The Saddest Museum in London： The Foundling Hospital Museum)

This truly is one of the saddest displays I've ever seen. I'm Jessica the Museum Guide and today I'm visiting what has been called the saddest museum in London and maybe in the United Kingdom. Today we're at the Foundling Hospital Museum. Children left to fend for themselves on the street. Dying babies abandoned to the elements. Mothers forced to make impossible choices about the survival of their children. These were the harsh realities of the London streets before 1739 when sea captain Thomas Coram founded a charity to help the most vulnerable people in society. The babies and little children caught in the crosshairs of a rapidly changing England. With the help of his high society friends, artists like Handel and Hogarth, this also became the first public art gallery in the country and a fashionable venue for concerts and events. Today the Foundling Hospital Museum is, as I mentioned, the saddest museum in London and we will explore the heartbreaking stories and the physical mementos that they have left behind. If you're new to my channel, I just want to say welcome and for my regular viewers, hello again. While I'm walking here through the streets of Bloomsbury, I also wanted to let you know that I've recently launched a Patreon and if you click on over there, you can get access to all kinds of extra content. That's patron-only content, so I hope to see you there. Now this is a museum dedicated to the former Foundling Hospital on this site, a place where abandoned babies could receive care in 18th and 19th century London. Though the museum chronicles the entire history of the organisation back to the early 18th century, it is here in a more modern building built in 1930, though it incorporates a lot of the 18th century features. As we enter the museum, we see a wall covered with the names of fictional characters and the real people who were either orphans, foster children or foundlings. It's a poignant way to enter a museum filled with the dark stories of abandonment and the joy and hope of reunions between parents and child. Most of our tale today takes place in the 18th century. As the Industrial Revolution changed the dynamics of cities and the countryside alike, people flocked into London. The population was skyrocketing and yet many people found themselves in extremely precarious situations. Remember, there was no social safety net or welfare system. The best people could do was hope to rely on the kindness of the benevolent wealthy, which is exactly how the Foundling Hospital came to be. We can see here this replica of William Hogarth's infamous print, Gin Lane, which I bring up in nearly every video that I make about 18th century London. One in six houses in central London sold gin. It hangs here to remind us of the depravity and desperation of the era. It's hyperbolic satire, yes, but it illustrates the concerns that people had over Mother's Ruin. And Mother's Ruin indeed. Women were regularly forced to make impossible choices. No reliable contraception, no rights for women to divorce, and no child support. And, as you can see on the wall here, 75% of children died before their fifth birthday. Their mothers went through unimaginable suffering. And if they couldn't afford childcare, they would often be forced to leave their babies on the street as they tried to find work in domestic service or in factories. Here, we can see a painting of a whole family begging together. Enter Thomas Coram, a sea captain turned philanthropist, painted here in an extraordinary portrait by William Hogarth that we will visit later. He's also outside in this wonderful statue in front of the museum, which was founded in 2004. And next to the modern children's charity that bears his name to this day. Coram came from a family of shipbuilders, and he went to sea at age 11 to help support his family and learn their trade. After living in Dighton, Massachusetts for 10 years, he returned to London and was shocked by the poverty and depravity on its streets. Now we're going to come back to Coram shortly, but first let's stop for a moment to notice this oft-overlooked piece of art molded to the fence. At first glance, it looks like something familiar to any parent. A tiny pale pink mitten placed on the fence post to be found and retrieved by a relieved parent. However, it's actually a bronze sculpture titled Baby Things, created by artist Tracey Emin back in 2010. This one gets me right in the feels. But let's head back inside the museum. As you can see with this quote, Coram spoke about the grim realities of the day. He expressed his utter horror at seeing abandoned infants and toddlers left to the elements on the rough, stinking and dangerous streets of London. This map shows us the poorest and most deprived areas of London, but Coram, being a seafaring man, was most affected by the South East, as he spent his time between Rotherhithe and Greenwich. Though London was the world's financial capital, it was also polluted and disease-ridden, especially for the poorest children, and he was deeply troubled by what he saw. However, he had friends in high places, and so he decided that it was time to do something about this problem. He spent 17 years petitioning his friends to help fund his, quote, darling idea for a foundling hospital. In this context, foundling refers to a child who's been abandoned by their parents, but they're not necessarily orphans. And here, hospital is more like hospitality or hostel. While the children did receive medical care, the main mandate of the hospital was to provide food, shelter and education to the children in its care. Babies admitted were sent to a woman, called a nurse, paid to care for them in the countryside to receive the hands-on care not possible in a dormitory setting. The billets, or paperwork, for some babies note whether the baby was still being breastfed. That way, a woman who could act as a wet nurse was found, and that just breaks my heart even more. In rare cases, children could remain with their nurse for the rest of their childhood. Maybe they were apprenticed to the nurse's husband, or they stayed with her because they had mental or physical health issues. However, in the vast majority of cases, when the little one reached their fifth birthday, they were torn away yet again from the only home they knew, and brought back here to London. Now we're going to get back to the lives of the children in a moment, but let's just return to Coram for a minute. After trying for many years to gain enough support for his idea from his male friends and associates, he realized that women might be a softer touch. Though they could not vote at the time, high society women wielded enormous power over their families' charitable expenditures. The people at this level of society were referred to as the, quote, great and the good, and they felt compelled to help the so-called deserving poor. 300 of them ultimately signed Coram's petition, and in September of 1739, he was finally granted the Royal Charter, that is the official permissions necessary, by George II. We can see the actual vellum document here, with its magnificent wax seal. This was the first UK children's charity, and it's signed by high society earls, dukes, barons, privy councillors, but remember, they're only male names. The women who supported Coram are not on this document, however, some of their portraits are upstairs, and we'll see them towards the end of our tour. Just like today, where the wealthiest in society often attend charity functions and philanthropic events, the Georgians were keenly aware that their reputations depended on their benevolence. They wanted to help, but they also wanted to be seen helping. Over time, the founding hospital would become that place for them to socialize and view great art, but we'll come back to that topic upstairs. When the charity was founded, 172 governors were appointed, and a general committee of 50 was chosen from these. Some of these governors included artist William Hogarth, who we will talk about at length, and even physician Hans Sloane, whose collection of objects acquired with money his family earned from the slave trade would go on to form the backbone of the British Museum. We can see here on the opposite wall a little bit about the hospital's different locations over time. It was on this site until 1928, when it moved first to Redhill, then to Berkhamsted. The original buildings were demolished, though some cool details remain that I'll show you later, like a staircase and a rococo room, and the site where all the hospital buildings were located is today called Corham's Field. Funnily enough, it's the only park in London where, as an adult, you must be accompanied by a child to enter. Now here we have some insight into how the hospital operated its admissions procedure. As you can see here in this French painting depicting a mother grappling with the same agonizing choice at the Paris Foundling Hospital, mothers would be both dreading and hoping for their child to be accepted. Hope for a better life, but the dread of being torn apart from them, likely forever. Corham's Hospital began accepting children under a first-come, first-served basis in 1741, but they were immediately inundated with need. This illustration shows the system in action. By the end of the first year, they had to turn away hundreds of desperate mothers, and so they switched to a lottery system in which parents were required to choose a ball from the bag. If they chose a white ball, the child would be admitted pending a successful medical exam, and a black ball meant, of course, that they would be refused a space. Red meant admission only if another child failed the medical assessment. The parents were desperate for the education and opportunity that the Foundling Hospital could afford, but they were also overwhelmed with grief at the prospect of losing their child. However, the lottery system was not ideal, and so the hospital changed their admissions procedure to one called General Reception. Parliament pledged financial support to help pay for the care of more children. Now, a mother rang a bell to alert a clerk, and the baby was passed through a hatch. Once the baby was examined and thought to be well and younger than one year old, they were accepted. However, this system did leave room for admissions without the mother's permission, and you can imagine just how abused that could become. So eventually, this system too was abandoned, and admission was only for war orphans, workhouse children, or by interview by the governors to question the woman about her circumstances. Ideally, leaving your child here could be a temporary arrangement. More on that in a moment. Now, if the mother was only temporarily down on her luck, this could be a chance for her to turn things around and find a way to provide for her little one. By the way, single mothers could only bring one child to the hospital. Subsequent children would be turned away to discourage her from having more illegitimate offspring. However, the cruel reality was that most children would never experience the joy of this painting, which shows a reunion between a mother and a little girl. Most stayed here until they reached the age of 14, and many went on to join the military, nurses training, or other apprenticeships. Others stayed here to work as servants, or stayed because they had mental or physical disabilities. Carrying on a long tradition of the rich coming to gawk at the poor, within a few years, it became common for Londoners to show up at these lotteries. It was seen as a form of entertainment to Georgian times. The governors also raised funds with other public events, such as ladies' breakfasts, where people could go and watch the children eating their meals. Now, in this glass case, we can see one of the most devastating displays in this museum, or any here in the UK. These are small tokens given to the foundlings when their mothers left them as small babies. The idea was that if they returned, they would be able to describe the token, and then they could be paired once again with their child. However, until 1764, they were also required to make a payment for all of the care that their child had received, including the costs of the foster mother bringing the baby back to London. And they must pay for this before the immense search for their baby could even begin. Even if their child was found to have passed away, which of course was very common, they had to foot that bill. And that could amount to years of care, and was prohibitively expensive for most people. So, obviously, few people could do it, and tragically, from 1741 through to 1763, only 182 children were claimed. That's just a handful each year. One lucky boy, though, was little John Dougherty, who was three months old in 1757 when his mother, who was a widow, felt forced to leave him. However, she did leave him with a note and two pieces of the fabric from his clothing. She kept one piece, and then they folded one up with his paperwork, and just two weeks later, she came back to get him. The fabrics were matched, and she was reunited. She did have to pay for the cost of his two weeks of care. However, after longer periods, the cost could just be too high. In 1764, they did away with the requirement to repay these costs, and the number of children claimed really increased. 183 children were claimed in the next year alone. Of course, that still left tens of thousands who would never be reunited with their parents. Similarly, the archival connections between many of these tokens and the historic children that they belonged to have now also been lost. Thankfully, dozens of the tokens have actually been identified and kind of reunited with their lost child, thanks to the tireless efforts of Jeannette Bright and Gillian Clark. They're archival volunteers and independent researchers. See, these tokens were folded up inside the billet paperwork, and they were meant to stay sealed. These were not tokens or mementos to be given to the child, but a lot of mothers did try to include some personal information anyways. Their grief is just palpable. However, in the 19th century, governors of the hospital did decide to stage an exhibition of the tokens, and they didn't make a note of which token belonged to which child, so a lot of the records and the ties severed forever. So sadly, it isn't always possible to go through the archives and connect children to their tokens, and to the dreams and wishes of the mother, and sometimes the father, who left them behind and hoped to soon return. Sometimes the paperwork, the billet, includes a description of the token and they can be connected, but many billets only say, token enclosed. There just wasn't any thought given to the idea that these children would likely spend the rest of their lives yearning for some tangible physical connection to the mothers and fathers who had no choice but to leave them here at the hospital. That said, these tokens do teach us fascinating things about George and London. After all, these were the objects that people felt important and or unique enough to use as collateral for their child, and so they chose them carefully. Some of these objects speak volumes about the level of poverty and desperation that the families faced. Here's one from child 14,594 in 1750. She was renamed Mary Russell. This is a George II half penny with eight notches, and it matched the description of one such coin that was tied around the child's neck, and this one has been matched to its child. Here's a token meant to ward off the evil eye. It's too been matched to a boy from West Ham who was admitted in 1756. He was renamed Henry Penlove by the hospital. It's a hand making the fig sign or monofika. You can see that the thumb is pushed between the two fingers. This means something very crude in some of the countries that I've been to, but it can also be good luck, and it would have been worn as a protection amulet. After all, mum was trying her best to protect her boy in her absence. It just breaks my heart. With this token, she also left a note, and the museum has it, but they've never opened it for fear that unfolding it and removing its attached pin will destroy the paper. This one is absolutely fascinating. It's a token used as an admission ticket to one of Dr. Erasmus King's scientific lectures called King's Experimental Philosophy. He held lectures and ladies' daytime courses in his Westminster home on Duke's Court between 1730 and 1756, where he demonstrated scientific concepts, and this shows us that some of the people forced to relinquish their children were a diverse bunch. They had all kinds of interests. Some were well-educated. You can see here as I'm scrolling by coins of all kinds, buttons, medallions. I mean, just look. If you're interested in any of these ones that I'm not talking about, head over to the Foundling Hospital Museum's website, and you can read more about each individual token. This one's interesting. A pineapple and a sort of winged heart, and here's an enamel ale token. Today, we use the word ale to refer to just one kind of beer, but in Georgian London, this was a sweeter drink with no hops, and this one has never been matched to its child. Here, we have a little red heart ring made for a little finger. This reminds me of the little rings I used to get out of 25-cent machines when I was a little kid. The red stone has a key on one side and a padlock on the other, and it's inscribed in the inner band. It says in French, he who neglects me loses me. So poignant, whether on purpose or not. It was left with a mother's note that included the 23rd Psalm, and this note was later used to reunify mother and child, who was child number 1036, Harriet Littleton, and the records show that she may have even worked in the hospital as an adult. Here is another heart. This one's handmade and embroidered. It was accompanied by a slip of paper that said William. The mothers knew that their children were going to receive new names, but that didn't stop them from having their reunion. They engraved on smoothed-out coins or created unique objects like this one, which sadly hasn't been matched with a child yet. Some of the objects are really valuable, like the ruby ring or a season's ticket like this one to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, but others are utterly heartbreaking in their abject poverty, such as this one, a hazelnut shell on a string used as an amulet in Ireland to ward off toothache. I mean, this mother had nothing else to leave. Look at this one, this tattered silk gauze band, the embroidery originally read Cruel Separation. Now, remember, this wasn't meant to be a keepsake. The child would never see it, but the mother just couldn't bear the idea of not marking her sorrow. I mean, faced with this excruciating choice, what would you leave? What token would you choose? Remember, many people were illiterate, and so this was the only way to try to be reunited with your child. It's heartbreaking, and they're also so sad. The hospital later introduced the billet system, as I mentioned, more efficient paperwork, but tokens were already so established and synonymous with the hospital that mothers kept leaving them. We can see here, though, in this billet book associated with child 3745 named John Augustus in 1757, little John was accompanied by a portrait as a token, and this billet book is for a boy named William, number 4031. He was accompanied by a black ribbon as a token. That's what it says on his paperwork. This one's for child 6330, a girl admitted in 1757 with a blue decorated ribbon, as well as some other clothing that was documented in her paperwork. Some babies arrived with cloth nappies, diapers, and others with baby slings and carriers. Here's a more hopeful piece of paperwork. This one's for William. He's asking to reclaim his son, also William, and it includes a note from their parish clerk confirming their identity, which would help their claim. It does not include whether William Jr. was still alive or whether their claim was successful, but let's hope that it was. Let's move on and try to find out what happened after a child was admitted and after their parent had left a token. They would immediately go to the chapel. The newly admitted babies were taken to the chapel by older children, and within 24 hours were given new names. Think about after that new name was issued just how hard it would be to be reunited without those tokens. By the way, this artist was Emma Brownlow, and she was the daughter of a former foundling, her father John. Here on the wall, she was buried and was donated by Eleanor Code. She was an early inventor of artificial stone for gardens. After the children were baptized, their clothing was taken away from them and they were given new uniforms. Let's have a look here. We can see how the girls' uniforms look like domestic servants. That's something they may have been trained to do. Look how tiny! The boys were very military, and here's a cloak for an older boy. This practice continued on for a long time. Children wore these kind of dog tags until around 100 years ago. That was a way to identify them. We have to remember that there was no attempt to make this painful transition less jarring, and certainly no understanding of all the trauma that this would cause. I mean, you've now lost your mom or both your parents. Now you've lost your name, your country, to this institution. The children, however, did receive education, nutritious food, and health care. Here you can see a cross-stitch stampler that the girls would have done, and some of their lessons, as well as diaries that the children kept. Religion loomed large in their education. Here's the Book of Hymns for the Use of Children of the Hospital of the Exposed and Deserted Young Children, circa 1764. Here's a 19th-century bleeding bowl used by the hospital barbers to bleed the children for illnesses and regular health. Children and adults alike were bled if it was believed that the excess blood in their body was causing an imbalance in their humors and making them ill. Next to it is the hospital's pap boat. This is a shallow vessel used to feed infants a mixture of bread and milk called pap. There's also the huge mortar that was used for pounding up their medicines. The children were fed. They often started their day with gruel, or pottage, and for lunch, which they called dinner, they had boiled meat, usually, or mutton. For a small evening meal called supper, they had bread and cheese. And on Sundays they had roast beef, and remember, members of the public might pay to come and watch them eat their lunch. We can also see a tiny gavel here, which was used to call for silence when the children ate. This could be quite a dour situation. It did not even attempt to offer affection and nurturing to the children. When they turned six, all children began to work, doing domestic chores, garden work, spinning and knitting, even the boys. Games and activities were organized, if at all, by the children themselves, not by teachers and staff. Of course, based on the social mores of the time, we also don't know about specific cases of abuse or violence. This just would not have been talked about, but we do sadly know that abuse and violence did occur. Let's have a look at this case. We can see some of the most important people who helped make the Foundling Hospital a reality. Remember, Thomas Coram had friends in high places. Here's George Frederick Hundle's conducting score for the anthem he wrote for the Foundling Hospital. He premiered it during a benefit concert for this charity. And actually, Hundle is featured in an entire floor of this museum. I'm not going to visit it on this tour. It houses the Gerald Koch Handel Collection. He gave concerts here regularly and gifted the hospital's galleries an original copy of his score for Messiah. Here's an interesting one. Next to Hundle's score, here's a book that's 250 years younger. This is the manuscript for the children's book Hetty Feather, written by Jacqueline Wilson about a fictional foundling girl living in a hospital like this one. It's sold over 35 million copies and has had a popular TV series based on this. It attracts children to the museum who want to see where Hetty lived. Now here's some artifacts having to do with William Hogarth, a famous painter of the day whose art is all over the rooms upstairs. And I guide his satirical work such as Marriage a la Mode in the National Gallery. And I featured a majestic staircase he painted in my video on the history of surgery. He was also a major benefactor to the Foundling Hospital and one of its founding governors. But that's a topic for a different day. I'll link that video above. Speaking of staircases, let's talk a little bit about this one before we head upstairs to the courtroom and the picture gallery which are just two rooms upstairs. Remember, the hospital was relocated to Berkhamsted in Hertfordshire and the old building was torn down in the 1930s. However, a lot of the 18th century materials were salvaged very well and incorporated into this building including this oak staircase. Just think about all the little feet pattering up and down these stairs. There was a girls' staircase as well but it didn't have this rail. This one was put here to stop the boys not to leave from sliding down the banister. This was a rare chance to be silly and kind of break the strict rules that they lived in but sadly in 1773 one seven-year-old boy called Joseph Moss fell off the banister while horsing around and he died after hitting his head. As we climb the staircase we can see this 1891 painting by Thomas Benjamin Kennington. It's called The Pinch of Poverty. He was from Lincolnshire but when he moved to London he started depicting social realism. He too was shocked by the poverty here more than 100 years after Thomas Coram and he painted this the family selling flowers on the street. Before we go up the stairs have a look at this statue called the Peasant Boy which was a favourite of the children when it stood at the main entrance of the Berkhamsted Hospital. It was painted by Francesco Romanelli. The kids might have been able to identify it after all he's wearing ragged old clothes but he's full of mischief. Now up on the next floor we encounter two breathtaking rooms. Let's start in the courtroom which was used by the governors of the Foundling Museum to host events and also discuss different aspects of running the hospital from budgets to the care of specific children. Just look around. This stunning room is one of three 18th century interiors from the original building it's renowned for its Rococo ceiling by William Wilton considered one of the finest in the country and you can see why they regularly hosted events here. I like this the museum has thoughtfully left out these mirrors that allow you to examine the ceiling in greater detail. The artists invited to show off their talents here knew that some of society's highest ranking members would see their work. Now remember Hogarth gave generously of his paintings to the hospital and worked with a group of fellow artists to create the art you can see. This group included a young talent he had spotted one Mr. Thomas Gainsborough my favorite 18th century English painter and here's his small roundel of the Charterhouse. A lot of these artists who were a tight-knit group would go on to found the Royal Academy. In some ways this was the first public art gallery in London by that I mean not in someone's home not that anyone could just stroll in and have a look not that kind of public. Let's have a look at this painting this is Moses brought before Pharaoh's daughter painted in 1746. We see Moses as a foundling himself as a young boy being returned from his wet nurse to his adopted mother who is Pharaoh's daughter. However the wet nurse is secretly Moses's mother and she's weeping at the loss of her son. The two servants are having a good gossip because they know the identity. Before we leave this room let's look at the elaborate marble mantle sculpture entitled Charity designed by John Michael Reisbrach. He was more known for busts but he created this relief depicting children farming and raising a ship's anchor. This was a highly idealized version of the trades that the children were actually taught at the institution. They made rope of hemp and they tended the school garden. Let's head back out here into the hallway and we can see this 1750 painting called The March of the Guards to Finchley by Hogarth. In 1750 he organized a lottery to sell this off. He was very famous by this point and the lottery was sure to capture a lot of attention and raise money for the hospital. However on the day of the draw Hogarth had 167 tickets left and he gave them all to the hospital which probably wouldn't be allowed under contest ethics today but the hospital then won the painting because they had so many tickets and here it is. This was five years earlier. The guardsmen are gathered at the top of Tottenham Court Road to march to their Finchley common camp. Just like his Gin Lane painting the scene is dialed up to absurd levels. On the left we can see patriotic Protestants enjoying an ale at the Adam and Eve pub but on the right we see the Jacobite influence, the Catholics, gin brothels and thievery. One main soldier is torn almost literally singing a patriotic ballad and his ex Catholic waving Jacobite propaganda. Never one for subtlety our Hogarth. Let's head into the picture gallery. We'll have a look at one more painting by Hogarth. This famous painting of Thomas Coram that I briefly showed earlier. Hogarth donated it in 1740 the year after the royal charter that Coram is holding in his hand. Remember the two men were close friends and so Hogarth is painting him in a loving yet honest way. I mean Coram was rather short so his feet don't touch the ground and a lifetime of being outdoors has given him these thread veins across his face. He is surrounded by the symbols common in Baroque portraits the kind of things that you normally see in paintings of aristocracy such as globes, classical architecture, vistas on the horizon but Hogarth is saying that Coram's moral goodness is what makes him great especially against slavery but many of the governors were not and someone like Thomas Emerson here and of course Hans Sloane they made their fortunes in the sugar trade and other industries with explicit links to slavery. Here in this painting we see Isabella Duchess of Manchester by Andrea Soldi. Soldi has represented her as Diana here the goddess of hunting and of motherhood. Remember Coram couldn't initially get men to sign his petition so he gave up and turned to women and he owed them a great debt. He asked that their help be noted and recorded when he unveiled the charter at Somerset House. Here's another important man Dr. Richard Mead. He was a chief physician to the royal family and he treated Queen Anne and George the second as well as Sir Isaac Newton. Even before Dr. Jenner he did pioneering work in smallpox inoculation. Both the children of the royal family and the foundling children. We can also see this terracotta bust of Handel here in his headscarf instead of his powdered wig. That's the preferred way that French sculptor Louis-Francois Roubiliac preferred to depict men without the artifice of their wigs. And Roubiliac you might recognize his name he depicted the extremely beautiful and macabre memorial for Elizabeth Nightingale that I featured in my Westminster Abbey video. Here's Thomas Brooking who painted this massive canvas more than three meters wide for the foundling hospital depicting the might and power of Britain's navy at the time. Of course Britain was growing rapidly more prosperous in the 18th century driven by the power of its navy but also by the labor of enslaved people and the expansion of the British Empire. While it may seem out of place in this hospital setting Coram himself was a sea captain and he viewed the founding of this hospital as a truly patriotic project. So there's kind of the connection there between this idea of showcasing Britain's greatness inside this children's institution. Let's finish in this room by a portrait by John Everett Millais a member of the pre-Raphaelite group of painters. He donated this to the museum in 1905. It's a portrait of Dr. Luther Holden. Holden was a doctor at a hospital nearby in the 1860s. He followed in Dr. Mead's footsteps by advising the hospital free of charge. In 1879 he became head of the Royal College of Surgeons and though he had retired the next year he advised the founding hospital until his death in 1905 when he was 90 years old. Now let's make our way back downstairs. The Coram Charities more natural settings to raise children and out of institutions. They also help to raise money for other initiatives to keep families together and legal help for families facing troubled times. Today the Coram Charities still support children and families in countless different ways. Well that's the end of our tour. Well I can't say that it's a fun museum or a joyful place. It is a place of deep contemplation and of hope. I'll see you the next time I'm at the museum.