More Scheele’s Green

Carl Scheele had successfully created a green colourant which bore his name, a realistic representation of the colour so abundant in nature, which had hitherto been so difficult to replicate. Scheele’s Green was adopted in earnest by the followers of the Romantic movement who sought to bring a splash of nature into their living rooms. Green wallpaper became fashionable, patterned with images of stylised vines and green foliage.

One who rose to prominence on the wave of this desire for floral patterned wallpaper was William Morris. Despite being a passionate campaigner for safer working conditions for textile workers and strongly supporting the use of organic dyes such as cochineal, kermes, and rose madder, he found that there was nothing that came close to matching the vibrant greens found in nature than Scheele’s Green, which he used alongside Paris green, a similar shade that was more lightfast. The problem, of course, was that Scheele’s Green contained arsenic, a lot of it.

Unsurprisingly perhaps, green wallpaper was found to be good at keeping vermin and insects away, but as the wallpaper flaked, particles of arsenic would fill the air and be breathed in by the unsuspecting residents. There were reports of children dying after their rooms had been painted a vibrant green, of decorators having convulsions, and a cat developing strange blisters after being locked in a green-papered room.

The bedroom on St Helena in which Napoleon Bonaparte spent his final years in exile was decorated with a white, gold, and green wallpaper, which was subjected to a chemical analysis in 1980 and found to contain arsenic. On his death in 1821 locks of his hair were sold to supporters and these were found to contain arsenic. The theory developed that the humid air of the tropical air caused a mould to develop, which reacted with the wallpaper creating a poisonous gas, but it is now thought that it might have contributed to napoleon’s death it was not the direct cause.

Perhaps conflicted by the fact that he was the heir to a copper mine which produced arsenic dust as a byproduct of the mining activity, Morris was sceptical of claims that arsenic was inimical to human health and well-being, decrying miners suffering from arsenic poisoning as being “bitten by witch fever”. After all, no one had died, let alone fallen sick. It was only in 1870, bowing to public pressure, that he began using arsenic-free greens in his workshop.

By the time governments in the Western world began to regulate the use of arsenic, green wallpaper had become passé, women’s clothing became more streamlined and the elaborate designs and decorations so popular in the late Victorian period were now viewed as fussy and old-fashioned. Even the demand for artificial flowers waned, the industry further handicapped by legislation prohibiting the use of child labour and the flood of cheap imports. David Bloor was probably London’s last flower maker.  

Even today, green is a difficult colour to replicate. Commercial greens are often made with pigment green 7, which contains chlorine and cannot be recycled or composted safely, while pigment green 36 also contains chlorine and bromide bombs. The inorganic pigment green 50 is a noxious mix of cobalt, titanium, nickel, and zinc oxide. The irony is that green can never be green, whatever it is dyed on to contaminates it, perhaps proving once and for all that nature can never be truly replicated.

Tin Tabernacles (2)

In Scotland the “Disruption” of 1843 saw a third of the clergy and congregation secede from the Church of Scotland to set up the Free Church of Scotland. Many of the local landowners sought to suppress the upstart church by refusing its adherents permission to build places of worship on their land. One such was Sir James Riddell of Arnamurchan.

The Wee Frees came up with an ingenious solution, commissioning at the cost of £1,400 the Port Glasgow firm of John Reid & Co to build an iron ship on top of which was erected a large shed capable of holding up to four hundred people. In June 1846 the ship was towed to Ardnastang |Bay, near Strontian on Loch Sunart, and anchored about 150 metres short of the boundary of Sir James’ land.

It was used as a “floating church” and although it is not absolutely certain that the shed was built with corrugated iron sheets, most contemporary illustrations suggest it was. If so, it would earn the distinction of being Britain’s earliest tin tabernacle. Its floating days did not last long, though, as sometime around September 1847 it broke from its moorings during a storm and blown ashore. There it stayed and was used as a place of worship until 1869.

The rapid growth in urban population in Victorian Britain created a demand for new church and chapel buildings, one that the use of traditional building materials as espoused by the Ecclesiological Society could not meet. As well as being quick to construct by attaching the overlapping corrugated iron sheets to a timber frame above a brick foundation, they were relatively cheap to buy, costing anything from £150 for a chapel seating 150 to £500 for one accommodating a congregation of 350.

By 1875, hundreds of corrugated iron were being erected around the country, leading William Morris to complain that they were “spreading like a pestilence over the country”. While the use of corrugated iron offended the sensibilities of the likes of John Ruskin, who condemned it in his seminal book, The Seven Lamps of Architecture (1847), it served a purpose and advocates were keen to show its versatility by adding Gothic embellishments to their churches. Tin churches were still being built in the 1920s and 30s.

Next time we will look at the stories of two corrugated iron churches near where I live.

Rural Rides (25)

Greys Court

There is something peculiarly English about setting off for a day trip around a couple of National Trust properties on a day of unrelenting rain. Shall we? Shan’t we? We may as well. But to steel ourselves for the weather and because a combination of driving conditions and navigational deficiencies meant the journey to the environs of Henley-upon-Thames took longer than it should we stopped off at a splendid (and ironically named) pub, The Rising Sun, in Witheridge Hill. Fortified with Brakspear’s Bitter and Oxford Gold and delicious fish and chips, we were ready to take on whatever the elements chose to throw at us.

Greys Court is on the southern end of the Chilterns in a village called Rotherfield Greys. For obvious reasons we gave the woodland walks a wide berth and the walled gardens and 16^th century water-wheel which was turned by a donkey a cursory inspection and headed for the dryness of the house. And what a delightful house it was too – cosy, warm, light and airy. It had the feel of a real home, having been occupied by Lady Brunner until 2003.

For me the highlights were the beautiful plaster work in the interiors, mainly but not exclusively on the ceilings. The many windows provided stunning views over the rolling countryside and the mix of Tudor, 18^th century features and a more modern touch was enchanting. It is a compact house which can be gone round in around 45 minutes. Within the gardens are the remains of an old tower, built in 1347 and the last remnants of the castle that was on the site.

The place originally belonged to the de Greys and they had it for around 400 years, after the original land grant to Anchetil de Greye, who came over with the Normans. Alas, one of the de Greys backed the wrong horse in the War of the Roses and the property then passed to the Knollys family. It was Robert Knollys who demolished the old castle and built the present property.

Nuffield Place

Seven miles further on is Nuffield Place which was home of the car manufacturer, William Morris. He bought the pile in 1933 from Oswald Milne who built it in 1914 and lived there until his death in 1963.  The house has been tastefully restored to reflect how it would have looked in the 1930s with personal bric-a-brac and newspapers detailing key moments in his career and his times littered around.

The house is not stunning but is rather modest considering Morris was one of the richest men of his time and homely. The beautifully oak-panelled billiard room has the faint whiff of tobacco – Morris was a prolific smoker – and the house is a testimony to his love of clocks and oriental art. In his bedroom is a cupboard which once opened reveals a workbench and pretty much any tool you could imagine. This arrangement allowed him to work on an idea without disturbing his wife and in a way that the maids could tidy up around him. There are some fine examples of oriental needlework in Morris’ wife’s bedroom and a gorgeous silk rug in the sitting room – we had to pad around with blue plastic elasticated bags around our feet to protect it from our sodden feet. Inevitably, there was a splendid old Wolseley proudly on display in an outside garage.

The house gave us an interesting insight into the man who put British motoring on the map and welcome relief from the rain.