Collections Online Project Assistant, Ed Johnson, shares his experiences of digitising our ancient coins and reveals the stories that they tell. As I approach the end of my first 12 months of working with the Roman coins for Collections Online, I am struck by the numbers involved. I have handled, scanned, identified and written captions for approximately 4,000 ancient coins. I can recognise the face of over a hundred different emperors, empresses, princes and usurpers, and identify many of the posturing gods, goddesses and personifications that are to be found on the reverse. However, I have taken very little time […]
Welcome to the Museum of London blog - insightful and interesting digital content from our team.
Browse the blog, join in the conversation, and if you want to know more about the museum visit the main site.
The story of London Tweed
So this is how the story goes. In 1826 a London merchant decides to buy some cloth from a weaver in Hawick, a town in the Scottish borders famous for its cloth production. Very happy with his order, he decides to get some more but – crucially – misreads the weaver’s dashed handwriting. Instead of ‘twill’ this Londoner reads ‘tweed’, and assumes this new cloth must take after the River Tweed which runs fast and clear through the textile areas of lower Scotland. ‘Tweed’ and not ’twill’ has been the term used ever since.
The Great Dock Strike – 125 years on
“The St. Lawrence is mere water. The Missouri muddy water. The Thames is liquid history.” So declared John Burns – a great advocate of London’s history – when asked to compare the Thames against those other great rivers in 1929. Forty years earlier in 1889 Burns had been a towering figurehead of the Great Dock Strike, thus sealing his own place in those murky waters. As the 125th anniversary of the strike approaches (14 August – 16 September) it feels an opportune moment to reflect on what this particular passage of liquid history might mean today.
A few weeks ago I found myself surrounded by fascists. I was on my way to the West End when at Tower Hill station a large group of French-speaking men with assorted girlfriends and wives (I presume) entered my tube carriage.