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King George III

The Royal Bathing Machines

Weymouth was not the first seaside resort to have Bathing Machines. Prior to their appearance here in the 1770’s, they were already a feature at Scarborough and Margate but those resorts did not enjoy the patronage of King George III.

The earliest type of bathing house was a static hut; the revolutionary idea of putting the hut on wheels came along in the mid 18th century and the mobile bathing hut became known as a bathing machine. It could be drawn out into the sea by a horse to avoid the bather having to make an exhibition of themselves walking down the beach.

King George III first dipped his toe in the sea at Weymouth on the 7th of July 1789 in the company of a select group of lady bathing attendants. Apparently it was a great surprise to the king when a band concealed in a neighbouring machine, struck up God Save Great George our King as soon as he ducked his head under the water.

The first Royal Bathing Machine was octagonal in design and in 1791 it was replaced by a larger and more extravagantly fitted-out machine. Altogether three bathing machines were available that year for the exclusive use of the Royal Family.  The original machine continued to be used on Weymouth beach until 1916.
 
A newspaper report from 1791 describes the vehicle thus: “The King’s Bathing Machine is in the form of an oblong at its base, and painted white, with the panels blue and red cornices, but is destitute of lining. The outside, at the top, forms a semi-circle, on the extremity of which stands upon a pole of about two feet in length, the Crown; and on the other, the British Flag on a pole or standard about ten feet high; on the front is painted the King’s Arms.”

Another newspaper reported that the Queen had decided to try the effects of bathing, so another machine had been newly painted and fitted for her use. This conflicts with other reports suggesting Queen Charlotte showed no enthusiasm for sea bathing; the Royal Princesses however, were regular “dippers.”

When the King came to Weymouth in 1792 his bathing experience was greatly improved by the introduction of the Royal Floating Bathing Machine, which gave more privacy to the Royal Family. This was a large structure resembling a house-boat or a floating dock, with dressing rooms and three large baths. It allowed the user to bathe in complete privacy and could be used in pretty much all weathers; it was covered by a roof and sea water flowed in through grills at each end. At one end of the structure were the Royal Bath and Royal Dressing Room and at the other end were baths and dressing rooms for the use of the king’s guests. It was first used on the 24th of August 1792.

When not being used for bathing this Floating Bathing Machine doubled as a Royal Landing Stage and was moored alongside Weymouth Pier. The dressing rooms provided the family with the opportunity to smarten up their appearance before coming ashore after their frequent trips to sea with the Royal Navy.

The King first visited Weymouth in 1789. A letter written at Gloucester Lodge, Weymouth on the 13th of July 1789 by Fanny Burney to her father illustrates wonderfully how the inhabitants of the town felt about their Sovereign being amongst them.  She reports “The loyalty of all this place is excessive; they have dressed out every street with labels of ‘God save the King’: all the shops have it over the doors; all the children wear it in their caps, all the labourers in their hats, and all the sailors in their voices, for they never approach the house without shouting it aloud, nor see the King or his shadow, without beginning to huzza, and going on to three cheers.”

The three luxurious Royal Bathing Machines of 1791 did not survive after the last of the Royal visits in 1805, although machines of the original design both octagonal and rectangular continued in use for more than a century.

In 1810 a local byelaw decreed that no one was to “bathe in any manner than by means of a Bathing Machine upon the Sea Sands, or in the Harbour, or Back Water within the town”. In 1864 a byelaw was introduced to stop the use of Bathing Machines on a Sunday after 10 a.m. This law required residents to be allowed the use of a machine for a charge of 6d, whereas visitors had to pay 9d. All machines had to be fitted with a looking glass and carpet and two hand towels for each person and also a pair of drawers for the use of each gentleman. Males were permitted to bathe nude before 8 am, and there had to be a space of 50 yards between machines used by men and women.

Two much larger bathing machines came to the beach in 1890, these had several cubicles. These larger machines, one for men and one for women, had very large wheels and the authorities ordered that they be kept in deep water. Around this time there were many complaints about the wearing of “proper bathing drawers”.

Fanny Burney, writing from Weymouth in 1789, tells her father that she had difficulty keeping a straight face when observing the ladies bathing apparel: flannel dresses, tucked up, with no shoes or stockings, with bandeaus and girdles. King George III preferred to bathe in the nude.

‘Buried in Woollen’

Introduced during the second half of the 17th century for “the encouragement of the woollen manufacturer” the ‘Act for Burying in Woollen’ was clearly designed to increase demand for home produced woollen cloth.

The 17th century was a time of crisis for the English woollen industry and particularly so in the West Country. Here many rural workers and their families supplemented their meagre income from the land by processing and weaving wool: they relied on a local market for their production, which was mainly low quality cloth produced in the home. In Dorset this cottage industry was controlled from Dorchester where many rich clothiers had their businesses: these people prospered from the woollen industry while the labouring classes supplying them scratched a living.

During the 14th and 15th and early 16th century woollen cloth produced in Dorset was exported to Northern Europe from Bridport, Wareham, and Poole. The 16th century saw a change in fashion as linen, satin, and silk became more readily available, while the demand for woollen cloth dropped away. The Dorchester merchants protected themselves by changing the way they dealt with their rural suppliers: the end result was a better finished woollen cloth but the new terms of business badly affected the producers who, in modern day parlance, became outworkers.

As a result of these changes there was distress in the hamlets and villages during the late 16th and 17th century. But this was a national problem, and measures were needed to increase demand, improve the quality of the woollen cloth and encourage the development and production of new textiles. To this latter end specialist workers were welcomed into the country for their expertise. The monarchy was restored in May 1660 and during the reign of King Charles II an Act was passed designed to increase the use of woollen cloth.

The ‘Act for Burying in Woollen’ was enacted by Parliament in 1666 for “the encouragement of the woollen manufacturer.” This Act required that no corpse “shall be buried in any shirt, shift, sheet or shroud or anything whatever made or mingled with flax, hemp, silk, hair, gold or silver or in any stuff other than what is made of sheep’s wool only.” The Act was amended in 1678 to make it easier to enforce and imposing a fine of £5 for non-compliance. It was a requirement of the Act that an affidavit be sworn before a Justice of the Peace or a priest of the church (but not the priest officiating at the burial) and delivered within 8 days to the priest who conducted the burial. The term ‘buried in woollen, affidavit brought’ is to be seen in the burial registers of the churches after 1666.

The affidavit frequently took the following form: “Mary White made oath this 15th day of January 1698 before …one of his majesties Justices of the Peace that Jane White of the parish of Morden lately deceased was buried in woollen only according to the terms of the Act of Parliament of burying the dead and not otherwise.”

Gradually the legislation came to be ignored and the Act was repealed in 1814 during the reign of King George III. The rich usually chose to pay the fine rather than be seen dead in wool.

The Sea Fencibles

Sea Fencibles? If you have never before heard of them, you are not alone. I was in the same position until recently when the subject cropped up during investigations into other matters, but once it is realised that the Fencibles were a short-lived kind of coastguard force of the Napoleonic period, this general ignorance is perhaps not surprising.

The “fencible” is an elision of “defensible” and the Sea Fencibles could be regarded in their day as the maritime equivalent of the Home Guard of the world wars, though formed in response to a threat of invasion by Napoleon some one-and-a-half centuries earlier than the formation of Dads Army. The Sea Fencibles were mostly volunteers living close to the coast who, we may imagine, were only too glad to accept a pay of a shilling a day in return for immunity from service in the militia or else being press-ganged into the navy. However the relative usefulness of the Fencible force has divided opinion among naval personnel and historians.

The Sea Fencibles were formed on May 14th, 1798 at the instigation of King George III. By 1801 Sea Fencible units had been established all along the coast from Whitby right into Cornwall, so Dorset would have had its own units by then. Across the county there were three units, the most easterly covering the length of coast from Calshot in Hampshire to St. Aldhelm’s Head in Purbeck, with one captain, four lieutenants and 482 men. The central unit extended from St. Aldhelm’s Head to Puncknowle, with seven officers and 284 men; the most westerly unit then extended from Puncknowle to Teignmouth in Devon, having eight officers and 331men.

There was no problem in obtaining volunteers, and Sea Fencibles could be recruited from fishermen, bargemen, farm labourers etc; many naval officers were also involved, since the navy had a surplus with no concept of retirement. These included Nelson himself, who briefly took command of a unit when in charge of the coastal defences. The recruits were trained in the use of cannon and pike.

A prior responsibility for these units was to signal the arrival of an enemy force approaching from the Channel, and to this end the most complicated and painstaking arrangements were worked out. If the alarm was raised the coast would have to be evacuated, with people, cattle, valuable goods and anything else of value to the enemy being moved inland. To ensure that this operation was carried out smoothly and that everyone knew where to go and by which route, very elaborate and detailed plans were drawn up. Interestingly Thomas Hardy describes just such an operation in his novel “The Trumpet Major.”

During the thaw in Anglo-French hostilities leading to the treaty of Amiens in 1802, a feeling among the high command that perhaps the Fencibles had outlived their purpose led to units being disbanded, though the annulment was destined to be short lived. The following year war broke out again, and a resumption of an invasion threat from Napoleon promptly brought the Fencible units back into service again once the press gangs had “re-stocked” the Navy with new personnel. The move was also to satisfy popular feeling, though many placed no confidence in the units. From 1803 the Fencibles were also given a more important offshore duty as enforcers of blockades on the English side of the Channel, using gunboats.

However, the resumption of the coastguard watch was not without its crop of bogus alerts. In May 1804 at the height of the invasion scare, the signal station on the Verne at Portland raised a false alarm during a blanket of thick fog that caused a wave of serious panic throughout the county. Serious, because none other than the king happened to be staying at Weymouth at the time! There was consequently serious concern for his safety, though of course this was unfounded.

About this time there was a return to the use of fire beacons, and it is noted that these warnings were set up on Ballard Down, Round Down, St. Aldhelm’s Head, Hamborough Hill, and the Verne. Nothe Fort, a circular brick-built redoubt at Weymouth, housed two traversing guns with platforms on either flank carrying two guns each (this artillery was removed in 1821.) Bridport possessed two batteries of two guns each, for which the emplacements had been built by the county. A magazine was constructed at Dorchester in 1809.

Other than this, information on the Dorset units during the second operational period is woefully lacking. There is also some discrepancy across various sources as to the actual year the Sea Fencibles were disbanded for the second and last time. One source states they were disbanded as early as 1810 which, exactly half-way between the time of Trafalgar and Waterloo, may be considered rather premature, even though the former victory put paid to any possibility of an invasion of England. The next date given is 1812 (the year of Napoleon’s rout at the Battle of Borodino in the Russian campaign,) which perhaps is more tenable, though the 1815 of a third reference, when Napoleon was forced into exile, would have to be the very latest date that a coast watch force would likely have been needed. Alternatively these differences could be explained if the disbanding was not a single event, but an incremental process in which individual units were simply disbanded at local level between the earliest and latest dates.

Bincombe – Holy Trinity Church

On the morning of the 30th of June 1801, the bodies of two young German soldiers were brought to Holy Trinity Church, Bincombe for burial; a private and a corporal in His Majesty’s York Hussars, the two twenty-two-year-olds had been shot for desertion. At the time King George III, his family and Court stayed at Weymouth for much of the summer and with the threat of invasion from across the English Channel by Napoleon, there were soldiers camped on many of the surrounding hills to ensure the King’s protection, including Bincombe Down. In 1890, Thomas Hardy wrote a short story ‘The Melancholy Hussar of the German Legion.’ Perhaps he had heard the story of these young men.

There is one road into Bincombe and from there the church does not look especially attractive. Pevsner refers to its “Blunt west tower”, which from a distance looks in need of a spire. The centre of the village is all farmyards, appropriate for this rural area, and you have to pass through one to reach the church.

We visited on the Saturday before the rogation service and we came round the side of the building and found people busily preparing the church, arranging flowers and tidying up the churchyard.

Consisting of a west tower, nave, chancel and south porch the church is mostly in the Early English style of the 13th and 14th centuries but there are traces of Norman work in the building. In 1862 the floor of the chancel was raised and other changes made and the church furniture was renewed. The organ came to Bincombe in 1901 from Broadwey Church, were it had been since 1873.

The church is entered through the south porch and beside the doorway (dated 1779) is a mediaeval Holy water stoop. The font is at the west end of the nave, beneath the tower. The round bowl with chamfered under edge dates from the 13th century and is of Purbeck marble. The stem is modern. In days past Fonts were kept filled and, in 1236, the Archbishop ordered that the covers should be secured to prevent the water being stolen for superstitious purposes; on the rim are traces of the old cover.

 The chancel east window is in memory of Elizabeth, the widow of John Howship, a surgeon of Saville Row, London. Elizabeth died on the 20th of November 1860 aged 73 years; she is buried in a single stone covered tomb with her father Robert Tillidge who died in 1806 aged 88 years. John and Elizabeth Howship had a son John who only lived for two months; he died on the 4th of March 1808 and is buried here. The windows on the south side are in the Perpendicular style of the mid 1400’s.

Holy Trinity has two bells: the larger dated 1658, is by Thomas Purdue and the smaller one, dated 1594, is by John Wills of Salisbury and is inscribed ‘Feare God.’

Recent changes include the installation of the clock in the tower as a thanksgiving for delivery and victory in WWII. At a cost of over £80,000 the roof was renewed and other repairs carried out in 1995. The modern sound and Loop system was installed in 2001.

When 2001 census statistics are compared with figures from the 1841 and subsequent censuses, we see an increased population something unusual in rural communities. On the gate of one of the farms on your right as you proceed into the village is the name Pashen – the family name appears in the 1841 census.

The name Bincombe probably means a place where beans were grown, a staple food in prehistoric and Saxon times.

We noticed these family names in the churchyard: Hawker, Fookes, Cooper, Christopher, Pashen. Grant, King, Loveless, Foot, Haines, Gollop, Cake, Hatton and Bayley.

“…Transported to Such Places Beyond the Seas.”

A sign on the bridge over the River Frome at Lower Bockhampton serves notice that “anyone wilfully injuring the bridge will be guilty of felony and upon conviction liable to be Transported for Life.” People were transported for a lot less serious offences than that and many people sentenced to death for more serious crimes had their sentences commuted and were transported instead.

The idea of being rid of troublesome citizens by transporting them beyond the seas was around long before Britain commenced despatching its felons to Australia. In 1597 during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I an Act (39 Eliz C.4) was passed entitled “An Acte for Punyshment of Rogues, Vagabonds and Stray Beggars.” It allowed for people to “be banished out of this realm” and went on to say “shall be conveyed to such parts beyond the seas as shall be assigned by the Privy Council.” And for good measure declared if a “rogue so banished” returned to England without permission he would be hanged.

Law enforcement during the 17th and 18th centuries was an uncertain business. Anyone who thinks the present British government’s efforts to privatise the prison service are a new idea is mistaken: half the prisons in England were privately owned then. There was no police force. Employing Watchmen was, on the whole, a futile enterprise as most were open to accepting the offer of a small bribe to turn the other way and those given the job were often elderly and stood little chance of apprehending a fit young criminal.

Detection was also in the hands of the private sector. Thief takers – an early incarnation of the private detective – would seek out thieves and other criminals and bring them before a magistrate for a reward. Getting caught was not all bad news for the criminal: in many cases a criminal would come to an arrangement with his victim to repay him or do some work for him rather than face prosecution. This was not an unattractive option for the victim who, if he proceeded to prosecute, would have to pay all the costs involved. Nevertheless, large numbers of people were incarcerated in the country’s jails.

Using the 1597 Act, transportation of groups of criminals got under way in the early 17th century: Sir Thomas Dale, Marshal of Virginia, took 300 “disorderly persons” with him in 1611 and it was not long before he was asking for more convict labour, claiming 2000 were needed.

A new Act (4 Geo 1, C.11) was passed early in the 18th century which provided that minor offenders could be transported for 7 years to America while men on commuted capital sentences, that is having enjoyed the King’s mercy, might be sent for 14 years. The courts did not have a wide selection of punishments to hand down and were often faced with the choice of letting a criminal off or passing the death sentence.

The merits of transportation from the Government’s point of view were that it preserved the Royal Prerogative of Mercy – the felon was left alive; the felon was removed from the realm as effectively as if he had been hanged; It got rid of the prison as well as the prisoner and it provided a labour force to be used in the colonies.

From the middle of the 18th century Britain’s population increased dramatically. The population of London doubled between 1750 and 1770. Young men turned to thieving to make a living. For 60 years during the 18th century 30,000 people were sent to America; convicts were shipped off to face a life of slavery at the rate of about 500-600 a year and few if any returned. The King frequently used his royal prerogative and it was not at all unusual for a death sentence to be commuted. A cynic might think a corpse hanging from the gallows was a deterrent to others but the reprieved man was a long-term asset to be used to build the American colonies. This shameful traffic in humankind kept England’s jails from overflowing.

On August 25th 1768 Capt. Cook set sail from Plymouth and a little over a year later was off the coast of New Zealand where he proceeded to sail his ship Endeavour round both islands. On March 31st 1770 Capt. Cook and his crew were ready for the homeward voyage. On April 19th 1770 a new coastline was discovered and on August 21st 1770 Cook formally claimed Australia for King George III.
In London the new colony was not uppermost in the minds of the politicians who had their hands full trying to head off armed rebellion in America. It was this more taxing matter that was concentrating the mind of the British Prime Minister, the recently ennobled Frederick, Lord North. Matters in America came to a head with the Declaration of Independence on the 4th of July 1776. At a stroke the transportation of convicts to North America was brought to a full stop and very shortly Britain’s jails were at breaking point.

That year Lord North drew up legislation that was to become known as ‘The Hulks Act’ (16 Geo.111, C. 43.) Hulks, old troop transports, their rigging gone, were dotted along the Thames and some southern ports, and were to become home to convicts sentenced to be transported, until the government could find somewhere to send them. The number of convicts being held in this way was increasing by about a thousand annually.

As the situation worsened and the government realised that the door to North America was firmly closed to them a House of Commons Committee was set up in 1779 to decide what was to be done. Hope lingered in some of the more optimistic corners of government that something would turn up to resolve the American problem, but this was not to be. Lord North resigned in 1782 and briefly trod London’s corridors of power again as the Home and Colonial Secretary between March and December 1783.

His successor in that office, Lord Sydney, on appointment faced a clamour for action to be taken to deal with the problem of the terrible overcrowding in the prisons and on board the hulks; the situation was becoming more pressing with each passing day. A new Act (24 Geo.III.C.56) was drafted to allow transportation to places other than America and this entered into law in August 1784.

It was someone from outside of the administration, ironically American born, who in 1783 presented a commercial proposition to the government concerning Australia. At the time Lord North was in charge of Home and Colonial Affairs and he dismissed it.  James Matra, later hearing the government was urgently looking for somewhere to send the convicts, altered the slant of his proposal and re-submitted it to Lord Sydney. Serious consideration was given to transporting the convicts to a settlement on the south west coast of Africa and for a while Australia wasn’t a contender.

William Pitt the younger was now Prime Minister and he was under increasing political pressure especially from some independent members of parliament representing constituencies where some of the hulks were berthed. 

After further consideration the Botany Bay or Australian option was formally approved by the cabinet. The Admiralty was told of the decision on the 31st of August 1786 and instructed to commission the fleet: Captain Arthur Phillip was appointed “Governor of our territories called New South Wales” and received his commission from King George III on 12th October 1786.

The first fleet sailed from Portsmouth early on the 13th May 1787 and arrived at Botany Bay on 18th January 1788. Convicts continued to be transported to Australia for a further 70 years.

Those who survived the voyage were to face a harsh disciplinary regime, near starvation, and we know not what other horrors. There were men, women and children all enduring the same fate irrespective of whether they were guilty of a petty or serious crime. Their guards did not fare any better. The experience was a little easier for later arrivals. It is incredible that out of this hell has grown the great nation we know and respect today.

Did Napoleon Visit Lulworth Cove?

Early in the 19th century an invasion of England by Napoleon seemed a distinct and imminent possibility. Along the south east coast, Martello tower defences were constructed as a response to the threat, but although Bonaparte’s grand design fortunately never came to fruition, a legend does abound that the Emperor did not entirely leave John Bull’s hallowed domain untouched.

There is a tradition that during the period of the invasion scares; Napoleon was briefly sighted on the Dorset coast near Lulworth, though Charmouth and Weymouth have also been implicated as possible locations. In modern times the legend was revived again in the 1930’s, when West Lulworth Women’s Institute collaborated on a publication called ‘Dorset Up Along & Down Along.’ In it there is a testimonial related to a member of the branch by a woman who in her youth was a French-speaking farmer’s wife living near the coast, and who claimed to have seen Napoleon walk ashore near Lulworth, roll up a map he had been studying and overheard in conversation the man utter the word “impossible.”

The woman in question, it was later determined, was born in 1784, but because she lived to the age of 104, she was able to tell the Lulworth WI contributor her story. The story goes that at the time of the encounter the witness was assisting her father, a china merchant, in his business and it was through this involvement that the young woman had learnt French. The most likely year of the encounter would have been 1804 when Napoleon was overseeing the assembling of his invasion fleet at embarkation points along the eastern end of the Channel. This period is intensely documented, yet there are a few days when the Emperor’s movements are unknown.

Napoleon was then based at the Chateau of Pont-de-Briques near Boulogne, and so it was thought most likely that the Grand Armee’s objective would have been south east England. Also if the Emperor’s intended landfall was the Dorset coast, it might have been expected that the fleet would have sailed from the Cherbourg peninsula, as this is the point on the French coast facing Dorset.

Certainly the ebb out of Boulogne would have taken the fleet westwards, but then the flood tide along the English coast and the prevailing south-west winds would have tended to drive the fleet back up-Channel. Furthermore, sailing due west from Boulogne would set a fleet on a course for the Isle of Wight, just missing Eastbourne! There was therefore no hope of making landfall at Lulworth with embarkations from Boulogne and other coastal stages in the east. The sandy beaches of Poole Bay would have been easier, but the Grand Armee was no more in a position to beach there either. French intelligence was well acquainted with the defences and conditions of the Dorset coast, since Napoleon regularly dispatched corsairs and spies to capture English fishermen and peasants for interrogation!

But Dorset may have been considered much less risky than the south east coast, which was the target for the two thousand vessels and ten thousand men of Napoleon’s fleet. There is the possibility that a minor diversionary attack was planned for the Purbeck coast, designed to draw the eastern fleet westwards towards Dorset, so leaving the south east coast vulnerable. Indeed, Napoleon was keeping up pressure from Brest for this purpose – a strategy that was not without some success, for in June 1804 King George III told the Duke of York:

“I cannot deny I am rather hurt there is any objection made to forming so large an army of reserves in Dorset where, or in Cornwall, I think an attack more likely than in Essex, Kent or Sussex.”

And later, when approving Dorset’s invasion garrisons and precautions the King asked for more troops to bolster the defence of the county. Certainly the alarm bells were jangling in Dorset as much as elsewhere once the threat from Bonaparte was made manifest.

But the French-speaking farmer’s wife was adamant that Napoleon did go ashore at Lulworth that day in 1804, when she would have been 20 years old. For, like many literate people, she had seen caricatures and cartoons of the Emperor and identified him, she said, by his facial profile and by his cocked hat, though this headwear was by no means unique. Perhaps then, we can see the merchantman’s daughter as unwittingly stumbling upon Bonaparte probably making a brief visit to assess the coastal conditions in preparation for his invasion plans.

James Hamilton – Architect of Regency Weymouth

Along the esplanade at Weymouth, where stands an ornamental clock tower, is a multi-storey Regency terrace now considered as one of the finest developments of the period anywhere in England. This Georgian terrace is the Royal Crescent; but what could this development possibly have in common with the White Horse chalk down monument at Osmington? The answer is that these two disparate landmarks were both the conception of James Hamilton, a somewhat obscure figure among 18th century architects, but one who evidently enriched the Weymouth townscape as perhaps no other draughtsman has.

The Osmington White Horse had its origin on Hamilton’s drawing board in 1808 as a commission from the citizens of Weymouth for an equestrian memorial to King George III once he was no longer able to “take the waters” at the resort after 1805 due to his worsening mental illness. But these two undertakings are not the only marks this architect has left upon the soil of Dorset.

Hamilton was born in 1748, but to this day little is known about his origins, family background or education, so it is not certain whether he was born in Dorset or elsewhere. It has been suggested he may have been a descendant of the “Johannes Hamiltonius Britannicus” who sculpted a fine monument to the memory of Robert Napier that can be seen at Puncknowle.

Although nothing is known as to his education or whether he studied architecture Hamilton almost certainly would have been trained in building crafts before setting himself up as an architect. But the profession under that name did not become recognised until the 1750’s and it was commonplace for practitioners to come from a wide variety of backgrounds. For Hamilton, that background seems to have been working as a mason or stonecutter, since there is a record of a James Hamilton of Melcombe Regis being employed as a mason in the Portland Quarry under William Tyler RA, the architect who designed Bridport Town Hall. Since this building dates from 1786, Hamilton may not have established his architectural practise before this time.

There is evidence however, that Hamilton was practising architecture more fully by 1790 at the latest. This comes from a certain Joshua Carter of Bridport, who sometime after 1787 “…began to rebuild his father’s house, employing a James Hamilton, architect, of Weymouth, a contractor in Portland stone.” And Hamilton did work on the rebuilding of the south east wall of the Cobb at Lyme Regis in 1795.

In 1797 Hamilton is mentioned in Weymouth Corporation records for the first time. That year Messrs Sumersvall & Hamilton undertook to repair the inner and outer piers of the harbour. This shows that the architect was evidently still working as a contractor when not in his drawing office, and in association with a Mr Welsford he applied to Weymouth Corporation on behalf of the Protestant Dissenters for a lease of land to enable their Chapel to be enlarged in 1802. Hamilton also designed the Dissenter’s Chapel in West Street in 1804 and, in 1805, the Methodist Chapel in Lower Bond Street, though both of these buildings have since been demolished.

Then three years later came Hamilton’s great design for the imposing Royal Crescent. The Osmington White Horse, on the other hand, was designed and executed on a grand scale, being 320 feet high, yet, as the Dorchester & Sherborne Journal of October 7th 1808 noted: “the likeness of the King is well preserved and the symmetry of the horse is so complete as to be a credit to Mr Hamilton of this town, for its execution.” The equestrian figure of George III is portrayed mounted on his favourite grey charger.

In 1802 John Herbert Browne, a town councillor of Weymouth, recorded that the Council had resolved to put up a statue of the King in the town itself, to honour George’s contribution to popularising Weymouth as a fashionable resort. The figure was to be made from stoneware produced by Coade & Sealy of Lambeth. Having sought approval from the king, John Sealy went to the palace in 1803 and spent about three-quarters of an hour with the King to obtain a measure of the likeness upon which the statue is based. On the basis of this material, James Hamilton then drew up a blueprint, which was then sculpted at the Coade & Sealy works before shipment aboard the ‘Lovell’ to its permanent site in Weymouth.

The cost to Sealy of Hamilton’s design turned out to be greater than that for the statue itself. The finished work is mounted on a square pedestal standing on a plinth flanked by a lion and a unicorn. A full-length robed effigy of the King wearing the Order of the Garter and holding a sceptre stands before a smaller pedestal surmounted by an imperial crown. The statue was unveiled by the Prince of Wales in the presence of the Duke of Kent, Princess Mary & Princess Amelia in a ceremony of great splendour in October 1810.

It was likely also that Hamilton was responsible for designing the houses numbered 7 to 14 in Gloucester Row in 1790; and, between 1811 and 1815, those in Johnstone Row. At 3.00 am on Monday, March 27th 1815 a ship called the Alexander was wrecked on the Chesil opposite Wyke, with the loss of 130 passengers and crew. On hearing of the tragedy, James Hamilton designed a plaque to commemorate the dead, which was put up in Wyke Church in 1816.

Hamilton’s work however, was not confined to Weymouth’s town centre or, in one instance, even within the actual borders of the county. The architect turned his attention to buildings that could adorn the outlying villages, such as Hamilton House in Chamberlaine Road, Wyke Regis. Research based on the 1819-25 Grove Diaries carried out by Stan Pickett of Weymouth has revealed that Thomas Grove commissioned Hamilton to design and oversee the building of a “charming mansion” at Berwick St. John in Wiltshire. This work occupied Hamilton for two-and-a-half years from 1809 to 1811, a commission that evidently required the architect, by then in his sixties, to lodge frequently at Berwick so he could be on site to supervise the construction.

During this period the architect was certainly responsible for drafting the plans of the Parish Church of St. Mary at Melcombe, built between 1815 and 1817, replacing an earlier church on the site built in 1605. Hamilton’s church of Portland stone, with triple-arched portico, pilasters, square podium and black-faced clock surmounted by a cupola with ball-finial supported by eight slender Roman Doric columns, clearly manifests either conscious or subconscious modelling upon the façade of Bridport Town Hall. Possibly Hamilton poached Tyler’s basic design for the latter, but adding modifications of his own originality. Rather critically, this design has been described as having: “a monumental west front of some distinction, but the building is of particular interest as an expression of the empiricism of a provincial architect, acquainted with, but possessing little knowledge of the neo-classical style of the period…” However, the pediment projecting from a plain obtusely-gabled parapet wall is typical of a Hamilton design.

Regarding the particulars of Hamilton’s marital status, rather than his family background, we are rather better provided for. Hamilton was twice married, his first wife having apparently died early in the marriage at an unrecorded date, as the register of St. Anne’s Church at Radipole records that in 1814 a James Hamilton, widower, of Melcombe Regis married Ann Croad, a spinster of Melcombe. By his first wife Hamilton had a son, John, who family tradition relates was the sculptor of the monument to Princess Sophia of Gloucester in St. Georges Chapel, Windsor. Ann was the daughter of Caleb and Mary Croad of Preston, having been baptised on February 23rd, 1785, making her just 29 at the time of her marriage to a man 39 years her senior. Despite his age, Hamilton fathered five children by Anne, baptised as follows: Henrietta (1818); Ann Augusta (1819); Edwin John (March 1824); William John (September 1824) and Edwin Charles (1828).

It is generally considered that Hamilton’s career as an architect effectively ended in 1816, his last project possibly being St. Mary’s in Melcombe. Yet as late as 1824 he is still described as such on his children’s baptism certificates.

James Hamilton died in 1829, aged 81. The Dorset County Chronicle announced his death on January 15th with the words: “on the 13th inst. Jas Hamilton, architect, far advanced in years, leaving a wife and family to deplore his loss.” As he had been a member of a Masonic lodge “Brother” Hamilton was granted a Masonic funeral with 39 other brethren in attendance. This took place on the 19th of January with a procession from the Hamilton’s home in Frederick Place to the Masonic Hall, thence to Wyke Parish Church where the service was conducted by the Revd. George Chamberlaine.

This innovative architect’s passing however, left behind him a bitter legacy for his grieving family to endure. Three months later his widow, Ann, was compelled out of some desperation to seek help from the London-based Masonic Board of Benevolence. She was, she declared, “left destitute with five young children to care for.” As Hamilton’s will has never been found, it is not clear why this was so, but the MBB’s records show that the institution awarded Ann £10, a considerable sum in those days. More ignominiously, it would have been possible for John Hamilton, James’ son from his first marriage, to claim his father’s entire estate if he had died intestate.

On December 3rd, 1831, the Hamilton’s youngest child, Edwin Charles, died and was buried in Wyke Churchyard, possibly in the grave of his father as no separate headstone bearing his name was ever set up. Ann lived on at Frederick Place until sometime between 1851 and 1861. The 1841 census is the last to record Ann’s daughter Augusta, then 20, as still living with her mother at home.