Mitton Geraldine Edith
Chelsea
PART III
THE ROYAL HOSPITAL AND RANELAGH GARDENS
Chelsea College originally stood on the site of the present Royal Hospital, and was founded by Matthew Sutcliffe, Dean of Exeter in 1610, as a school for polemical discussion. It was nicknamed by Laud “Controversy College.” King James I. called it after himself, and gave all the timber required for building purposes from Windsor Forest free of charge, and, according to the manner of Princes in those days, issued royal letters inciting his subjects to contribute to his own scheme. Sutcliffe spent £3,000 on the portion of the building which was completed. The original intention was to have two large quadrangles ornamented by towers and cloisters, but only one eighth of this was ever completed – one side only of the first quadrangle, “which,” remarks Fuller, “made not of free stone, though of free timber, cost – oh the dearness of church and college work! – full three thousand pounds!”
An Act of Parliament, secured by the King as an endowment for the college, empowered the authorities to raise water from the Hackney Marshes to supply the City of London; but this was rendered useless by the success of Sir Hugh Middleton’s scheme for supplying London with water in the same year. The constitution of the college included a Provost and twenty Fellows, of whom eighteen were to be in Holy Orders. Dean Sutcliffe himself was the first Provost. In 1616 the building stopped altogether for want of funds.
The King issued a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury exhorting him to stir up the clergy to incite the people to contribute. This had little effect. Probably collections then going on for repairs at St. Paul’s militated against it. Sutcliffe died in 1628, leaving to the College four farms in Devonshire, the benefit of an extent on Sir Lewis Stukeley’s estate, valued at between three and four thousand pounds, a share in the Great Neptune (a ship at Whitby), a tenement at Stoke Rivers, his books and goods in the College, and part of his library at Exeter, all subject to the proviso “that the work of the college be not hindered.”
In 1669 the King presented the buildings to the newly-incorporated Royal Society, but they were in such a ruinous condition that the society could make no use of them, and after thirteen years resold the site to Sir Stephen Fox, for the use of the King. The buildings were then destroyed to make way for the present Royal Hospital.
THE ROYAL HOSPITAL
The solid and yet harmonious building designed by Sir Christopher Wren is the nucleus of Chelsea. Indeed, the inhabitants locally call the hospital itself “Chelsea.” In all prints later than the end of the seventeenth century the central cupola rising above the two great wings forms a conspicuous landmark. In the days of William and Mary the gardens sloping down to the Thames were laid out in the stiff, formal Dutch style. Canals, in the shape of a capital L, with the foot reaching to the river, intersected prim gardens, and rows of little limes, pollarded like willows, edged the banks. It was only in 1852 that these canals were finally filled in, and the limes transplanted in the avenue bordering Ranelagh Gardens, where they still flourish. The Court favourite of Charles II., Nell Gwynne, whose name is strongly associated with Chelsea, is said to have suggested the idea of this home for aged and infirm soldiers. Evelyn evidently considers the merit to belong to Sir Stephen Fox, who certainly was a great benefactor. It has been suggested that the latter persuaded the favourite to use her influence with the King, which seems probable. The idea, at all events, commended itself to Charles, who accordingly set about getting his subjects’ money to carry it out. He gave £6,787 odd from unsupplied secret service money. To this, Tobias Rustat, an under-keeper of the Royal Palace of Hampton Court, and yeoman of the robes to Charles II., described by Evelyn as “page of the back stairs, a very simple, ignorant, but honest and loyal creature,” contributed £1,000. However simple this man was, his simplicity manifested itself in a commendable direction. He is said to have given away his whole fortune in charity. It is to him we owe the statue of Charles II. in Roman dress which stands in the centre of the Hospital court. This statue is made of bronze, and there is a companion one of James II., a gift from the same benefactor, in Whitehall. Walpole attributes one of these to Grinling Gibbons, but which one is uncertain.
Sir Stephen Fox had been faithful to King Charles II. during his exile, and at the Restoration he received the reward of his services. He sat in the House of Commons from then until his death, twice representing Westminster. He was made Paymaster-General of the Forces and one of the Lords of the Treasury. He seems to have been an active-minded man, with considerable business propensity. He devised a scheme for paying the troops out of his private purse, and levying a certain percentage on them for the convenience. As the pay of the army was much in arrears, and at all times irregular, this arrangement was thankfully accepted. The King saw in it the germ of an idea by which he might raise money for the Hospital. Accordingly, in 1683 he directed by letters of Privy Seal that one third of the money raised by imposing a poundage on the troops should go to the Hospital. He also added a clause to the effect that this was to be retrospective, to take effect from 1681. Hence the first haul amounted to over £20,000. Emboldened by success, Charles in the following year added to his demands one day’s pay from every man in the army.
But the building of the Hospital was more expensive than he had anticipated. It cost altogether £150,000, and when finished it would need an endowment. Charles had, therefore, recourse to the Stuart device of stirring up the people to give, by means of letters to the clergy, but without result, and in 1686 he directed that two-thirds of the army poundage should go to the continuance of the building, and finally that the whole should be devoted to this purpose after deductions for necessary expenses.
James II. carried on the design of his predecessor during his short reign, but the building was not completed until 1694, under William and Mary. Sir Stephen Fox became chairman of the first Board of Commissioners, an office which has been ever since attached to the Paymaster-Generalship.
Some legacies have been bequeathed to the Hospital since the foundation, and various sums of unclaimed prize-money were also applied to this object, amounting in the aggregate to nearly £600,000. The income at present drawn from the above sources is a mere trifle in comparison with the expenditure, only amounting to little over £3,000 yearly.
The building – which is wonderfully well adapted for its object, being, in fact, a barracks, and yet a permanent home – was, when completed, just as it is at present, without the range of outbuildings in which are the Secretary’s offices, etc., and one or two outbuildings which were added in the beginning of the present century. The out-pensioners were not included in the original scheme, but when the building was ready for occupation, it was round that nearly one hundred applicants must be disappointed owing to want of room. These men received, accordingly, a small pension while waiting for vacancies. From this small beginning has sprung an immense army of out-pensioners in all parts of the world, including natives who have served with the British flag, and the roll contains 84,500 names. The allowances vary from 5s. to 1½d. a day, the latter being paid to natives. The usual rate is about 1s. for a private, and 2s. 6d. for a sergeant. The in-pensioners, of whom 540 are at Chelsea and 150 at the sister hospital of Kilmainham in Ireland, receive sums varying from one shilling to a penny a day for tobacco money, and are “victualled, lodged, and clothed” in addition. They have rations of cocoa and bread-and-butter for breakfast; tea and bread-and-butter in the evening; mutton for dinner five days in the week, beef one day, and beef or bacon the remaining one. The allowance of meat is thirteen ounces, and the bread one pound, per diem. Besides this they have potatoes and pudding. They are clothed in dark blue in the winter, the coats being replaced by scarlet ones in the summer. Peaked caps are worn usually, and cocked hats with full dress. H. Herkomer’s picture “The Last Muster” is too well known to need more than a passing comment. The scene it represents is enacted every Sunday in the Hospital at Chelsea. Twenty thousand men have ended their days peacefully in the semi-military life which in their long service has become second nature to them, and 500,000 have passed through the list of out-pensioners.
The establishment is now kept up by annual Parliamentary grants, of which the first vote, for £550, was passed in 1703. Up to 1873 sums varying from £50,000 to £100,000 were voted annually, but these were embodied with the army votes. Since that year the Hospital grants have been recorded separately. They amount to three and three-quarter millions, but part of this is repaid by the Indian Government in consideration of the men who have served in the Indian Army. In 1833 the levies from the poundage of the army ceased.
The annual expenditure of the Hospital now equals £1,800,000, and 98 per cent. of this goes to the out-pensioners. In 1894 the question was raised as to whether the money now supplied to the in-pensioners could not be better used in increasing the amount of the out-pensions. A committee was appointed to “inquire into the origin and circumstances attending the formation of Chelsea and Kilmainham, and whether their revenues could not be more advantageously used for the benefit of the army.” Numbers of the old soldiers themselves, as well as the Governor and all the Hospital officials, were examined. One or two of the old men seemed to imagine that they would prefer a few pence a day to spend as they pleased instead of shelter and food, but the majority were decisive in their opinion that on no attainable pension could they be so comfortable as they were at present. Consequently the committee embodied their resolution in the following words: “That no amount of increased pension that it would be practicable to give would enable the men to be cared for outside the Hospital as they are cared for at present.”
The life led by the old men is peculiar, partaking as it does somewhat of a military character. The side-wings of the Hospital, built of red brick faced with stone, and darkened by age, are 360 feet in length and four stories in height. Each story contains one ward, which runs the whole length of the wing. The wide, shallow old staircase, the high doors, the wainscot, are all of oak coloured by age. The younger men and the least infirm occupy the highest wards, which look out upon the quadrangles by means of windows on the roof. Each ward contains about five-and-twenty men, including two sergeants, who have rather larger apartments than the rest, one at each end. An open space, like the between-decks of a ship, occupies half the longitudinal space, and the other half is partitioned off into separate cubicles containing a bed and a box, and these are open at the top and into the room. There is a large stove and one or two high-backed settles in each ward. Here the old fellows sit and smoke and warm up any food they have reserved from the last meal. One or two have attempted to furnish their cubicles with pictures cut from the illustrated papers, but they do not seem to care much, as a rule, for anything but warmth and a pipe.
All the Waterloo veterans have died out, but Crimea and Indian Mutiny men there are in plenty. At each end of the wings are the staircases, which lead into passage halls. At the extreme end of the eastern wing is the Governor’s house, built in exactly the same style as the rest of the wing, and looking like part of it.
In the Governor’s house there is a magnificent state-room, 37 feet in length and 27 in width. It has the immense height of 27 feet, occupying two complete stories. The effect of height within the room is, however, diminished by a cornice which projects quite a foot all round, about two-thirds of the way up. The ceiling, which has been frequently alluded to by writers on Chelsea, but never fully described, has an immense oval in the centre, surrounding a circle of acorns and oak-leaves, from the middle of which the chandelier is suspended. On either side of this are two smaller circles, containing the letters G.R. and C.R. intertwined. The oval does not quite touch the walls of the room, and at either end there are the letters J.R., surrounded by a semicircular device of leaves, surmounted by a crown. At each side of the oval are the national arms. In every one of the four corners is a wreath of roses, passion-flowers, and fruit in very heavy relief, and the interstices are filled by guns, arms, and accoutrements. The proportions of the room may be best understood by the statement that there are three windows at the end and four at the sides. The walls are all panelled and disfigured by hideous light pink paint, done, probably, in the same period of taste when an attempt was made to whitewash the statue of bronze in the court to make it look like marble! This disfigurement extends even to the magnificent trophy of arms and accoutrements carved round the great mirror over the mantelpiece, and, of course, supposed to be the work of the great Gibbons. The fireplace and mantelpiece are of white marble, with an inner setting of veined marble. The edges of many of the panels on the walls are also carved. The magnificent series of pictures give character and dignity to the room. Occupying almost two-thirds of the north end is an oil-painting of King Charles I. and his family, by Vandyck, in 1632. There is a mournful expression on all the faces, even those of the two small children in the front. On the east wall, on one side of the fireplace, are large oil-paintings of George III. and his consort, Caroline, by Allan Ramsay; and on the other a copy of Winterhalter’s picture of Queen Victoria as Empress of India, by Hanson Walker, R.A.
Between the southern windows are portraits of King James II. and King Charles II., by Sir Godfrey Kneller and Sir Peter Lely respectively. As the windows are set very deeply in the walls, the light is bad, and these magnificent pictures are not seen to advantage. Occupying similar positions on the west are life-size portraits of George I., by Sir Godfrey Kneller; George II. and his consort, Caroline, by Enoch Seeman. Thus the fair, placid Caroline smiles down from the wall not many hundred yards from the house where she so often came to consult with the potent Sir Robert Walpole on the affairs of the nation and the liaisons of the King.
All the pictures in the room are the official property of successive Governors. The last three mentioned were bequeathed by William Evans in 1739. We can pass from this room through the vestibule, and along the wards, and thus reach the central wing, and pass under the colonnade into the hall beneath the cupola, without once going into the outer air. From this central hall open off the chapel and great hall on the east and west sides respectively. In this central hall it is possible to look right up into the hollow interior of the cupola at an immense height. Both hall and chapel are considerably raised above the ground-level, and are reached by a flight of steps. They are of the same dimensions – 108 feet by 37 feet – but, as the roof of the hall is flat, and that of the chapel hollowed out, the former looks much larger.
In the ‘History of the Diocese of London’ Newcourt gives the following quotation from the Bishop of London’s Registry: ‘The chappel of this Hospital (which is a very large and stately one, as is also the hall, which is of the same dimensions) is 108 feet long, and 37 feet and 9 inches wide … consecrated by the Right Reverend Father in God, Henry, Lord Bishop of London, on Sunday, August 30, 1691.’ The prelate here referred to was Bishop Compton.
The chapel is paved with black and white marble, and all the fittings and wainscoting are of oak. The altar-rails and the side of the wainscot compartments are carved by Grinling Gibbons. Over the altar is an immense painting, made to fit the apse-like end. It represents the Resurrection, and was executed by Sebastian Ricci. The altar itself is heavy and ugly – a great oak canopy supported by Corinthian columns in oak. The feature of the chapel is, however, the number of standards which are suspended from either wall all down the nave. The greater number were transferred here from the Chapel Royal, Whitehall, and India House, by order of King William IV., in 1835. Captain J. Ford, to whose laborious and painstaking work is due the record of the tombstones in the old burial-ground, made also a list of these flags, and drawings of those recognisable. This collection was purchased by Queen Victoria, who caused it to be made into a book, and presented it to the Hospital, adding an autograph inscription. The flags are chiefly American and French. There are also several French eagles and some native Indian flags. On the latter the mark of a hand, supposed by the natives to be the impress of their chief’s hand, recorded by supernatural agency, can be clearly seen. Every Sunday all the veterans who are not disabled by ill-health or infirmity take their places in the body of the chapel, almost filling it. Visitors and the Hospital officials sit in transverse pews of an old-fashioned shape, which run down the sides of the walls. The organ, presented by Major Ingram in 1691-92, is in a gallery at the west end, and immediately beneath the gallery on the right-hand side is the Governor’s pew.
The Chaplain is the Rev. J. H. S. Moxley. The service is short and simple, and at its conclusion the old men all march out together before the visitors leave. The service of plate presented by James II. is valued at £500. It includes three flagons, four chalices, six salvers, and a pair of candlesticks, all of silver-gilt. After service dinner is the order of the day, and a visit to the kitchens, fitted with all the latest modern improvements, is necessary. It does not seem as if the regimen were very strictly adhered to. Great savoury pies of mutton and kidney, roast sirloin, and roast pork, with baked potatoes, are allotted to the various messes, to be followed by steaming plum-puddings.
The men do not dine in hall, as they used to do, but those who are on orderly duty wait there to receive the rations, and then carry them up to their comrades in the wards to be divided. The messes vary in number; some contain eight, some ten, some even fourteen. On either side of the central gangway in the hall are tables where the old men can sit and smoke, and play dominoes, cards, and bagatelle. There is a raised daïs at the western end, in the centre of which, facing the door, is a bust of Queen Victoria, and right across the end of the room, and continuing for the width of the daïs, on the sides is an immense allegorical painting of Charles II., with the Hospital in the background. This was executed by Antonio Verrio and Henry Cooke. All round the panels of the hall hang portraits of military commanders, with the dates and names of the battles in which they have taken prominent parts. These were collected by a former Governor of the Hospital, General Sir J. L. Pennefather, G.C.B. Above them are other standards tattered beyond recognition and hanging mournfully over the heads of the men below. At the east end is a large painting of the Duke of Wellington in allegorical style. The court-martial on the conduct of General Whitelock was held in this hall; here the Duke of Wellington lay in state for seven days from the 10th to the 17th of November, 1852; and several courts of inquiry have been held. For some years it was used as a place of examination for military candidates, but this was rightly considered to be an abuse, and was discontinued in 1869. Formerly a dining-room, the hall is now a recreation-room, and must be a great boon to those whose wards lie up four flights of stairs.
Passing down the steps, through the vestibule, and under the colonnade on the south front, we see two monuments to the men of the Birkenhead and the Europa. The loss of the former in 1852 has often been quoted as an heroic instance of self-command; when the ship struck, the men went down standing shoulder to shoulder as if on parade. Their names are all inscribed here. The Europa was burnt at sea, and the twelve private soldiers who lost their lives with it are here also commemorated. There are other memorials, brasses, and a marble slab, to the memory of various officers. But the most striking monument, in the centre of the grounds, near the Embankment gate, is that of the Battle of Chillianwallah, at which nearly 30 officers and more than 700 privates were killed. The monument takes the form of a great obelisk, with the names inscribed on the sides. Two of the guns which stand beside it were captured on the same occasion. A little higher up, between the bronze Charles and the Chillianwallah obelisk, is a cross to commemorate 243 officers and privates who were killed in suppressing the Sepoy Mutiny. The veterans are thus surrounded by a halo of gallant deeds; on every hand the memory of their comrades in arms greets them.
Further on down the colonnade we pass westward, through the west wing, to a continuation of the main building, in which is the library. This faces the next court, which, like the east, is filled in the centre with evergreen shrubs. The library contains 4,000 volumes, including Captain Ford’s Manuscripts. There are two rooms, and here the men can see the daily papers, which are afterwards passed on into the great hall. In the west court is the Chaplain’s house, and immediately across the road is the infirmary. In 1808 it was suggested that an infirmary for the pensioners should be established, and for this purpose the Commissioners fixed upon Sir Robert Walpole’s old house, which was conveniently near. The land on which this stands was leased to William Jephson in 1687 for sixty-one years. Some years later the lease was passed on to Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford, who lived here in 1707. Apparently he assigned it to Sir Richard Gough, who paid the rent from 1714 to 1719. In 1723 Sir Robert Walpole, the great statesman who virtually ruled England for more than twenty years, became the lessee. He had had some connection with the Hospital since 1714, when he had been made Paymaster-General, and had held a seat on the Board of Commissioners by virtue of his office. His influence in the reign of George II. still continued, and while the King was absent on the Continent, Walpole House was the seat of power in the kingdom. Here came office-seekers and busy flatterers. L’Estrange says “it was thought remarkably convenient that state documents should only have to travel from Chelsea to Kensington Palace.”
The grottos, which, according to the fashion of the time, were built in the garden, and richly decorated, must have seen some interesting sights. One in which Queen Caroline was royally entertained in 1729 was taken down in 1795. The entertainment was extremely sumptuous. The last of these grottos disappeared only when the Embankment was being made. In 1741 the Minister retired with the title of Earl of Orford, which afterwards descended to his well-known son, Horace, and a pension of £4,000 a year.
