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DWARF STAR MATTHEW SHINES IN THE UNIVERSE OF FLEET ST

FLEET STREET is known as the street of the famous but few people today would have heard of Matthew Buchinger.

 

In the 18th century he was a star of our patch, and his fame spread from The Globe Theatre and the show taverns of EC4 to the castles and palaces of kings and the bed chambers of some of the most beautiful women in England, which is quite remarkable as he was a dwarf with no arms, feet or legs and strange fins for hands.

 

He stood just 2ft 9in tall but one of his wives was taller at 3ft.

 

He was one of London’s finest calligraphers and engravers; could play more than 12 musical instruments; was a crack marksman; could thread a needle and dance the highland fling. He was much in demand on stage —and in the bedroom.

 

If that wasn’t enough for the little fellah, his magnificent models of ships in bottles were well sought after, even today. He could also shuffle a pack of cards and was a champion skittle player in the bar.

 

I came across his work by chance in the Harleian collection of 17th and 18th century manuscripts in the British Museum while looking for something else. Diarist and politician Robert Harley left Buchinger’s writings to the nation, but I won’t go on or Watkins and McNeill will get easily bored. Not that they’ve read this far.

 

Buchinger was born in Anspach, Germany in 1644 and when he came to our part of the capital, in 1717, he soon made a name for himself with his work. But it wasn’t all work and no play, he was reported to have had over 70 mistresses; and his legacy of fame became so widespread that in 1780, the term Buchinger’s Boot referred to him on account that the only limb he had was his rather large penis.

 

He went on to have four wives and 11 children, although others are suspected.

 

Buchinger’s detailed writing embedded in his engravings was incredibly detailed, despite his finlike appendages for his tiny hands on stumps at the end of his shoulders. One engraving was a self-portrait and so detailed that the curls on his hair were in fact seven biblical psalms and the Lord’s Prayer inscribed in miniature letters. Today his work is on show at the Fulham Museum.

 

The raunchy dwarf, or rather ‘small person’ as we say now, first appeared with his wife at the Black Tavern near Fleet Street and was a sensation. They appeared on stage with a 12-year-old Turkey horse (yes really) that was kept in a box and only two feet high.

 

A news cutting with his manuscripts advertises another appearance at The Star pub in Show Lane (Meaning Shoe Lane EC4 as the street was renamed after an old farm well in the shape of a shoe at the Holborn end). It shows a woodcut of Buchinger dancing the Hornpipe in a Highland kilt.

 

He often went to the Cockpit in Show Lane, later to be one of Samuel Pepys' favourite venues, where cocks became gladiators and killed each other by the dozen. Perhaps the place was aptly named for him.

 

Such exhibitions like Buchinger’s freaky appearances, were later banned by the Lord Chancellor in 1822. But Buchinger had long exited the stage, dying in Ireland in 1732, aged 86. God knows how much heartbreak and despair he must have privately gone through because of his deformities. He made the best of it though. His wife, the same. Sad.

 

Only they know their stories

It is Death, alas, persuades us to keep on living:
the goal of life and the only hope we have,
like an elixir, rousing, intoxicating, giving
the strength to march on towards the grave.

Boudelaire

 

ONE late morning as I made my way to work along London’s South Bank and listened to the lapping water up against the old mud and cement of the Thames wall on my right, I caught sight of an iron gate covered with marigolds and lavender.

 

It was a lovely day, and the sun was shining but what caught my eye wasn’t the flowers. It was a half-covered plaque, with some words barely visible through the leaves. They read: The Outcast Dead R.I.P.

 

I was standing at the entrance to a half-hidden, unconsecrated graveyard behind a high wall a stone’s throw from London Bridge Tube Station in Redcross Street, Southwark, a burial home for prostitutes and their children from 1500 and onwards.

 

The gate was locked, and I couldn’t see much of it. But the area I did see was immaculately kept.

 

It seemed a wonderful tribute of respect, dignity and caring shown by some in today’s world towards people throughout five centuries of unlucky life in one of England’s seediest and darkest places. I resolved to find out more. I have worked all my life walking by landmarks and places in London and never knew they were there. This was one.

 

I discovered that this was a pre-medieval graveyard named the Cross Bones graveyard never officially declared a burial site by any church denomination. It sat in a lawless area of poverty, pubs and brothels and was just outside of the laws of the City of London. It was a place where London buried its prostitutes and was rife with gonorrhoea and syphilis.

Men headed for it from the Globe Theatre further down the Embankment after a play, so they could continue their evening gambling on bear baiting, cock fights and sex.

 

The land around this den of darkness was owned by one of the most powerful men in England, the Bishop of Winchester, who had a mansion there and rented out his houses for crippling rents from the prostitutes. 

 

They became known as The Winchester Geese and he licensed and taxed them. Over time, of course, there was more than one bishop, and so they all did it.

 

It was said in those days that if you had contracted venereal disease you had been “Winchester Goosed!”

 

The women were given their nickname for baring their white breasts and flapping their garments like wings to attract customers.

 

These poor souls had to be buried somewhere. They were not allowed a Christian burial, and other denominations would not take them. So the Cross Bones cemetery was born. It seems the Church ruled the people but would not bury them.

 

Many vigils are now apparently held at its gates in honour of the outcast dead and behind the walls is a garden and pond for quiet reflection. The London Shoes website gives the times. What a cruel country we were.

The graveyard was nearly bulldozed for development in recent times but the caring community were able to save it with the help of funds. And now, I see, they cut the flowers around the sign.

 

FLUSHED WITH SUCCESS AT LAST

HOW’S this for a nugget of useless info? Did you know that Fleet Street saw the birth of the world’s first public flushing toilet in the 19th century? Men Only of course, which made a change from the side alleys, back streets and gutters they were accustomed to.

 

In those days hacks and printers would plough through horse and human muck to get to work. Or find a backyard closet with a hole in the ground. Office toilets were mostly a hole in the floor, although some basic flushing systems began to appear.

 

The men’s urinal was built in 1852 at 95 Fleet Street, site of the Old Bell Tavern and there were queues to get in. Women’s toilets came along later but their facilities were scarce. Victorian society believed that women would not want to be seen using such ‘messy’ things.

 

In fact, the story was the same in offices. Owners were not legally bound to provide toilet facilities for ladies and many newspapers used it as an excuse not to hire them. The Daily News didn’t provide them for years.

 

Our toilet system all started of course when Thomas Crapper invented his flushing toilet for the Great Exhibition in 1851 where the new British inventions were put on display.

 

HOW LUCKY CAN YOU BE?

Some food for thought from a fellow Drone mate.

 

If you were born before 1947, ...

You remember the milkman's name. Fresh milk was delivered to your door. Discipline came from both parents and teachers, with no room for excuses.

 

Your imagination was your playground. Without TVs, you played outside and created entire worlds in your mind from what you heard on the radio. The family gathered around the radio for news or entertainment.

 

Technology was in its infancy. Phones were communal, calculators were hand-cranked, and newspapers were the primary source of information. Typewriters, not computers, recorded thoughts.

 

Your childhood was secure. Post-WWII brought a bright future — no terrorism, no internet, no global warming debates. It was a golden era of optimism, innovation, and growth.

 

Black-and-white TVs were cutting-edge.

 

Highways weren’t motorways.

 

Shopping meant actually visiting shops

 

Polio was the feared disease and curable.

 

While your parents worked hard to rebuild their lives, you grew up in a world of endless possibilities. You thrived in a time of peace, progress, and security that the world may never see again.

 

I thank you, as Lord Drone would say.

 

TERRY MANNERS

 

20 January 2025