Have recently been discovered by the Museum of London. These extracts cover just one day in the year after the Great Fire of London (1666) when the Barbican Area, as was, had been devastated and a new look concrete housing development had been speedily erected to house the displaced families.
Tueʃday 11th June 1667
I went with my friend the Duke of York to viʃit a new ale houʃe called the Tueʃday Club. An odd tavern that apparently is only open for two hours on a Tueʃday afternoon. It ʃounded promiʃing as these ale houʃes that open at ʃuch times are for rogues who want ʃomewhere to dock between their lunchtime beakers and their dinner time flagons. The liquor must be ʃtrong at the Tueʃday Club, if it is open only once a week. The Hell Fire club needs to look to its laurels, methinks.
We walked in and the other cuʃtomers were ʃitting around in a circle, a bit like the early pilgrims uʃed to do, before they departed to the world’s end, God reʃt their poor ʃouls.
‘A cup of tea?’ the ʃerving wench aʃked.
‘Anything ʃtronger?’ I pleaded.
‘Well we could put two tea bags in, but you will have to go eaʃy on the Hob Nobs as we only charge a groat.’ ʃhe pointed diʃcreetly to the honeʃty box.
The Duke of York ʃaid a tea would do handʃomely well, as he had been in his cups the night before with his brother…the King.
Eyebrows were raiʃed at the mention of the Monarch and the converʃation ʃoon turned to the Royal Court and the Popiʃh plots. We treaded a little carefully on the ʃubject of Rexit and the demiʃe of Charles I. However this topic was nothing compared to the hubbub when the Club members ʃtarted talking about their medical problems. One member had late-onʃet Type 2 Pox which drew gaʃps, but greater was the reaction when I ʃaid that I had a kidney ʃtone removed, with nothing to dull the pain other than a glaʃs of port. That got their attention and they were verily all agog (even the varlet who was ʃurreptitiouʃly attacking the honeʃty box with a hammer) as I deʃcribed the operation, although two did faint.
One wench aʃked me to join her in the back room for a ʃpot of waʃhing-up. I am too old a dog not to recognize what the wench intended and repaired thither ʃpeedily, and left the Duke of York to his tea and his Jammy Dodger. Although from the look of it, it did not as much dodge jam, but verily embrace it. The Club members ʃeemed pleaʃed with the Duke and ʃaid that the beʃt they had achieved ʃo far, in terms of VIPs, was a Lord Mayor and a ʃmattering of aldermen – the rogues.
The waʃhing-up wench ʃaid that ʃhe lived in Cromwell Turret – four full ʃtoreys including the baʃement, if I wanted to drop by anytime (although not Tueʃday afternoons obviouʃly).
‘Cromwell?… Cromwell? You have named your reʃidence after him? Madam we dug him up and hanged him uʃing chains. ʃurely naming a reʃidence after an anti-royaliʃt is High Treaʃon.’
‘Weren’t you a Parliamentarian – not ʃo long ago?’, ʃhe ripoʃted.
M’yes … but I changed ʃides when I diʃcovered that Drinking and Wenching were on the Barred Roʃter. His Royal Highneʃs, Charles II, likes his revels, verily … and not ʃuft on Tueʃdays.
However, it muʃt be ʃaid that my Cromwellian connections are a ʃlightly ʃore point, ʃo I was glad when another Club member popped in at that moment, mentioning that that he lived in Andrewes Lodgings.
Yet again, I was aghaʃt. ‘Named after Launcelot Andrewes?’ I exclaimed. ‘The vicar of ʃaint Giles? I am afraid, ʃir, that he neglected his duties and conveniently repaired to one of his country pariʃhes when the Great Pox was attacking London. Not that he cauʃed the pox, I will own. Indeed I am sure it was the French who brought this Pox upon us and, as for the Great Fire, well I think the French again have a lot of queʃtions to answer. If only they could ʃpeak Engliʃh we could aʃk them – the rogues.’
I popped back into the main room and noted that ʃir Peter Lely, the famous portrait painter – who has a Barbican ʃtudio apparently – had been ʃummoned to knock up a few ʃelfies with the Club members and the Duke. I know that the Duke does not like to ʃit ʃtill for too long – and who would if you have had the New Model Army chaʃing you around England for moʃt of your early years? ʃo I and the Duke bade them farewell and departed for the ‘Centre for the Revels’ at the heart of this strange concrete world.
I was mightily diʃappointed that the ale houʃe there is called Bonfire, when the memory of the Great Fire of London is ʃo raw. A fine Lake nearby, but there were no handy fire buckets. Are the leʃʃons of hiʃtory never to be learnt? Although looking at the concrete it might well withʃtand a ʃtrong blast. The previous buildings had thatched roofs. Thatch, like a fair maid, is pretty but there are always conʃequences.
After a flagon or two we paʃʃed by the Barbican Art Gallery but I could make neither head nor tail of what I was looking at. They ʃaid it was an inʃtallation, which left me none the wiʃer. Where were the Velazquezes or the Titians? A Titian you can pick up on the Rialto for a few ʃovereigns if you can perʃuade the rogue to ʃpend a few lire on a canvas and not paint on walls and ceilings just becauʃe it is cheaper.
The Muʃic Hall looked fine with a delightful echoing acouʃtic – all the rage with the King’s players. I noted that Mr. Purcell’s music was programmed. It was a Crumhorn concerto and a ʃonata for two ʃackbuts. Not his ʃoft delicate works.
We decided to wend our way home, I eventually to my houʃe in ʃeething Lane, the Duke to Weʃtminʃter. I don’t think we will be back very ʃoon.
On the way back, whilʃt dodging the chamber pots, we heard the local urchins playing ‘ʃimple ʃimon’ and singing the catch ‘ʃhe ʃells ʃea fhells by the fea fhore’. Although why the wench in the ʃong would confider the ʃea ʃhore ʃuch an ideal ʃpot to ʃell ʃhells when any varlet could ʃimply pick them up freely is beyond me.
ʃtill, that gave the Duke and me a topic to discuʃs while at our cups in a hoʃtelry or three on the way home.
And ʃo to bed.
submitted by Kevin Kiernan, Barbican resident
cityoflondonhistory 