Review: The Amazing Dr Darwin by Charles Sheffield

 When I first visited Lichfield, I gave myself too long in that small City. I’d spied all the Samuel Johnson things I’d come for, spent hours in the Birthplace Museum and hunted out the other places he knew so I went into the Erasmus Darwin House as something to do. I knew little about the man then and I was amazed at the scope of his interests, the depth of his scientific knowledge, the influence of his poetry and the sheer likability of the man. Then I read a biography of him, it was more hagiography than biography and it cooled me to him a little.

There’s a very fun series of books by Lillian de la Torre called Samuel Johnson: Detector. In them, Samuel Johnson is cast in a Holmesian role with Boswell as his Watson. They’re good fun even if the prose is a little wooden. Having read those, I was excited to see Charles Sheffield had done a similar thing with Erasmus Darwin, though Darwin’s cases have a more supernatural flavour, X-Files in the late 1700s. 

This book is a collection of stories where Darwin, flanked by Pole, loosely based on one of Darwin’s associates, find themselves amidst something strange or supernatural and Darwin, using his keen analytical eye find out the truth behind them. The first story in the collection even has a cryptozoological air, with a trip to Scottish Lochs where a seabeast awaits. The first story written, the last in the collection also includes an evolutionary left turn - but the rest of the stories were rooted in reality, to an extent.

The mysteries were pretty engaging. I guessed the twist of the ‘Lambeth Immortal’, because something similar happened to my Mum at a gig, so the little clues jumped out a bit at me but mostly I was left feeling like I’d seen a good trick without being tricked. My favourite story was ‘The Heart of Ahura Mazda’, which reminded me a little of the series Jonathan Creek. Indeed, Darwin and Pole would make for fun Sunday tea-time adventures, I’d watch that.

I found the most important element of the book to be Darwin’s detecting methods. Unlike Holmes, he mades iron clad deductions that always prove correct, Darwin makes adductive hypotheses that he then tests and rules out. As such, he doesn’t investigate from a position of certainty or authority, but one of openness an testing. He describes how he has many theories but needs a sieve to sort them out, or that he hasn’t added two and two and made twenty, but subtracted two and two and made zero. 

A lot is made of his skills as a diagnostician - rather like another Holmes-inspired character, House. While Darwin was a respected doctor and had a particular knack at knowing if a patient was going to die, I found his fame as a medical man was too emphasised. The plots of three of the stories partially existed because of this reputation and he seems to be a famous man because of it. As well as not squaring with my impression of Darwin, there was less emphasis on his poetry, engineering and other skills - though some Lunar Society members get mentions.

Because they were short stories publishes in different places, we get some of the same beats when it comes to setting up our characters. We are always informed of Darwin’s weight and his missing front teeth and of Pole’s malaria - it grows a little repetitive and might have been edited out a little when being put into a whole book. Reading them altogether, it also becomes an oddly repetitive motif that it’s always winter or autumn in the stories, I guess for atmosphere in each one, but it becomes a bit of a bingo card.

That said, I think the writing was better than the Samuel Johnson:  Detector series and I really enjoyed Darwin and Pole together. I also liked how Darwin was unlike other detective figures, he has his quirks but they were quirks of Erasmus Darwin, not detectivey ones. It’s nice to read a detective story where the protagonist is a fat, content, intellectually curious man who gets on with people and is always ready to eat a big meal. It was nice to have a decent man at the centre of things, not brooding or moody, figuring problems out with an intelligence that is motivated by curiosity and wonder. It’s a nifty little book and praises a praiseworthy man.

Review: Hubbub: Filth, Noise, and Stench in England, 1600-1770 by Emily Cockayne

I came across Hubbub at the right moment. It was a few days after I’d recieved the keys for the new house, wandered about and realised how much work there was to do and fatefully tugged on that first bit of anaglypta paper which unravelled half the room and revealed what a bad state it was all in. I was about to spend the rest of the month (and who knows how long) in the muck, dust, discomfort and noise of house renovation and here was a book about the inconveniences of the past.

Emily Cockayne (cool surname) even had her own uncomfortable housing in mind, structuring her acknowledging about all the rough-n-ready places she’d lived in through the development of the book and the people who had helped in her journey - it was one of the warmest and classiest acknowledgements pages I have read. The book started as a dissertation about noise, and the place irritating noises played in cities in the early modern period, but grew to a more general discussion of “how people were made to feel uncomfortable by other people”.

To help navigate her journey through the noisome, she assembled a council of ‘inperts’, not objective factual experts, but people who were deeply alive to the experiences around them. Many of them were people I’ve already read and enjoyed; they include Samuel Pepys, Anthony Wood, Ned Ward, Jonas Hanway, Margaret Cavendish and Tobias Smollett. There were also people I was looking forward to meet like Mary Chandler. The little potted biographies of these inperts were written wittily, with an eye on their quirks and sensitivities. 

Cockayne really enjoys Ned Ward, finding any occasion to mention him and even naming her son after him. Being fond of him myself, I knew I was in good company. More strange is her seeming affection for Jonas Hanway. Known as the most boring man in Britain, Hanway introduced the umbrella into the country and wrote a description of a journey from Portsmouth to London which Samuel Johnson reviewed by thanking God that the journey hadn’t been any further. In that same book, Hanway has a digression about the evils of tea drinking which led to a wonderful Johnsonian rant in the review. Hanway did have lots of ideas about how to lay out a street though, and a lot to say about nuisances, so I suppose the ol’ busybody was a useful find for the author.

One of the little joys of the book, apart from the use of words like ‘ugglesome’ were the names of people mentioned. There are many legal cases and official complaints mentioned in the book and they included people who rejoiced in names like Andrew Niblett, Abraham Shakemaple, Thomas Toopots and Sarah Smallwick.

The book focuses on four towns; London, Manchester, Oxford and Bath but Portsmouth, Nottingham, Coventry and many other places are mentioned as well. (It did help me to see the pride Johnson has in Lichfield, due to the Conduit Lands Trust, many of the problems of other towns were lessened in his hometown.) Indeed, focus is the problem of the book. It focuses on the towns, except when there’s an interesting titbit from somewhere else. It focuses on the testimony of the inperts, except when someone else has something relevant to say. Even the chapters, headed things like ‘Noise’ and ‘Gloom’ meander in and out of the subject. As such, the book was itself a hubbub, a cacophony of different voices, towns and time periods all mixing together and trying to shout over each other. It’s a little exhausting, and I read this book as I was spending three hours after work scraping decades of wallpaper off walls and so was pretty exhausted already.

There is a through story in the book which is reiterated in the last chapter. London was already a large city, Manchester growing from a small town into a metropolis, Bath a backwater into a fashionable spa and Oxford plodding along with its tensions between town and gown. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, they were dealing with mediaeval problems, like pigs rootling in the streets but as they grew, and as the modern world was born, had to keep up with increasing industrial process and expectations. 

One interesting development was about street furniture. The traditional expectation was that every house had to pave and maintain the front of their houses as well as providing lighting, sometimes on a rota basis. As the century moved on, councils took the job of paving for themselves, creating more uniform streets. People began to hire other people to take over their lighting duties, which was then a job organised by the council for a fee - which is essentially one of the things the council tax does. The first independent lamplighter essentially worked himself to death with the responsibility of patrolling a large area every night and maintaining the lights.

This book also answered something I wondered, why Mount Pleasant is called that. It was originally a sarcastic name given to a large rubbish heap outside the city walls. I wonder if the hundreds of other Mount Pleasants outside of London have similar origins.

There were also some texts that added to my personal theory about the a symbolic role cucumbers played in early modern writings (now that’d be a PHD dissertation). There’s a woman in one of Ned Ward’s articles complaining that she is pregnant but has nothing to eat but a crust of bread and a cucumber, and the doctor, Thomas Cogan saying that cucumbers are not suitable for “flegmatyke and delicate persons who do not labour.” Cucumbers, only suitable for the tough labourer.

There are so many little bits and pieces all crammed together in this book. Whether its a town ordinance that states that wives are not to be beaten after nine at night; a watchman’s wife complaining that when he isn’t at work, he still announces the hours at night by farting, or the huge pig farm in London which drove house prizes down and ‘discoloured silver.’ 

Because of the subject matter, I’m tempted to say this book is like dumpster-diving, seeking the treasures among the detritus but that’s not fair, this book is packed with interesting information, it is a bit higgledy piggledy though. 

Under The Glass: On Renovating a House

 “I pity wretched Strephon blind 
To all the charms of female kind; 
Should I the queen of love refuse, 
Because she rose from stinking ooze?”
Jonathan Swift - ‘The Lady’s Dressing Room’

The above quote is from a poem about a man called Strephon who is distressed when he goes into the dressing room of a woman he idolises and sees all the work that has gone into making her beautiful. He discovers, to his dismay that the woman he loves is just as human as the next person, “Repeating in his amorous fits, Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!” 

Swift’s conclusion is to pity Strephon’s either/or attitude to women’s beauty, and to say that he should appreciate the work and effort that goes into, “Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.” In some ways, it’s a lesson I’ve had to learn from my house. 

When this posts, I shall be moving into that house. As I write, it’s the Sunday before. Yesterday I was cleaning up the front room, ready for carpets to go down on Tuesday and I discovered that one of the walls was damp. This was after more than five-thousand pounds of damp-proofing being done. The day before, one of the radiators in the back room started squirting water and the ceiling is hanging on out of nothing but habit. Needless to say, when I do move in, most of the downstairs will not be liveable. I only hope the radiator is fixed soon so I can get the boiler going again and have hot water.

I knew the house was old, probably turn of the century, and that it hadn’t been very well looked after. It had been empty for almost two years and before that was owned by a landlord who obviously had a habit of hiding problems rather than fixing them. A shop round the corner informed me that the owner before that was an old lady and I think I found some of her wallpaper, she was very fond of geometric shapes and lines with small flowers over the top in some pretty dingy colours.

At first I thought that all I needed to do was have the damp-proofing done and fill in a little gap in the back room floor. However, big chunks of the floor in that room simply came off. It turned out someone had put screed on it on top of vinyl floor tiles and it was just peeling off. I could simply pull parts off with my hands which were roughly the thickness and consistency of cracking an old easter egg. Where the concrete was nearer the damp parts, it was this stubborn sludge, which probably took me more than thirty hours to chip, scrape and knock off. Then I pulled the vinyl tiles up.

Upstairs, there was this creepy poem on the wall. I didn’t recognise it at first until I showed it to someone and they sung some of the Aerosmith song that was in Independence Day.

 I pulled some of that off, then saw a loose bit of anaglypta wallpaper. I didn’t much like the texture and planned to paint the wall so I tugged at it and it peeled all along the wall, all along the ceiling and back down the other wall. I did this a few more times until I was in a sea of wallpaper. 

Of course, the bits that were left (which were mainly old wallpapers going back who-know how long) were stubborn and needed twenty-odds hours of chipping and scraping each. These revealed walls that were more polyfilla than wall, weird bodge jobs and plaster dating from before this millennium. 

I followed this process in the other bedroom, the back room and the hallway. I couldn’t face doing the stairs - and nor could I reach all of them. Every room I’ve stripped has shown holes, cracks and various dodgy things. The plasterers had to wrap the rooms they’ve plastered with a gel mesh to make them plasterable.

There were tiles in the kitchen and bathroom which stopped doors from closing and were coming up. They were plastic and glued onto white porcelain tiles that had been there before. The wet from the dampness had got into the glue and they were pinging up all over, so I pulled the rest up. I liked the porcelain tiles more, but the glue needed scraping off them. As I pulled the tiles up, I smelt bleach where people had presumably mopped the floor placed on them, soaked through and trapped between the layers.

The biggest headache has been power. As a tenanted property, the electricity and gas meters are ones needing a plastic stick and a card. They are old and bulky and very ugly. The gas one is low down in the front room, the electricity is high up in the hallway. So high up I couldn’t reach to even see the information screens. I had to borrow a ladder from a nearby lumberyard before I got my own stepladder.

 What’s more, being left for years, they’d both accumulated large debts, which were extremely difficult to write off. When I sorted that out, I scheduled someone to install smart-meters so I could switch to a better company, he couldn’t do it because the current electricity meter is installed so unsafely.

The very first job I did was the easiest. Mine is a red brick house and people have scraped and carved their names in the bricks. I don’t mind those names, I sometimes wonder who ‘Roy’ was. I did mind the swastika though. I picked up a red brick that was laying around and scraped that symbol off the wall. Still the easiest and most satisfying job I’ve done.

Yet, through it all, I’ve grown to love my house, even as it throws problem after problem at me. I’ve named her Jane, after Calamity Jane. Today I found out the area I’m moving to is the second most deprived ward in the country, there’s a whole youtube genre of people taking their cameras and filming poverty porn around the streets I’m soon to call mine. I feel a bit sorry for poor old Jane, old and unloved as she is and peculiarly, each set back seems to make me more determined to create the cosy, productive hideaway I’m after. I’ve worked hard on Jane, three hours after every work day and another eight on Saturdays. It's been difficult.

 Although she won’t be totally ready when I move in, I’ll still have access to bedrooms, heating and hot water, a washing machine and more space than I ever had in my London attics. She might not be home yet, but she will be. Like Strephon in Swift’s poem, I’ve seen the stinking ooze, but like the narrator of the poem, I’ll appreciate her beauty all the more for that. 

Under the Glass: On Houses

 

"To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labour tends.” - Samuel Johnson, Rambler 68, November 10th 1750

There’s a reason I called this site The Grub Street Lodger besides my interest in Grub Street. I was a lodger, one of those strange, single men who pay to live in someone’s spare room or attic, which  I then filled beyond bursting with books. I have had six addresses since setting up this site, and one of those was for almost ten years. 

I wasn’t the only one. My three big Grub Street heroes were all lodgers. 

Oliver Goldsmith never owned property. Famously, it was whilst lodging in Wine Office Court when he was dunned by his landlady and called on his near neighbour, Samuel Johnson for help. Johnson then rooted through Goldsmith’s papers, found a finished novel, The Vicar of Wakefield and sent it out, selling it to John Newbery’s nephew for sixty pound. (Despite not thinking it worth printing for two years, it ended up being a steal, becoming a highly successful work). Goldsmith also lived in Arbour Court, where there are stories of him helping the landlady hang up the washing and entertaining the children with magic tricks. Another time, he lodged with John Newberry himself in Cannonbury House, where he strode the fields of Islington, seriously trying to think of funny things for his comedies.

Another lodger of Cannonbury House was Christopher Smart, who remembered those days as a time of domestic bliss with his wife and children. He remembered this in less salubrious lodgings in Mr Potter’s private mad house, which was a lodging paid for him. Whilst there, he felt himself emasculated because he had to formally renounce his future claims on his mother’s property and any future property of his wife. He later died in another rented dwelling in the Liberty of the Fleet Prison, where he lived as a debtor.

Samuel Johnson himself has two house museums dedicated to him, the on in Gough Square and his birthplace of Breadmarket Street in Lichfield. He did own the Lichfield house for a short while but had to put it in trust when he couldn’t pay the upkeep. When he visited, he never stayed there but put himself up in guest houses. 

Owning a house wasn’t the aspiration in the eighteenth century it is now, but I found comfort in being like them, and so many other fascinating people and writers who had no place to call their own. I am, however, no longer in their number. I am a homeowner (as long as I keep up mortgage repayments, but my name is on the deed). 

It’s a phrase that sits strange with me. I never exactly did a moonlight flit, I’ve carried too many books around with me to do that but I could be gone within a weekend, and had to a couple of times. Now  am fixed, tied to a place and address in a way that I never have before. It’d feel an odd thing to say that the house has become part of my identity, I haven’t even moved into it yet, but I am a part of its identity, another name in a long list of owners. 

My new house is not an eighteenth century house, built, probably at the beginning of the twentieth century (or a smidge before), but there was something about it that appealed to me. Pretty narrow, the house reminded me of a London town house in miniature, with red bricks that put me in mind of Gough Square. Rather like Gough Square when Lord Harmsworth bought it, my house has been neglected for the past few years and I have been working incredibly hard to make it a comfortable place for me and my books, because, as Johnson said, “

To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labour tends.

Was My Writing MA Worth It?

 Just a little video where I talk about my MA, why I did it and what I got out of it. In true click-bait terms, the answer may surprise you.

Review: Mothers of the Novel by Dale Spender

Mothers of the Novel was published in 1987 with a specific polemical purpose, to re-establish the crucial role women played in the novel’s early life. What was originally supposed to be a chapter on the few progenitors to Jane Austen opened the door to whole generations of women who deserve to be better known and appreciated in the literary canon.

This strength of purpose gives the book vigour and bite but it also can make the book a little repetitive. It’s an important point to repeat, and I wouldn’t want the book to be lighter or more diplomatic, but it can get a little wearing. Writer after writer is brought up, discussed and analysed but each chapter ends with the same point, that the writer is not better known or respected because she was a woman. Some women were to scandalous to survive in the canon but some too demure, some women wrote too fast and others too slow, some wrote books that followed trends and some were too experimental, some were too political and some too domestic - whatever reason given, it boils down to the fact the writer was a woman.

This alone would have made this a powerful book but what makes it enjoyable, thrilling even, is the desire to introduce the reader to new writers and new works. It’s like being cornered by a friend who’s just got into something and wants to share it with you. The enthusiasm and glee to share all these new works and writers is what gives the joy to balance the anger.

I don’t know how much impact the book at series had when it came out, I was only two and my favourite books were Ladybird fairy stories (The Magic Porridge Pot was a banger) but I hope it made a splash. Certainly, in 2025, there has been some shift. Authors who were still a little remembered, like Aphra Behn and Fanny Burney are more central to the general, popular story of the novel. Fanny Burney even featured in a mid 2010s documentary about the birth of the novel, though she was described as the progenitor of ‘chick-lit’ and example of all women’s writing being forced into the same genre. I know that Eliza Haywood is getting much more love (as she deserves) with some of her works being figured in early novel courses… there’s some shift, but not much.

One of my overriding interests are books written in the eighteenth century (and I’m prepared to stretch into the long century when the occasion requires) and I had heard of many of the writers and read a chunk of them, but there were still authors I’d never heard of, books I’ve not tracked down.  I want to find some writing by Anne Fanshawe now, I’m doubling my efforts to find Fielding and Collier’s The Cry, I’m looking forward to reading my Amelia Opie and my Eliza Fenwick. Even to an old hand like me, this book has opened up new roads to explore. 

I didn’t realise Aphra Behn wrote 13 novels, I’ve only read two of them. I knew that Margaret Cavendish’s The Blazing World is supposed to be good but I never realised how forthright and interesting she was. I had always assumed Delreviere Manley’s New Atlantis was a simple compendium of gossip but I didn’t know she worked with Swift, that they wrote journalism and satire together. Hearing about one character in that book, a gossipy midwife called Mrs Nightwork, I can’t help but draw links with Christopher Smart’s Mary Midnight - and I look forward to reading it to see if he may have got inspiration from there. 

There were so many women writers towards the end of the eighteenth century, and they were so successful, that male writers began to publish under female pen names. A newer crop of women writers in the second half of the twentieth century may have felt they were carving out something new, with women’s literary journals and prizes - but they were only recreating a network that women writers had before. Jane Austen didn’t write in a vacuum, she was part of a full literary tradition. Even thirty-odd years after this book was published, I think that tradition is largely unknown and unsung.

Spender is quite contemptous of the two main histories of the novel, Ian Watts’s The Rise of the Novel (still in print) and Walter Allen’s The English Novel - both of which I’ve got but not read yet (I want to as a soon as I find the boxes they are in though). She gives Watts a little more credit for adding some women novelists in his telling, but as supporting parts to the five big men. Allen, according to Spender’s account, doesn’t even seem to realise that women might have had something to say through history. 

I don’t agree with everything Spender argues. I’m not convinced that Anne Radcliffe should be heralded as the founder of the Romantic Movement, though I have to admit ignorance about the Romantics in general. I’m also not convinced that the erasure of women should be seen as an active attack by men, that it’s more a byproduct of men getting the last word every time and not even considering women. I don’t think Walter Allen left women out of his history because of an animus to women as much as his having a huge blind spot. I hope this book has reduced a blind spot of my own, even as a try to make women and male writings even throughout a year, I do read more men. It also challenged me to think about the book I’m writing and introduced a new chapter where one of the female characters gets to have her own say in a way I hadn’t thought of before.

I’ve read other books about women novelists of the same period but this one had a clarity and strength of argument that made it feel pretty vital. I think anyone looking into books of the period should read this - and it’ll prompt them to want to read a whole range of new stuff in the future.