It all started the morning of November 27, 1809. At five AM sharp, a chimney sweep arrived at 54 Berners Street, the home of Mrs. Tottenham, who was known to be a lady of fortune — that is, she was rich. A maid answered his knock, and informed him that there must be some mistake; the residence was not in need of the services of a chimney sweep at that time. The puzzled sweep took his leave and was on his way. The maid thought nothing of it — but then a bit later there was another knock at the door. It was another chimney sweep, just like the first claiming that he had been summoned.
The maid was a bit taken aback, but sent the second sweep away as well. She was soon nearly beside herself, though, as sweep after sweep arrived at the door, each firmly convinced he had been summoned to that very address. In total, twelve different chimney sweeps visited Mrs. Tottenham’s door that early morning.
The maid closed the door on the last of them and probably leaned against it, breathing a sigh of, if not relief — because she couldn’t know that had been the last of them — at least in gratitude for a brief respite. And brief it was, because plodding down the street was a cart laden with a delivery of coal destined for 54 Berners Street. The household was not experiencing any shortage of fuel, and the deliveryman was sent away — but just as with the sweeps, he was followed by any number of his colleagues, each reporting having been sent a letter in which Mrs. Tottenham herself requested their deliveries.
No sooner had the household staff dismissed all the coal deliveries than the next set arrived. This time it was one baker after another delivering large cakes — wedding cakes, as it happened, even though no one in Mrs. Tottenham’s circle had any matrimonial intentions. Doctors followed, having been asked to treat one or another nonexistent ailment. After that the prognosis was worse, as a steady stream of vicars and priests arrived to minister to an imagined resident approaching their last breath.
Lawyers came and went, then more deliveries were attempted — fish, shoes, no fewer than six pianos, an entire organ (that needed half a dozen strong deliverymen), and more. The parade had begun to attract a crowd of onlookers to see what was next, and the next batch of visitors had to fight their way through the throngs of deliverymen, tradespeople, and professionals. Luckily this next batch was easily able to part the crowds, because they were officials and dignitaries, including the Duke of York, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Governor of the Bank of England, and the Lord Mayor of London. Those esteemed gentlemen were able, at least, to gain entry and enjoy an audience with Mrs. Tottenham herself, but every one of them left just as befuddled as they had arrived. The reaction of Mrs. Tottenham herself was not recorded, perhaps out of respect for a wealthy personage experiencing such a vexing conundrum.
The police had long since arrived to try to restore a semblance of order to the chaos that had engulfed Berners Street. It was eventually determined that every one of the would-be visitors and tradesmen had received letters requesting their services and stating “recommendations from persons of quality.” As said letter had not been sent by Mrs. Tottenham, who was at a loss as to the perpetrator, the entire affair was declared a hoax. At the Lord Mayor’s insistence, a reward was offered for the author of the letters.
If they had only known, the author himself was in the immediate vicinity — in the very house across Berners Street from number 54. It was Theodore Hook, who had installed himself and a friend (Samuel Beazley) in the house to watch. The entire affair was the result of a wager between the two; Hook had bet Beazley that he could “transform any house in London into the most talked-about address in a week’s time.” He had written all the hundreds of letters in the name of Mrs. Tottenham, who had been selected nearly at random and was ignorant of the entire operation.
Hook entirely escaped detection for the hoax, although his close acquaintances, who were well aware of his proclivities for practical jests, suspected him of involvement, if not complete guilt. As the furor over the event rose to a somewhat higher level than anticipated, Hook found it prudent to report an ailment forcing him to be “laid up for a week or two,” followed by a “convalescence tour” of the country.
Today the Berners Street Hoax is still remembered, and Theodore Hook is also known for receiving (and probably sending, to himself) the world’s first postcard, which sold at auction in 2002 for about $55,000. He wrote 38 volumes of books, biographies, articles, sketches, and satires. The characters Lucian Gay in the novel Coningsby and Mr. Wagg in Vanity Fair are thinly-disguised versions of Hook. Samuel Taylor Coleridge declared Hook a genius — although it’s not clear whether he was talking about all the writing, or all the practical jokes that Hook kept playing — and getting away with.
