A tale of an eminently practical solution to psychosomatic mental illness from August 1808. They did not call it the Age of Enlightenment for nothing…
A tale of an eminently practical solution to psychosomatic mental illness from August 1808. They did not call it the Age of Enlightenment for nothing…
If you were born on this day June 28th you are in good company. Henry VIII of England, 1491; Sir Peter Paul Rubens, in 1577; Jean Jacques Rousseau in 1712. One less famous who should be celebrated along with the others was also born this day. But this man had a trick up his sleeve.
For on this same day comedian Charles Mathews hung on for half an hour into the 59th anniversary of the day of his birth back in 1776 then shuffled from this world’s stage for the last time in 1835 from chronic heart disease.
Mathews was unfairly said to be the prototype for The Pickwick Paper’s scurrilous Mr Jingle. But in reality was an intelligent, benevolent latterly irascible man who was hugely respected for his talent and numbered Sir Walter Scott and Byron among his friends.
In his 40 years on the stage he played hundreds of parts in comedy plays and in Shakespearean roles too. Aside from scripted parts, he was the first to devise At Homes, the equivalent of “An Evening with…” during which he held an audience for a three hours in a one man show that involved anecdotes, songs, impersonation, ventriloquism and some ‘greatest hits’ excerpts from his many successes in London stage comedies of the late Georgian and Regency period.
No-one who saw his show had anything but praise. His meticulous observation of character types was oh so recognised by his contemporaries. He impersonated the famous who would be known to the knowledgeable London theatre crowd but he’d also satirise plain folk. He did them all – it was said he had three different Yorkshire accents. He could conjure up a Frenchman from Paris, or the South or from Flanders. Add to that his ‘Mr Moritz the jilted German’, or ‘Humanity Stubbs who was always saying one thing and never meaning another’ and you get a flavour of the man’s versatility.
Above all he mined down into the souls of his subjects. Said one friend after his death: “Our brother Jonathan [slang for a rube American], in his pure and transatlantic garb first became known to us through his personation. In his Scotch characters he present every shade of humour from the flinty hearted iron fisted son of mammon Mr MacSillergrip to the talkative polite and benevolent widow of the domine whose likeness was recognised by every inhabitant of Edinburgh.”
Another recalled: ‘His great forte, to my thinking, was his representation of elderly gentlemen, but whatever he played he played like an artist’
His spontaneous offstage wit and humour was often said to be even funnier than his onstage act. But of course the question is was he any good, or more precisely would our sophisticated 21st century take on what is funny, want to write off Mr Mathews as of his time.
I don’t think so. Judging from the freshness of his prose that can be found in a four volume biography published after his death by his equally accomplished second wife and widow Mrs Ann Mathews, formally the actress Ann Jackson. Part is in fact autobiography and here is a flavour of the man speaking of his childhood:
‘I have referred to my nurse, who was alive to tell the tale within ten years of the date hereof. She assured me that I was a long, thin, skewer of a child; of a restless, fidgety temperament, and by no means regular features — quite the contrary; and, as if Nature herself suspected she had not formed me in one of her happiest moments, the Fates combined with her to render me more remarkable, and, finding there was not the least chance of my being a beauty, conspired to make me comical.’
Happy Birthday Charles Mathews.
In 1864 a Cambridge gentleman farmer and agricultural scientist, Philip Howard Frere by name, wrote up his experiments in feeding various combinations of fodder. He shared with the readers of the Journal of the Bath and West of England Society that by spending £25 on an “American Grist Mill” (American in name only as it was one of thousands made by Riches and Watts in Norfolk) he could mill for other farmers, make a profit and in three years recoup the cost of the machine as well.
Economics and the Victorian Farmer might seem a dull enough subject, but seven little lines can tell an awful lot about life and its quality among the agricultural labouring community.
Look more closely at his list of costs for what amounted to best part of another day’s work after the end of the working day. A bit of background: The amounts listed are in shillings (s) and pence (d). And you need not worry much that there were in fact 12 pennies in a shilling and 20 shillings in a pound. Those English eh? They could actually add and subtract this stuff in their heads in those long ago days.
I would have liked to ask Frere what he meant by the last cost, listed as Use of Mill and Steam-engine because he seems to have owned it and calls it “my locomotive steam engine”, but as he is more than a little dead by now, we’ll let that pass. What is more important are the first six lines.
Here’s what I saw in the figures:-
Energy costs were huge in relation to labour costs.
Skilled labour was well rewarded in comparison with unskilled, with the engine man getting twice as much as the grunt workers.
Young men were introduced into the labour force at a lowly wage and were doubtless made well aware of their station in life by the men.
And then we come to the next item – five quarts of beer. It was part of Frere’s cost structure of doing business. It served both to hydrate and at the same time placate the workers engaged as they were in meaningless, repetitive and strenuous work.
Last of all, you see that the government took its cut out of the beer — and it was a hefty chunk too. Frere had to pay tax equivalent to the cost of the liquor itself. The British tax structure has relied on the fact that the British like their drink.
As I said, there is much to be gained from what otherwise might appear dry as dust statistics. I only hope that you can see these four men from the same village or a nearby one, labouring on into the summer evening. The older man who works the steam engine has the role as foreman and this is marked out for all to see by the wearing of the bowler or Derby hat. Can you see the boy who treads carefully among the seniors and is the butt of every practical joke going? “Fetch me a left-handed screwdriver boy…” As the evening goes on and the drink takes effect they strike up songs – tales of ploughmen, lusty millers, bold grenadiers, maidens and lilies. Perhaps one of them does a little step dance as they work. Eventually as the last sack is emptied, they dutifully pack up and tidy the barn, then depart, still singing quietly so as not to wake the village, with only the engine man remaining to dampen the fire and rake out the coals.
All from seven lines in an account book.
“Cave” and “Aladdin’s”, not words you associate with a place to park your car. But let he (or she) who has not turned their garage into a room for the temporarily unloved and yet too precious to be parted with, cast the first knick knack into the box labelled charity shop.
I am not saying that emptying your garage will provide you with an epiphany, but mine did. In effect I got more than one revelation. The first was the rule that, in life, as in art, “condition is everything”. The second is that how lowly, at least in money terms, is held the craftsmanship of hundreds of years past. And the third — and indeed for me the most important is my sudden acquaintanceship with my new friend, Catherine Macaulay.
For the wiseacres who knew of her all along, keep going, nothing to see here. Move along a couple of paragraphs. But for me, and of course you, even though we’re ‘smarter than the average bear’ when it comes to minor historical figures, this is new news.
We knew of women occasionally surfacing from a sea of man centeredness — women who pioneered by doing, Angelika Kauffmann RA, the Mary Wollstonecraft’s, mother and daughter, Mary Seacole, Florence Nightingale, Sacajaweya, Elizabeth Fry, Susan B Anthony and many, many more. But I knew nothing of the world’s first woman who was a professional historian.
Amid the cds and bank statements from 20 years past I found a large leather bound book. It was nobly titled The History of England and it was published 255 years ago in 1763. Who was the author? the ‘celebrated historian’ (to use the phrase that often preceded her name in contemporary news stories), Catherine Macaulay. What the… who the…?
This wasn’t some dilettante who wrote fanciful history for children – and there were a fair few of those who took to writing as an alternative to sewing samplers. Macaulay was that good an historian that admirers even published poems about her historical method. I quote a couple of lines from The Scots Magazine in December 1763 after volume one of the history had been received. It ends:-
She from the pedant’s hearse and tyrant’s grave
Strips the false plumes that slave-historians gave
And, soaring free, where man has checked his flight
Shows women fitter both to rule and write
A bit of abbreviated biography might be helpful. Catherine lived from 1731 to 1791. Her family was rich enough to see that she was privately educated by a governess. Her parents’ own enlightenment meant she learned the subjects more often reserved for a boy child. Greek and Roman history gave her ‘an enthusiasm for libertarian and republican ideals’.
She married Scottish physician George Macaulay in 1760. After her marriage she began her History of England from the Accession of James I to That of the Brunswick Line. It was published in eight volumes between 1763 and 1783. The History was widely read in spite of controversy over its republican sympathies. It championed the Parliamentary cause but condemned Oliver Cromwell as a tyrant.
Husband number one died in 1766. She moved in 1774 to Bath, where she ‘attracted many admirers’. Macaulay took up the cause of the American colonists by attacking the Quebec Act and British colonial taxation in her Address to the People of England, Scotland and Ireland (1775). In 1778 aged 47 she again married to William Graham, a 21-year-old.
Thereafter she styled herself Catherine Macaulay Graham.
On a trip to America in 1784–85, she and her husband were guests of George Washington at Mount Vernon. Her last political tract, Observations on the Reflections of The Right Hon. Edmund Burke on the Revolution in France (1790), defended the French Revolution. President Washington wrote her a long and consequential letter in that year. Reflecting on leaving the British Empire he castigates the “remainers” after what be be called his country’s Amerexit. Washington tells her: ” I think you will be persuaded that the ill-boding politicians — who prognosticated that America would never enjoy any fruits from her independence, and that she would be obliged to have recourse to a foreign power for protection — have at least been mistaken.”
Now why I am writing about Mrs Macaulay and what does that have to do with the epiphanies? Among the mouldering bank statements was a first edition of volume one of her History. It is a first edition. It is 255 years old. It is perfect in all respects bar one, as its board front cover is no longer secure. As I said before, condition is everything, it seems. Antiquarian booksellers I contacted, who I imagined would jump at the opportunity to take up and repair this piece of feminist history to preserve and sell on for future generations, they all declined.
But at least I got to meet Mrs Macaulay.
There is a time when ‘principles’ become not a good thing but an obsession. Like jealousy or revenge, stubborn adherence to ‘principles’ taken to a point where they are self-harming can erode the mind.
This old man does not sound deranged but as he calmly gives his testimony, he does sound profoundly broken and angry. Has he let ‘principles’ overtake his right mind..? you can decide.
It is 1861 when the British papers carry the report of a debtor up before the authorities to explain why he should be discharged from his debt. This happened all the time though. A businessman or a tradesman who could not pay his bills went through these hoops every day.
But in earlier times than 1861 a debtor was put in jail to concentrate his mind about paying his creditors. Dickens’ dad was an example. But in the enlightened 1860s the debtor was simply made to account for himself financially and if it seemed he was an innocent who had run out of money rather than a fraudster he was discharged from bankruptcy after a couple of years. As part of the tidying up process debtors were found still in jail and were being set free.
This man before the court was a victim of those ‘earlier times’. He should have been angry and who could blame him? The arthritic old man, William Miller by name is speaking under oath to the registrar of the Queen’s Bench Prison, an humane man who is only trying to clear up now what authorities should have done five long decades before – release William Miller from a debtor’s prison as seemingly he had never been a debtor in the first place.
It is a murky story and one has to suspend disbelief or the truth of everything Miller testifies, but from his side the facts are these. In 1814, yes that’s right 1814, Miller was a carpenter and cabinet maker in the sleepy Hampshire town of Christchurch. Miller still can recall the day — Saturday September 3rd that his Kafka-esque nightmare began..
He says that a man named Cull accused him of owing the absolutely eye-wateringly huge sum in those days of £1,000. How a simple carpenter could run up what was the equivalent of millions nowadays is never questioned. Cull has him arrested and thrown into debtors’ prison, where he still languishes in 1861 (though since 1854 he had been moved from Winchester prison to London).
Miller forcefully and clearly states that the paperwork that put him there in the first place was unofficial, unauthorised, illegal and possibly forged. He adds that he owned property in the town that would have provided rents to satisfy at least some of the debt but the money went missing. Miller claims that there is further back story attached to his jailing in that, according to Miller, the man Cull had seduced one of his sisters. As this possibly occurred before Miller was incarcerated, that might present circumstantial evidence of malign motive on Cull’s part.
The kindly registrar named Winslow told the sickly 77-year-old man that he would release him that day if only he would declare himself bankrupt, but the old man stuck by his principle that no man should acknowledge that he was a debtor when he plainly was not. The unspoken fact was that fifty years had institutionalised Miller beyond redemption. He was simply scared of the fate awaiting him outside prison.
Independent evidence is scant today to corroborate Miller’s story . If absence of evidence is ever evidence of absence this might be the case. It was the law that every bankrupt Tom, Dick or Harry across England got his name published in the official London Gazette as part of the punishment. And while there were dozens of bankrupt millers by trade that year there were fewer Millers by name and none named William nor any within 100 miles of Christchurch in 1814.
There was a family named Cull residing in Christchurch at that time. It was in a position of some power in town, with one member acting as the town’s auctioneer. That man had a son who was the right age to be a seducer during Napoleonic times but that isn’t proof.
William and Miller is such a common coupling of names that most villages would have record of one, so that haystack may hide a needle, who knows? However, there is a record of an 84-year old named William Miller dying in Christchurch in 1867, so that may have been our man, as their respective ages almost match. For he was released — probably as much against his wishes as his original incarceration was. One can only hope that those six years he had left were better than the rest of his adult life, stolen from him.
Eupion Oil is slippery stuff. It’s one of many hydrocarbons bearing classical sounding names that they could so easily be diaphanously-clad minor spirits partying with old Zeus disguised as a bull. Not wishing to sound like a Tom Lehrer tribute band, but aside from Eupion there’s kerosene, naphtha, propane and toluene. Ethane, methane, heptyne and undecene, Classical allusions point to the fact that many of these compounds were first identified in the earlier decades of the 19th century when science was still a branch of the arts and scientists knew their Latin and Greek.
But hey, class, we’re here to talk of Eupion. Since the 1850s Eupion was used for many disparate purposes; to protect telegraph wires, as a domestic stain remover without the ominous ether-like scent of operations and as a substitute liquid to light lamps in place of the ever scarcer and pricier oil from lately deceased whales.
Then in the early 1870s a German living in London developed a patented process, which, if it worked as claimed, could easily turn the liquid into a gas that burned twice as bright as coal gas. And it could be piped across towns and into homes. It could also serve as a smoke-free alternative to coal for the steam engines propelling London’s Underground. More especially though, the Eupion could be transported as liquid to serve new weeny domestic micro-gasworks that would light isolated communities or even country houses where the expense of running pipes to them was too great. Hurrah for the Victorians and their constant striving for new technology to drive forward civilisation.
The way to capitalise such technology of course was through floating a company.
So this brings us on to the Eupion Fuel and Gas Company and some slippery customers who first met their accusers in late 1874. It turned out that during that year these minor league City crooks aiming to go up to the bigs had been selling their shares through stupidly innocent share dealers over and over again to their mates. The accomplices then gave the shares back to the directors and then went and bought some more. This was to make it seem like the world was interested in Eupion.
The money too was recycled. Sloppy auditing and a dodgy bank manager meant that the Eupion board would pay the proceeds into one bank, then tell the first bank that they were transferring the cash to the equivalent of a high interest savings account at another bank whose dodgy manager ‘loaned’ the money straight back to the directors, The directors passed it straight to the accomplices so that they had the cash to be able to buy more shares. Unaccountably (literally and metaphorically) the innocent first bank told the Stock Exchange that all the individual payments of the same money which it had seen repeatedly come and go across their counters still added up to a grand total. This pleased the Stock Exchange, which would not let a company be entered as a publicly traded stock unless a majority percentage of its shares had already been privately taken up.
Another nicety of the Stock Exchange was that it signed off on a new issue by naming a ‘settling day’. Upon that future day the brokers who had bought on behalf of clients had to pony up the cash and the Stock Exchange dealer who had sold on the understanding that he would have the shares come settling day had to provide the promised Share Certificates. If he did not have the shares he would have to obtain them — at any price. In any rapidly rising market it could be impossible to get even one hot share as everyone was hunting the same stock. And if the dealer failed to come up with the goods and the deal was held over to the next settling day, then the buyer’s broker could exact what they called ‘blood money’, the difference in price between what the agreed to pay for the shares and the actual cost of obtaining them – and it was no small amount.
But of course all the ‘sold’ shares had never left the oily hands of the Eupion directors. So they held them back so that all their phoney buyers could claim their blood money.
Ingenious though the fraud was, the Stock Exchange and the trial judge, an ex-Lord Mayor of London and Calvinist Scot grocer named Sir Andrew Lusk were onto the wheeze.
This was, after all, so much more important than a fraud against any old shareholders. No, it was far worse to Lusk and his City contemporaries; it was a fraud against The Stock Exchange – that meant and attack on the smooth operation of capitalism itself. The Stock Exchange was stung by this clever intrusion into the well-oiled relations of buyer and seller. Knowing it could not act itself, it forced the dealers themselves to call to account these half a dozen ‘respectable’ City figures who had conspired to go just too far.
This buying and selling of shares that you did not hold was indeed a part of a system that itself by its nature condoned – no, encouraged Much of this sort of gambling and market rigging was ‘honest speculation’. It was how brokers and dealers earned much more than the money their simple commission would pull in. Cornering a market, bulls, bears, shorting and all the other tricks of the trade were acceptable, naturally, but this was not. The Eupion directors had invented a way of doing business quite as dishonest as many others, but this was not one that was sanctioned.
In their various defences, the prominent names who had become Eupion directors did the unthinkable and bit at the hand that hitherto fed them — and not just the Stock Exchange itself, but to those colleagues, friends and enemies who right now filled the crowded public spaces of the courtroom. In his defence one accused argued “…the Exchange said the morality was to buy what they could never get and sell what they could not deliver”, and he was right. That did not go down well with the rest of the club. No-one likes a cheat who tells teacher that there others were cheating, so it was off to the Old Bailey for the half dozen in the dock to face criminal proceedings for fraud.
The Central Criminal Court, to give it its proper title, dealt with murders, assaults, theft and burglaries – interpersonal offences — and so this bit of white collar crime was quickly shuffled back to the Queen’s Bench a court which was finding its feet following the wholesale revision of the British court system the previous year. Though justice always proceeded with glacial sloth in Victoria’s age, they seem to have been particularly snowed under as it did not come to court for two whole years. So it was back to the courtroom in the Guildhall, but this time facing the Lord Chief Justice.
The fraud charge was difficult to prosecute. Who had defrauded whom? They weren’t the first in the Square Mile to hold onto shares to push for blood money. The shares they sold were actually sold in the way that shares should be sold. Yes it’s true the bank manager was conspiring to give the money back as a loan, but hey, it would not have been the first dodgy loan, nor the last and that in any event was for the bank to prosecute. Yes it’s true that the buyers signed the shares back to the company, but that too was broadly legal.
The jury took just 40 minutes to say they were not guilty of the more serious charge conspiracy to defraud. However they were guilty of inducing the Stock Exchange to grant a settling day by false pretences – though no-one including the judge knew if this was actually a crime at all.
The court was “very much crowded” on Saturday morning July 1st 1876, when the accused were finally called back to face sentence. But first came the pleas in mitigation. One claimed that he had two life threatening diseases, 12 children and aged parents to support and who would be condemned to the workhouse – he got 12 months. Another claimed that he had only become roped in as a trustee of the estate of one of the patentees – he got two months. The bank manager for 30 years who was on a salary of £1200 a year with a promotion in the offing till this blew up – he got 12 months.
The lesson, of course was to others in the City. Keep to the rules and do not try to invent new ways to screw the system. There were enough schemes to do that in place and the system did not need any more.
Global warming started early — 1869 in fact — but our foolhardy ancestors denied the obvious signs of climate change…
Ailments can so easily be politicised. Where there is any kind of pain or suffering, weasel politicians smelling blood gravitate to the scene like the hyenas you always knew they were.
It was so back in history when the British confected a case for conflict over the detached organ of an unfortunate sea captain and so the War of Jenkins’ Ear was born. Google it, why don’t you?
So it is now. For many reasons, the small islands making up the countries called the UK have 65 million souls by the official count, but that is a nearly 20 per cent population increase since 1990.
Many services provided by the state have become overwhelmed by this fact. Revenues into the state have not commensurately increased in purchasing power terms. So there is a war to be fought over this latter day ear in a jar.
The Hiroshima target is Britain’s free health service. The National Health Service has been adopted by those who are not in government like some duffle-coated Peruvian orphan bear. It is no longer the NHS but it has become our NHS (though there is much anecdotal evidence that there are many from outside the UK who fly in to take advantage of the lackadaisical failure to check entitlement).
It is worth reminding ourselves that the UK has a tradition bordering on obsession of the ritual celebration of events. It’s plainly ‘bread and circuses’ to distract the populace from moaning about hyena politicians and the NHS. Usually these are sporting triumphs, or oftentimes disasters. The calendar runs Cheltenham winter race meeting full of drunks and the Irish, then the Grand National horse race of death (everyone is temporarily an expert of horseflesh and the jumps), followed by Ascot (ditto for racing without jumping) The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, Wimbledon (Come on Tim! or someone else whose certainly destined to lose — and everyone for a two week period knows their backhand lob from percentage first service faults), then it’s the cricket and so on to take up more time until attention turns from sport to the celebration of Christmas – a festival which now begins in retail terms in late August – I kid you not.
In parallel we talk endlessly and amaterurishly of the weather, in a country where 72F is perceived as a stultifying heatwave and 31F is Arctic chill. Each and every winter the conversation turns to disease. Yes folks it is the “flu season”. And guess what happens? Our NHS gets a bunch more customers with respiratory disease blocking further the already creaking conveyor belt of “get ’em in, get ’em well, get ’em out.”
And of course circling politicians make much of this. But here’s the thing. There have always been winter crises in the NHS. Even before there was an NHS there were winter crises. Flu epidemics – or should that be pandemics? — like the poor, have always been with us and have overwhelmed the health systems of the world.
Most are familiar with the Spanish Flu of 1918-19 that is said to have killed 50 million. Right now it’s Aussie Flu, but bird flu, Hong Kong Flu and Asian Flu have all had their day in the sick beds of the world.
Even the years when there wasn’t a plague, there was enough sickness to stop the buses and the postal service. People expected it. Here’s what was happening in Britain during January 1933 when there was a mini pandemic:-
It wasn’t that we had to find someone to blame for death and disease back then. Here are the sage thoughts in a song by lesser known Texas blues singer Ace Johnson and his take on its inevitability and universality of flu, from 1939.
Influenza is a disease, makes you weak all in your knees
’Tis a fever everybody sure does dread
Puts a pain in every bone, a few days and you are gone
To a place in the ground called the grave
Of course you could always rely on advertisers to come up with a cure. This is from that same January back in 1933.
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