Stoke Newington has an admirable history of stroppiness. In the 17th century the village - then a half day's ride from London proper - became a refuge for those forbidden to live within the City boundaries. 

By the beginning of the 19th century the tradition of dissent was well established. In 1802, Anna Laetitia Aiken Barbauld, the poet, editor and author, and her husband, Rochemont Barbauld (from an old Huguenot family), moved to Church Street where they opened a grammar school specialising in the children of those who refused to take the oath of loyalty to the Crown. 

Anna had a fearsome talent for correspondence; her Epistle to William Wilberforce on the Rejection of the Bill for Abolishing the Slave Trade is still a highly readable polemic. Soon, she found herself at the heart of a group of rationalist dissenters and pamphleteers.

This extraordinary letter was found lining a pie dish during a recent excavation of the garden behind the dental practice opposite Fox's Wine Bar.

July 1803

Mr dear Brother [Dr John Aiken, a cleric - Ed.]

I doubt not that you have been grumbling in your gizzard for some time, and wondering when your lazy sister would stir herself to reply to your letter.
So to prove to you that I am not lazy I will tell you what I have been about and impart also a most curious tale of the Great. First, then, making up the beds, scolding my maids
(both employed, as I now have cause to chide myself, more from my pity than for their ability), preparing for company, and, lastly, drawing up and delivering lectures on Geography to my young charges of whom we now have twenty-seven with two more places already bespoke. But in the education of the young as in religious affairs, not to be of a particular party is to invite censure from them all, so I can only hope that we will be allowed to teach without the mind-forged manacles and exceeding Orthodoxy that do so afflict other institutions.

Yet I forget myself. I have not thanked you for your elegant translation of Ovid that I have enjoyed and passed on to Mr B. It is very fine, and I pray it will not be like my Devotional Pieces which have suffered the fate of Jonah and been swallowed up by some whale - perhaps out of compassion to save them from the more terrible teeth of the critics.

But you will be chafing at my obliquity. What is the extraordinary occurrence with
whose revelation you have been teased? Well, early in the morning, I fancied I heard
the martial sounds of cavalry: the clomping of hooves, the creaking of leather, the
jingle of the buckles on the cuirasses and the manly banter of soldiers. Frightened that
the government had taken the long-feared step towards tyranny, I rushed to the window and saw that a troop of the King's Own, their armour polished as if on parade, was riding down Church Street.

Soon they returned, and the captain, a huge blackeyed man of quarrelsome mien, was stopping at every dwelling - there are but a dozen between the grand houses of Clissold and Abney - and asking questions. When I and Mr B. asked upon what ground he disturbed our peace and frighted the children, he said darkly 'for safety'. 'Whose safety?' I enquired in a manner pertinent but, I trust, not impertinent, for the safety in question surely was not mine. 'That is a secret of the state', replied this captain whose physical stature may not have been matched by that of his intellect. 

Soon all became apparent. Two hours later a magnificent barouche pulled by the finest greys I have ever seen pulled up outside Clissold House. A small crowd had gathered, and I confess, I too was there, my curiosity overcoming my natural reticence. Standing at the south gate was Jonathan Hoare, unusual in itself for his footman would normally have been used for such a menial task.

Down from the coach stepped - can you guess? It was William Pitt himself! Much as I loathe the Tory toad, I found myself caught up in the moment and cheered, and, in truth, the poor man looked so tired and drawn that my heart went out to him. His unceasing administration of the war against Napoleon is taking a heavy toll, though whether he pursues it to save us from the scourge of invasion or to prevent the ingress of revolutionary ideas I cannot say for certain. Pitt's older brother, John, was with him
for it appeared that only a family member - for William is without the comfort of a wife
- could be trusted to help him in his frailty.

Hoare accompanied him, bowing and scraping, into the main entrance, and for the rest of the news I have to rely on that river of information, as infallible as the tide itself,
that comes from the gossip and chatter of the servants. Hoare's cook is the mother of Mabel, one of our paltry and indolent maids. She reports that Pitt is raising money for the defence of the realm for he maintains that spies have told him that Napoleon will turn his might against England as soon as he finishes his adventures in the east. You will observe, of course, as I do, that we have already defeated Boney on the Nile so we are twice defended - once by the sea and again by the bravery and skill of our sailors. Yet according to Mabel's mama, she distinctly heard the Prime Minister say that we could be overcome, notwithstanding the genius of Nelson, by the massive preponderance of numbers.

The gentlemen, sated by the volume if not the quality of the cooking - for Jonathan Hoare
is the ne'er-do-well of that Quaker family who indulges every appetite to excess - then
retired to the Real Tennis Court. Perhaps poor Pitt, so pinched and strained, believed that the violent movement of his limbs would restore some colour to his cheeks. Mabel's mama equivocates on the cause of the ensuing altercation, though Mr Hoare is a notorious gambler and it would surprise me not at all if they had wagered on the game. She heard their voices raised. 'This is our point surely!' 'No sir, you must concede it was mine.' And so on. Finally she heard a gentleman cry: 'You cannot be serious. This is the Pitts''.
Dear brother, heaven help their wise heads! Do tell me what you make of it. My blessings to you and all the society at Palgrave.
Your loving sister, Anna