. Under plans supported by the Duke of Wellington, substantial bodies of troops were massed in the capital on the day of the meeting, ready to intervene if the Chartists got out of hand.
We might wonder what Mr Snee made of all this. Since beginning work on the Regents there had been, nationwide, many alarms and dramas and London had its fair share. As navvies continued their toil news of the victory at Waterloo arrived, ending the decades long wars with France, but troubled times followed. There were a number of incidents, including the Spa Field riots of 1816, rooted in economic distress and, given the canal system provided an important link between London and Manchester, we might imagine that a few days after the 1819 Peterloo massacre, there would be some first hand witnesses telling the tale all along the line. The subsequent repressive Six Acts were linked to a plot hatched in Cato Street, just off Edgware Road, aiming to kill the cabinet and prime minister, but which actually led to the arrest and execution of the conspirators themselves. Throughout this period Snee continued to work steadily despite the Regents Canal project nearly becoming bankrupt, but even after the waterway was fully opened in 1820, rumblings of political discontent continued, eventually bringing a parliamentary reform Act, after which the Houses of Parliament promptly burnt down. Perhaps the glow could have been seen from Islington Hill. Unfortunately, the arrival of a reforming government did not reduce social tension and after the introduction of the Poor Law Amendment Act and the appearance of Chartism in the late 30s there were increased outbreaks of violence in several parts of the country. Economic conditions were worsened by a depression that did not start to lift until the middle of the following decade, which later became called the ‘Hungry Forties’.
In the early months of 1848 reports of the continental revolutions would have been as concerning to Edmund Snee as to many others who had raised a family and seen their living standards improve in the post-Napoleonic period. Although now a widower he continued to live with his son, daughters and servants in a fine house in Colebrooke Row, not far from the southern entrance to Islington tunnel. Given this comfortable lifestyle it seems reasonable to assume that when preparations were made for the Kennington Common meeting, the Snees would have been firmly on the side of the government, taking the position the movement should be strictly controlled if not suppressed. They may never have heard of Karl Marx or Friedrich Engles but it was alarming enough to read about Feargus O’Connor, a charismatic orator and Member of Parliament, who had certainly sanctioned the use of force previously. It was in the hands of leaders like this, according to one provincial newspaper, that decisions would be made as to whether London should be protected or given up to rapine, plunder and conflagration.
Had a conflagration begun on the morning of April 10th, the day of the rally, then drizzle may have put it out, but there was not even a spark. There was no sign of rapine nor plundering either, but this did not mean it would not happen later. Certain elements of the press derided those who assembled to support the presentation of the Charter to Parliament, one commentator saying he observed a pack of the most disreputable looking ruffians ever seen in the crowds making their way to the common. However, even he had to admit that they were following a respectable looking group which may well have walked down City Road, passing a short distance from the junction with Wharf Road. The members of the respectable looking group were, in fact, shoe workers and boot closers from Finsbury, so they probably lived fairly close to the Gutta Percha Company factory and would not have been on the road for very long. A few members of the group may have cast a rather hostile look in the direction of the factory as they passed, for use of the new material could certainly impact on their individual livelihoods if it had not done so already. The traditional skills of shoe and boot making, in which it was not easy to become truly proficient, were being made redundant by blocks of imported gum and it was now possible for anyone to just to heat up a sole and stick the upper to it. A sketch from Gutta Percha, its discovery, history and manifold uses well illustrated the purported benefits of this technological development and seems to have been aimed at those in the trade. The middle aged shoe maker with his array of old tools sits uncomfortably on a bench tugging at thread as he traps a shoe between his knees. The modern, younger worker has a much easier life using just a few implements. He is doing well out of it too. His fire is heaped with coals. This was how progress was presented but it was not accepted by everyone.
For many months press adverts had continued to extol the virtue of gutta percha footwear, the only slight drawback appearing to be a tendency for gutta percha soles to cause to wearer to slip on ice. However, this could be overcome, according to advice in the Leeds Times, by slightly warming the sole and treading upon a little sand. But the negative aspects were dwarfed by the positive, vouched for by many correspondents. One testimonial recommended gutta percha soles to avoid the evil effects of wet feet, another assured readers that the soles of his boots had outlived three pairs of heels with strong beat iron nails hammered into them whilst a third enthused that between 30% and 50% of the annual footwear costs of his family were being saved by a switch to gutta percha. Moreover, wearing gutta percha did not mean that fashion consciousness should be abandoned, for away from the capital soles could be shaped to the latest London and Parisian styles. Although the evidence appeared overwhelming not everyone was convinced by this level of praise. Mr Header, a Birmingham boot and shoe seller who had been in business since the year of Waterloo, was not convinced, as the advert to the right shows. Gammon, in this context, may be taken to mean deceptive or unauthentic, particularly when gutta percha soles were compared to those made of leather, whilst Mr Bull is John Bull, the personification of Englishness and the breeches pocket is where he would keep his money. As for lying vanities, well I am sure, like the Victorian consumer, you can make your own mind up about that.
How long Mr Header was able to hold back the gutta percha tide rising up Snow Hill is unclear but it is doubtful if work stopped at the gutta percha factory on April 10th. It was clearly going to be a momentous day. Many of the workers might well have had sympathy with the political demands set out in the Charter and some may well have wanted to join the swelling columns making there way across Thames bridges or from other parts of south London to the common. Yet each one would have been clear about what the consequences could be. Taking time off to attend a political rally might mark anyone as a worker who should be replaced before they turned into an agitator. A steady job with a regular wage was to be prized, not jeopardised, and the consequences of dismissal were plain to see in the undernourished bodies of many in the capital’s streets. It was over ten years since the publication of Oliver Twist, no doubt read with relish on the pampas, but no-one working in Wharf Road would need Charles Dickens to tell them what the consequences of poverty in their part of London were.
Some politically aware workers in the gutta percha factory may have agonised as to whether they were being cowardly in not supporting a movement which they believed could actually extend the franchise and remove the property qualification to become a Member of Parliament. However, there was always the possibility that if matters got out of hand and violence started the result might be much worse than on Manchester's St Peter’s Field’s nearly 30 years previously. And who knew what the government had plotted for hadn’t the Cato Street conspirators been egged on by Home Office spies? Perhaps one or two gutta percha workers did decide to leave the factory to join the shoe workers, but, given the turnout on the common was well below that expected, it seems many people with a job simply decided to stay away from potential trouble and preserve their employment.
After those who decided to run the risk of attending the meeting converged on Kennington Common they found themselves under the eyes of the police and the lens of at least one Daguerreotypist. The enthusiastic cheers welcoming the delegates arriving in a horse drawn van quickly died when the leader was asked to leave the transport and meet the Commissioner of Police. However, on returning and hauling himself back onto the mobile podium, Feargus O’Connor explained he had simply been asked to give an assurance there would be no breach of the peace, to which he had agreed. He then made a short speech emphasising he was most concerned the rally remained orderly, asking his followers How could I rest on my bed tonight, if through any incautious advice or expressions of mine, I made your wives widows? or … made any of those children who are dependent on your exertions fatherless? It was a sensible move by someone now well aware of the forces ranged against him. Although the way to the Houses of Parliament for the mass of supporters was then blocked by the authorities the Charter was allowed to be presented and the crowd of approximately 20,000 dispersed peacefully. When the electric telegraph brought news that there had been no trouble in other cities where rallies had been held, the government could congratulate itself that its tactics had worked. There would be no repetition of events in Paris, but if the submarine cable between England and France was ever laid and the respective monarchs wanted to message each other Queen Victoria would need to remember Louis Philippe was not at the other end of the line.
Edmund Snee and his family no doubt felt a sense of relief in the way things had turned out and so did many other Londoners, including most, if not all, workers at the gutta percha factory. Members of the respectable group could congratulate themselves on the good impression they had made even in the anti-Chartist press although they would be disappointed by the reaction of Parliament, which would not move an inch towards granting any demands of the Charter. But things moved on and for those working for the Gutta Percha Company there may have been ominous rumours of a kind of power struggle which might threaten their security of employment. It was not merely civil unrest that could be a danger. There had already been some turbulence for Charles Hancock had recently become very argumentative, something which the factory workforce would doubtless have been concerned about.
Back to Chapter 10 On to Chapter 12
When London Became An Island
Gutta Percha comes to the Metropolis
Chapter 11 - Mr Bull and lying vanities
Commanders and clippers
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