A Stroll through a graveyard: a very brief history of British cemeteries

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burial, burial practice, Cemeteries, charnel house, Christian burial, churchyards, Graveyards, headstones, history, monuments, tombstones, Victorian Cemeteries, victorian graveyards

With the Coronavirus lockdowns of 2020/2021 many of us have had to find our pleasures closer to home than usual.  One of my favourite past-times has been visiting some of my local graveyards and taking a leisurely stroll amongst the tombstones and monuments.

Overgrown urban cemeteries and churchyards provide a haven for nature, an escape from the bustle of the modern world, and respite from the claustrophobia of a national lockdown. Often protected from traffic and pollution, and hidden from sight behind high walls, they can easily be overlooked by passers by. Yet within those high walls you can find butterflies dancing on delicate wildflowers, squirrels sheltering in the branches of ancient trees and foxes hiding amongst the tangled brambles.  Cemeteries are also steeped in cultural history and rich in public art, with elaborate memorials and tombs, describing a rich and varied iconography of death and remembrance. I have done a separate post on some of the common cemetery symbols found on headstones.

As the subject of burial and funeral monuments is a vast one, this article will be by nature selective, focusing mainly on traditional Christian burial practices found in mainly English cemeteries and churchyards. However, it is important to note that there are also many examples of different regional styles and practices as well as those of other faiths, all of which can also be found in our historic graveyards.

A very brief history of traditional British cemeteries and their monuments

Romans, Saxons and Medieval burial

Many British churchyards sit on much older pre-Christian burial grounds, and may contain remnants of those earlier times, occasionally these remnants can be seen today. It has been suggested that the Romans may have invented (or at least developed the idea of) the headstone as we know it [1]. The Roman tombstone below (L) can be found in Holy Trinity Churchyard, Washington, Tyne and Wear, and does look remarkably similar to later headstones.

Medieval churchyards did not contain many stone grave markers, so were ideal places for community activities such as fairs and village games (until the puritans put a stop to jollity, that is). Often the only stone monument was a large cross, although many of these were destroyed during the Reformation of the sixteenth century [2]. The example below (M) is the Mercian Cross, a Saxon cross from the eighth-tenth centuries, which can be found in St Lawrence’s church, Eyam, Derbyshire. In this period, only those of very high status would merit an individual burial and memorial, many people would expect to end up in a charnel house. Initially ‘wet’ bodies (i.e. fresh, fleshy bodies) were stored in stone coffins until they decomposed and became ‘dry’ (i.e. bones). The bones would then be stacked in the charnel house. The stone coffins below (R) can be seen at Tynemouth Priory, Tyne and Wear. If you were wondering where the corpse liquor went, some stone coffins also contained a hole to let it drain out [3].

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From pomp and purgatory to the resurrection men

Richard Fleming’s tomb and chantry chapel, Lincoln Cathedral.

Our relationship with the dead has changed over time. Purgatory as an actual place was introduced as a concept from the late twelfth/early thirteenth centuries. This lead to a drive to encourage the living to ease the passage of the deceased through purgatory with prayer. Gruesome monuments, such as Cadaver Tombs, (which depicted the deceased as rotting corpses) were often linked to chantry chapels to elicit prayers for the dead. This provided the living a sense of moral and religious satisfaction while assisting the dead towards  salvation [4, 5]. Other, less macabre tomb monuments, called gisants, emphasised the earthly status of the deceased, showed them in fine regalia, as if in prayer or sleeping.

The Gisant style monument for Sir Ralph Grey (d1443) and his wife, Elizabeth. St Peter’s church, Chillingham, Northumberland.

While most people in the medieval period were buried in unmarked graves, tombs or memorials of the great and (often not so) good were sighted inside churches and the higher the status of the deceased, the closer to the altar (and God) they would be placed. In later times this also protected the dead from body snatchers. This resulted in some very dubious practices, such as at Enon Chapel in London, where cut price burials resulted in the dead being piled up to the rafters in a tiny crypt, in order to line the pockets of the rapacious minister.   In the past, these intramural burials in churches were notorious for causing a bit of a stink (and worse in the case of Enon chapel), but such burials can result in problems even today. Recently, the floor of Bath Abbey, which is paved with ledger stones, flat grave markers, was restored to stop the floor sinking into the cavities caused by the decayed bodies beneath. (Somerset Live).

The Reformation of the church in the sixteenth century, which made the concept of purgatory redundant for many, the restoration of the monarchy in 1660 that ousted the party-pooping puritans, combined with a rising class of wealthier farmers and merchants, created a sea-change in funeral monuments. From the end of the seventeenth century churchyards begin to fill up with tombstones, recording personal status, family ties, occupation and epitaphs, as well as some very macabre iconography [6].

As with burials inside the church, burials outside had their pecking order. Burial on the east side of a churchyard was preferred, with the body facing east in order to rise on the day of judgement. Burial on the north side was reserved for the illegitimate, criminals, suicides and strangers, and was therefore a less favourable location [7]. There is a wonderful description of this in MR James’s The Ash Tree, the executed witch, Mrs Mothersole, is said to have been buried on ‘that unhallowed side of the building‘. In some areas these ‘undesirable’ burials would take place outside the church yard itself or the corpse would have to be unceremoniously bundled over the wall of the churchyard, after being refused the usual welcome by the vicar at the lych-gate [8].

While post mortem social status was a pressing issue for some, from the late eighteenth century, body snatchers were a real fear for many. This was the case right up until the passing of the Anatomy Act in 1832 (which solved the problem of supply of cadavers for the anatomists table by co-opting the corpses of the poor and destitute). To protect the dearly departed from such ‘resurrection men’ elaborate precautions were put in place and they can still be found in some graveyards today.

Image by https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/obf_images/0a/b0/95f14983a9a287f3932cd1e71806.jpgGallery: https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/image/V0010462.htmlWellcome Collection gallery (2018-03-24): https://wellcomecollection.org/works/b2gb3sp8 CC-BY-4.0, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36452434

Famous examples of post mortem protection can be found in Greyfriars Kirkyard, Edinburgh which boasts a very fine mortsafe.  While the infamous Burke and Hare may have preferred to obtain their bodies by seeking out ‘future corpses'[9] in the drinking dens of the old Town, many others were stealing corpses from graveyards to supply Edinburgh’s famous medical schools. 

Tombstone trends

As more people were able to afford permanent grave markers, churchyards began to fill up and certain styles of headstone became popular. Headstones began short and stout, gradually becoming taller and less chunky as the centuries progressed – although this could depend on the quality of the local stone. More elaborate ornamentation and inscriptions became popular, however, the execution of the design could depend on the skill of the mason, many of whom may have been illiterate, as is seen below.

The examples above, from St Andrew’s, Newcastle, and Tynemouth Priory, Tynemouth, show eighteenth century grave stones with the text cramped together, of uneven size, and occasionally with words broken over lines. The example on the right also shows some naïve attempts at decoration.

The size difference between the early 18th Century gravestone on the left, and the nineteenth century one on the right. St Peter’s Church, Chillingham.

These headstones were often in three parts – decoration at the top, details about the deceased (names, dates, occupation, family ties) then an epitaph or scriptural quote at the bottom. Some stones also have the mason’s name as well.

These earlier grave stones had their inscriptions facing away from the actual burial plot, and some had a ‘body stone’ covering the burial, or a small ‘footstone’ indicating the length of the grave. In some cases the direction of the headstone was reoriented by the Victorians. The Victorians often marked the limits of a grave or family plot using kerbstones or railings [10].

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As the times changed, so did decorative motifs, one of the most notable metamorphosis being that of the infamous grinning skull and crossbones. This first evolved into a flying head before morphing into a chubby cheeked cherub (a more sentimental, but no less disquieting images, to my mind).

Seventeenth and early eighteenth century skull and crossbones motifs, usually found in the top section of decoration, acted as a memento mori, reminding the living that they too would soon be dust (so they should behave themselves and lead good lives). This tradition evolved into flying faces, which symbolised the soul flying up to heaven, and later still, in the late Georgian and Victorian period, morphed into flying angels/cherubs, symbolising innocence (they were often used on the graves of children [11].

The taste for the macabre in graveyard symbols lingered well into the eighteenth century, but by the closing decades, tombstones could be found with tranquil classical iconography, in keeping with Georgian taste for all things ancient Roman and Greek. 

Late eighteenth century tombstone with classical motifs, St Andrew’s, Newcastle.

By the nineteenth century, it was the rising urban middle classes who drove the developments of tombstone designs.  Huge gothic follies, classical urns and columns sprouted up across the land. Crosses and Angels as grave markers even made a come-back, shunned after the Reformation and centuries of anti-Catholic feeling in England, they underwent a renaissance in the nineteenth century and can be found in abundance in many Victorian cemeteries. 

Victorian Gothic, the funerary monument of the Reed family, at Jesmond Old Cemetery, Newcastle.

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Angels and crosses from Highgate Cemetery, London, Jesmond Old Cemetery, Newcastle and Tynemouth Priory, Tyne and wear.

The Civic minded Victorians also came up with the concept of the Garden Cemetery, situated in the suburbs, laid out like parks and dotted with attractive grave monuments, these cemeteries not only addressed the problems of overfull and unsanitary urban burial grounds, but made a visit to the grave of a loved one into a pleasurable day out [12]. 

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The difference between the overcrowded headstones in Bunhill burial ground, in use in the centre of London since the seventeenth century, and the elegant nineteenth century suburban garden cemetery, in this case Jesmond Old Cemetery in Newcastle, was plain to see.

The Victorians also helped to democratise death, through their more industrialised production techniques, machine cutting inscriptions, standardised patterns, and a budget range of guinea graves, and community burial clubs. As the nineteenth century progressed more and more people could have a permanent marker to meet their budget. The downside of this was that the idiosyncratic and personal memorials of earlier times were often replaced with standard shapes, such as the ubiquitous lancet gravestone,  and more generic  religious or moral sentiments. Of course, this doesn’t meant that the families and friends of the departed grieved any less, only that the outward language of death and the business of burial had become more of an industry [13, 14].

The ubiquitous lancet headstones found in Victorian cemeteries across Britain.

New materials also played their part, with machine cut inscriptions, lead lettering and occasional iron headstones (very appropriate for such an industrial age).

This unusual but appropriate iron headstone was chosen for William Crawford, an Iron Founder, and can be found in Jesmond Old Cemetery, Newcastle. Unfortunately, it has weathered badly.

The twentieth century saw the mass death of the First World War, with Cenotaphs, empty tombs, for recording the deaths of millions, and many soldiers buried on foreign shores.  You can find the occasional pristine war grave, striking in its simple poignancy, amongst the unruly ivy clad headstones of a previous era. However, it was inevitable that death on such an industrial scale, with so many families left grieving without a body to bury, would cause a fundamental change in how the dead were commemorated, World War I was the beginning of the end of the lavish Victorian way of death. 

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Gone but not forgotten. A solitary war grave sits amongst older graves at Church Bank Cemetery in Wallsend; while a war grave from 1917, in Jesmond Old Cemetery, is adorned with a recent poppy tribute.

Today, in Britain, cremation far outstrips burial, nevertheless, you can still find some unique and personal grave monuments on occasion. A particularly poignant example can be found in Westgate Crematorium in Newcastle, where a huge black marble edifice stands for a young man, dead before his time, and which includes a marble motorbike. While this may not be to every ones taste, it is a unique and very personal memorial.

There has been a church on this site since the 12th Century, St Peter’s church was rebuilt in 1809 and remodelled in 1892. Wallsend, North Tyneside.

Who lies beneath

Cemeteries are filled with the famous and not so famous, all with their individual tales that remind us that these mossy and ivy cloaked monuments hid the bones of people just like us, who lived and loved and sometimes suffered.

Dame Mary Page, 1729, Bunhilll, London

Grave monuments could be very personal in the eighteenth century, one could say, too personal, as this famous monument to Dame Mary Page at Bunhill cemetery in London demonstrates. The unfortunate Dame Mary died in 1729, the inscription describes her final years “In 67 months she was tap’d [tapped] 66 times, Had taken away 240 gallons of water without ever repining at her case or ever fearing the operation.”

The Keenleyside Monument, 1841/2, Jesmond Old Cemetery, Newcastle

This canopied monument featuring a reclining cherub rests beneath mature trees in Jesmond Old Cemetery and hides a terrible family tragedy. The monument was erected by Thomas William and Louisa Keenleyside in memory of their children, Eleanor, 2 years old, Charles, 12 years old, and James who was 10 years old. The children died in quick succession between December 1841 to January 1842, victims of the Cholera epidemic that raged through the city. Epidemics and other diseases such as scarlet fever were common in the Victorian period, and could rip through a family taking siblings one after another. It is hard to comprehend how Thomas and Louisa came to terms with this heart wrenching loss, although this monument may have been part of that process.

Tom Sayers, 1865, Highgate Cemetery, London

You would be forgiven for thinking this monument in London’s Highgate Cemetery was the grave of a large dog, but in fact is commemorates Tom Sayers, Victorian superstar prize-fighting bare-knuckle boxer, who died in 1865. Sayers had a turbulent personal life, so the chief mourner at his funeral was his mastiff, Lion, who rode alone in a pony cart behind the hearse. Sayers kept the hound next to him even in death, and Lion was immortalised by sculptor Morton Edwards and forms the most prominent feature of Sayers monument [15].

Epilogue

For me, the apogee of cemetery design came in the nineteenth century, when over-crowded, unsanitary urban cemeteries, such as Bunhill Fields, were replaced with leafy suburban garden cemeteries.  Highgate cemetery, Abney Park and Kensal Green were intended as pleasure grounds as much as for memorialising the dead.  Recently, I have spent many hours exploring my local cemeteries and churchyards, discovering fascinating facts about my area – the pastoral poet buried in the centre of Newcastle, the Georgian composer, organist and music critic buried in St Andrews, as well as countless ordinary people, whose lives flicker before us briefly in their epitaphs.

Ledger stone for eighteenth century Newcastle composer and organist Charles Avison. Avison died in 1770, but the ledger stone was replaced in the nineteenth century.

The Coronavirus pandemic has claimed so many lives, however, once the pandemic itself has entered into the pages of history, I hope that we will not forget the quite pleasures of walking in these public gardens of the past and experiencing that fleeting connection with those who have gone before us.

All Saints, Newcastle.

Part 2 will look at the meaning behind some of the symbols found on headstones.

Sources

Cohen, Kathleen, 1973, Metamorphosis of a death symbol

King, Pamela, 1987, Contexts of the cadaver tomb in fifteenth century England

Morgan, Alan, 2004, Beyond the Grave, Exploring Newcastle’s Burial Grounds

Ross, Peter, 2020, A Tomb With a View, The Stories and Glories of Graveyards

Rutherford, Sarah, 2008, The Victorian Cemetery

Snider, Tui, 2017, Understanding Cemetery Symbols

Victorian Web, Funerary monument to Thomas Sayers (1826-1865), Western Cemetery, Highgate, London N.6. (victorianweb.org)

Yorke, Trevor, 2017, Gravestones, Tombs & Memorials

Notes

1. Alan Morgan, Beyond the Grave, Exploring Newcastle’s Burial Grounds
2. Trevor Yorke, Understanding Gravestones, Tombs & Memorials
3. ibid
4. Pamela King, Contexts of the cadaver tomb in fifteenth century England
5. Kathleen Cohen, Metamorphosis of a death symbol
6. Trevor Yorke, Understanding Gravestones, Tombs & Memorials
7. Tui Snider, Understanding Cemetery Symbols
8. Peter Ross, A Tomb with a View, The Stories and Glories of Graveyards
9. The Order of the Good Death (death positive movement)
10. Trevor Yorke, Understanding Gravestones, Tombs & Memorials
11. Tui Snider, Understanding Cemetery Symbols
12. Sarah Rutherford, The Victorian Cemetery
13. Tui Snider, Understanding Cemetery Symbols
14. Trevor Yorke, Understanding Gravestones, Tombs & Memorials
15. Victorian Web, Funerary monument to Thomas Sayers

Which Mortality Remindin’ Shirt is for You? | The Order of the Good Death

The Grave Humour of the Georgians

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automaton, Catherine Tylney-Long, Colonel Luttrell, dark humour, death, eighteenth century, gallows humour, Georgian, haunted houses, history, John Joseph Merlin, Lord Tylney, morbid, Mrs Delany, Wanstead House, William Pendarvis

It is well-known that the Victorians had a love of all things macabre and death-related: from elaborate funerals to Memento Mori – in the nineteenth century death was in vogue. However, their eighteenth century ancestors, the Georgians, despite being less obviously morbid, certainly knew how to get a kick out of death when the mood suited them.  As Autumn is now upon us, and Halloween fast approaches, a little bit of Georgian ghoulishness may suffice to whet the appetite!

Laughing at death

Scapini Tarot, Image from SheWalksSoftly website.

The tendency for some humans to laugh at death has been likened to a kind of instinctive cognitive behavioural strategy – it allows individuals to face what they fear most, such as their own inevitable demise, whilst offering them the catharsis of laughter [1]. In the past, when death was such a visible part of most people’s lives, a bit of dark humour might help cut death down to size- to tame it a little. Of course, the terrors of the grave could also offer up a damn good scare. In the eighteenth century, the newly emergent Gothic novel found a ready audience of people who revelled in its dark aesthetic. Science and technology also offered opportunities for experiencing horror first hand in the forms of mechanical automatons and the immersive horror offered by magic lantern phantasmagoria shows. In short the Georgian’s were some of the first horror fans.

The following anecdotes have been shamelessly plundered from Julian Litten’s erudite and engrossing book on all things funereal: The English Way of Death: The Common Funeral since 1450.

An invitation to drinks with Sir William Pendarvis

For every thrill seeking eighteenth century libertine, there was an equal and opposite moralist, ready to offer their censure of decadent or immoral behaviour – whilst still relishing the details.

Mrs Delany, strong on piety and moral improvement, related the following tale of death-based debauchery, which occurred in about 1720:

“Sir William Pendarvis’s house was the rendezvous of a very immoral set of men. One of his strange exploits among other frolics, was having a coffin made of copper (which one of his mines had that year produced), and placed in the great hall, and instead of his making use of it as a monitor that might have made him ashamed and terrified at his past life, and induce him to make amends in future, it was filled with punch, and he and his comrades soon made themselves in capable of any sort of reflection; this was often repeated, and hurried him on to that awful moment he had so much reason to dread.”

This early eighteenth century baronet would seem to be no different from many of his dissolute peers, such as the irreligious Philip Wharton of Hell-fire infamy, but perhaps a kinder parallel exists with the irascible Squire Weston of Fielding’s novel, Tom Jones. Mrs Delaney had personal experience of the hard-drinking Pendarvis clan, she had been married at seventeen to sixty year old Alexander Pendarvis, so she clearly had good reason to be unimpressed by Sir William’s antics. But perhaps at the end of the day, Pendarvis was just another of the species of the carousing and bibulous English squire – albeit with a dark sense of humour – no doubt a dreadful husband but probably a great drinking buddy.

I wonder if he was buried in his punch bowl coffin?

‘Mine’s a double!’. Image by Thomas Bewick. British Museum Collection.

Colonel Luttrell’s death masque(rade)

On 6 February 1771 Mrs Cornely held a Masquerade at the Pantheon in London. Such gatherings were popular in the eighteenth century and one could expect to see the usual throng of merrymakers dressed as harlequins, monks and medieval princesses, eager to party the night away. However, one guest, Colonel Luttrell, took things a little too far and his costume somewhat killed the atmosphere. RS Kirby, who witnessed the debacle, related that Luttrell cast such ‘a pall of gloom’ over the other guests that he had to leave almost as soon as he got there. And the reason for this downturn in the festivities…he had come dressed as a coffin!

Remarkable characters at Mrs. Cornely’s masquerade, 1771. British Museum Collection.

Satan-Machines and the human condition

Before elaborating on the third tale of ghastly Georgian humour, in which Lord Tylney alarmed his guests with a gruesome garden ghoul, some preamble may be justified.

Philosophers have argued what it is that makes us human since time immemorial. In the seventeenth century Rene Descartes, in his Passions of the Soul and The Description of the Human Body,  argued that humans and animals were basically automatons, humans distinguished only by their ability to reason. It was natural then, for life-like mechanical automatons to become part of that debate, similar today’s philosophical debates concerning when and if artificial intelligence might achieve sentience. Jessica Riskin, in her essay Machines in the Garden shows that far from viewing these human-machines as soulless – as we often do now – in the past they were often seen as capable of acting unexpectedly, playfully, wilfully and responsively. [2] This certainly comes across in Lord Tylney’s extraordinary display (described in the next section) with a choreographed event involving interaction between the living participants and the automatons.

Millennium Clock, Museum of Scotland. Photo by Lenora

What may seem unusual is that Tylney’s spectacle was so viscerally frightening. The most famous automatons, such as the exquisite silver swan at Bowes Museum or the dainty little keyboard player beloved of Marie Antoinette, may be slightly uncanny, but they are intended to be objects of beauty not fear. Nevertheless, historically, it was not unusual for automatons to be of a more menacing form. For many years the Catholic Church had been using mechanical and hydraulic automata as part of their clocks and organs to illustrate religious themes. But they had also been using automata to scare the devil out of their congregations with much more gruesome automatons – a famous example being the Sforza Devil.

The Devil of SforzaThe Devil of Sforza by G.dallorto (Own work) [Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons

Many of these ‘Satan-machines’ had a pretty dramatic repertoire – wild rolling eyes, demonic expressions, chomping jaws, flapping wings and arms. Evan a tiny monk, created in 1560 by Juanelo Turriano, and now in the Smithsonian, that marched about offering benedictions in a rather sinister manner. Clearly these machines were intended primarily for the spiritual and religious improvement of the congregation, but Riskin also points to plenty of instances where their antics caused amusement [3]. Of course, they were also good for business, drawing crowds of the curious and the faithful.

While the church used automatons in their mission to save their congregations souls, those who could afford to, used automatons for entertainment. Many princes of the church, royalty and noble families in Europe used hydraulic machines to create jump scares and booby traps for unsuspecting guests – water spouts could be triggered to drench guests and mechanical humans, animals, and dragons lurked about gardens and in grottoes to delight and amaze onlookers.

Lord Tylney’s Clockwork Cadaver

Perhaps the most interesting of Litten’s anecdotes occurred in at the fabled and ill-fated Wanstead House, Redbridge, London.

Wanstead House in the 1780’s. Collection of the British Museum.

Wanstead House is most famous as the home of the beautiful and tragic Catherine Tylney Long, whose sad spectre is said to still haunt the grounds of the park. In 1768, long before the lovely Catherine met her tragic end, it was the setting of a spectacular or should that be spooktacular *sighs* practical joke that would be the envy of many modern haunted houses.

The following account is from the pen of an Italian Noblewoman, a guest at Wanstead and witness to the macabre piece of immersive theatre orchestrated by John, 2nd Earl Tylney (1712-84):

“Many lights appear in the trees and on the water. We are off and have great excitement fishing up treasure… tied to bladders. His Lordship is hailed from the shore by a knight, who we are told is King Arthur, have you the sacrifice my Lord, who answers no, then take my sword and smite the water in front of the grot and see what my wizard has done, take also this dove and when asked, give it to the keeper. Off again to some distance from the grotto, the lights are small and the water still, the giant eagle appears and asks, have you the sacrifice, no my Lord answers, so be it and disappears in steam.

His Lordship smites the water with King Arthur’s sword, all the company are still, a rumble sucking noise comes in front of the opening of the grotto the water as if boiling and to the horror of all the company as though from the depth of hell arose a ghastly coffin covered with slime and other things.

Silence as though relief, when suddenly with a creaking and ghostly groaning the lid slid as if off and up sat a terrible apparition with outstretched hand screeching in a hollow voice, give me my gift, with such violence, that some of the company fell into the water and had to be saved and those on the shore scrambled in always confusion was everywhere. We almost fainted with fright and was only stayed from the same fate by the hand of his Lordship, who handed the keeper the dove the keeper shut its hand and with a gurgling noise vanished with a clang of its lid, and all went pitch. Then the roof of the grotto glowed two times lighting the water and the company a little, nothing was to be seen of the keeper or his coffin, as though it did not happen. [sic!]” [4]

A Phantasmagoria; Conjuring-up an Armed Skeleton.1803 James Gillray

His Lordship may have been intending that some beautiful creature would swoon into his arms at the dramatic events, but he may have been a little disappointed that it was the lady in question – as Lord Tylney was not that way inclined.

Litten credits Lord Tylney with the concept for the event. Perhaps he had been influenced by the ghoulish phantasmagoria shows so popular at the time or automatons on display in noble houses and gardens both in England and on the continent. He certainly spent much of his life living in Italy where there were they had been popular for centuries.

But who was the macabre mechanic who breathed life into the drama? Litten looks to clues in the tableau to find the author of the mechanical pyrotechnics. The King Arthur motif would seem to be significant, as are the words ’see what my wizard has done’. Merlin was Arthur’s wizard, could this also be a covert reference to the extraordinary talents of John Joseph Merlin, famed for his exquisite automata such as the silver swan at Bowes Museum in Co. Durham. The eccentric inventor had arrived in England in 1760 and quickly made a reputation for himself (and not just for automata, Merlin had a penchant for cross-dressing and was a keen, if not always proficient, roller-skater). In the small world of the London elite, it is not unlikely that Tylney crossed paths with the brilliant John Joseph Merlin. Especially as Merlin’s penchant for cross-dressing may have appealed to Lord Tylney who is believed to have been homosexual. Merlin would certainly seem an ideal candidate for executing such an elaborate and memorable spectacle – although it is unlikely we will ever know for sure.

Tylney’s macabre drama draws on a long tradition of using automatons to scare and to entertain, but he also draws on elements of cutting edge contemporary culture with his emphasis on the Gothic with its predilection for knights and ghouls and good old jump scares. His guests had the opportunity for a good (safe) scare and a drenching if they weren’t too careful!

Saved from the flames

It is interesting to note that Julian Litten was given this tantalising titbit of Georgian horror by one Stuart Campbell-Adams, who explained that it was nearly lost in the mists of time. In a suitably gothic twist, this vignette of eighteenth century ghoulishness was amongst Tylney family papers intended to be consigned to the flames following the dissolution of Wanstead House. Only the quick thinking of either a maid or female relation of Catherine Tylney-Long saved them from destruction. Whoever the lady was, she clearly had a wicked sense of humour!

Sources and notes

Litten, Julian, ‘The English Way of Death The Common Funeral Since 1450’ Robert Hale, 1992 [4]
Riskin, Jessica, ‘Machines in the garden’ at-http://arcade.stanford.edu/sites/default/files/article_pdfs/roflv01i02_03riskin_comp3_083010_JM_0.pdf [2] [3]
It’s Good to be Bad: The psychological benefit of dark humour’ by Meg, 2014) at – http://megsanity.com/article.asp?post=14 [1]

The Bone Hill of Finsbury Square

Tags

Bunhill Fields, bunyan, Burial Grounds, Cemeteries, Daniel Dafoe, Graveyards, history, London, non conformist, William Blake

Bunhill Fields Burial Grounds, London

Bunhill Fields is sited in the Finsbury area of North London, a short walk from Old Street tube station.  Twice in recent months I have found myself meandering through the clutter of tombstones, monuments and ancient trees.

Although the burial ground really took off as a non-conformist cemetery from the seventeenth century onwards,  the origin of the name goes back to earlier times.  Originally known as bone hill, the site may have been used for burials as far back as the Saxon period. It is also possible that the gruesome name came about much later.  During the mid sixteenth century St Paul’s was clearing out its overflowing charnel house and in the somewhat pragmatic manner of the time the excess bones were dumped on nearby fenland until they formed, one imagines, a very gruesome looking hill.

Although the cemetery was remodeled in the nineteenth century, you can still get a feel for how jumbled and cramped together London Cemeteries were before work began to alleviate pressure on London’s overcrowded urban cemeteries with the opening of the likes of Highgate Cemetery and Brookwood in the mid-nineteenth century.   Bunhill Fields saw its last burial in January 1854 – it is estimated that over 120,000 people were buried in the burial ground during its existence.

Famous incumbents

Susannah Wesley, via Wikimedia

Bunhill fields attracted some quite famous individuals as a nice place to go whilst awaiting the final trumpets (or what ever the individual’s own particular brand of religion specified).  John Bunyan (1628-1688), author of The Pilgrim’s Progress; Daniel Defoe (1660 -1731) author of Robinson Crusoe and the naughty novel Moll Flanders;  Susannah Wesley (1669 -1742), the Mother of Methodism; and William Blake (1757-1827), visionary poet, painter and keen nudist (!) all took their final rest in Bunhill.

Amongst the gnarled old trees and scattering of wild flowers are not only notables and famous literary and non-conformist figures. There are many equally unique and extraordinary individuals..

Most of the graves are fenced off to protect them, however you can still get close to some of the larger monuments.  Here are a few of my photo’s of some of the more famous monuments:

Tomb of John Bunyan

Detail from John Bunyan’s tomb – the Pilgrim

 

Monument to Daniel Defoe

William Blake’s simple headstone

 

And the not so famous….

Amongst the many notable individuals, there are of course may thousands of ordinary individuals whose bones lie in Bunhill Fields….and one has to spare a thought for the suffering and fortitude of some of these unfortunate individuals such as Dame Mary Page, relict of Sir Gregor Page Baronet, who slithered off this mortal coil on March 4th 1728 at the age of 56, her epitaph reads:

Dame Mary Page, whose epitaph reads ‘In 67 months she was tapd 66 times and had taken away 240 gallons of water without ever repining at her case or ever fearing the operation.’

One wonders if Dame Mary actually wanted her demise commemorated in quite so detailed a manner!

The Bone Hill Today

Today the old burial ground is protected landscape, filled with wildflowers and ancient trees and patrolled by the ubiquitous grey squirrels that abound in English park lands.  Here are a few more of my pictures for you to enjoy…

Inscription on the gateway to Bunhill Fields

A row of impressive tombs

A piece of wilderness in the heart of the city

Daniel Defoe monument

Dame Mary’s monument – I wonder if they considered a fountain…

Before cemeteries like Highgate and Brookwood opened in the 19C, it was standing room only in city graveyards.

 

The squirrels of Bunhill

 

 

 Sources

Images – all images copyright Lenora and Haunted Palace unless otherwise credited.

http://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/things-to-do/green-spaces/city-gardens/visitor-information/Pages/Bunhill-Fields.aspx
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bunhill_Fields

 

 

The Murder of Martha Ray; or the earl, his mistress and her stalker

Tags

4th Earl of Sandwich, Earl of Sandwich, eighteenth century, erotomania, history, James Hackman, John Montague, Martha Ray, Mistress, Murder, obssession, stalker

A Bloody Scene in Covent Garden

Covent Garden by Balthazar Nebot, 1737, public domain

It was past 11pm on the 7th April 1779, when Mary Anderson, a local fruit-seller, perhaps hoping to profit from the thirsty crowds exiting the theatres, found herself witness to one of the eighteenth century’s most infamous and talked about murders.  Here she describes events in her own words:

“I was standing at the post. Just as the play broke up I saw two ladies and a gentleman coming out of the playhouse; a gentleman in black followed them. Lady Sandwich’s coach was called. When the carriage came up, the gentleman handed the other lady into the carriage; the lady that was shot stood behind. Before the gentleman could come back to hand her into the carriage the gentleman in black came up, laid hold of her by the gown, and pulled out of his pocket two pistols; he shot the right hand pistol at her, and the other at himself. She fell with her hand so [describing it as being on her forehead] and died before she could be got to the first lamp; I believe she died immediately, for her head hung directly. At first I was frightened at the report of the pistol, and ran away. He fired another pistol, and dropped immediately. They fell feet to feet. He beat himself violently over the head with his pistols, and desired somebody would kill him.” [1]

The lady was rushed to the nearby Shakespeare Tavern, a surgeon was called and pronounced her to be dead – the ball of a gun having passed through the crown of her head and exited under her left ear [2]. The murderer, somewhat bloody from his self-inflicted wounds, was apprehended by Constable Richard Blandy and taken to the tavern where he was questioned by Sir John Fielding (the well-known blind magistrate and brother to the celebrated novelist Henry Fielding).  The murderer was committed to Tothills Prison Bridewell and thence to Newgate to await trial.

The Earl and his mistress

Martha Ray and Lord Sandwich, Town and Country Magazine, 1769 © National Portrait Gallery, London

The victim in this very public tragedy was Martha Ray the mistress of the 4th Earl of Sandwich, John Montagu.  The Earl of Sandwich had been so distraught upon hearing of his long-term mistress’ murder, he is  said to have locked himself in his room and wept. He is said to have never fully recovered from her loss.

Although a notorious rake and alleged member of Sir Francis Dashwood’s version of the Hellfire Club, Sandwich was also a diligent and industrious (if often unpopular) servant of the Crown and First Lord of the Admiralty. In fact, it was long hours at the admiralty that gave birth to the greatest convenience food ever – the Sandwich – when the Earl slapped some naval beef between two slices of bread, in order that he need not leave his desk [3]. Lord Sandwich was also of a distinctive appearance, an acquaintance, one Joseph Craddock, on seeing Lord Sandwich walking along a street, commented to his companion:

“I am sure it is Lord Sandwich; for, if you observe, he is walking down both sides of the street at once.” [4]

Compared to her noble lover, Martha Ray had humble beginnings. Ray’s father was a corset-maker in Covent Garden, and his young and charming daughter Martha was an apprentice milliner when Sandwich first set his practiced eye upon her.  Fresh-faced, intelligent and agreeable, Sandwich took her has his mistress when she was only 17.  The partnership stood the test of time, and through Sandwich, Ray was able to educate herself beyond what would have been possible for a working class woman at that time.  Musically gifted she soon became a well-known singer and musician (although rather proprietorially, Sandwich would not allow her to perform in public).

Martha Ray by Nathaniel Dance (1735–1811) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

One man who was captivated by Martha Ray and her talents was Richard Dennison Cumberland, who raved that she was:

“..a second Cleopatra – a woman of thousands, and capable of producing those effects on the heart which the poets talk of so much and of which we are apt to think Chimerical.”

However, not everything in the garden was rosy for Martha and Sandwich, despite the fact that for sixteen years they lived publicly like man and wife, Martha often found herself ostracised by the respectable wives of the Earl’s friends.  This was particularly pronounced when they  visited his country seat Hinchingbrooke in Hertfordshire.  Here local ladies recoiled from associating with a demi-mondaine – Sandwich after all was a married man.  It was at Hinchingbrooke that Lord Sandwich was fated to introduce to Martha, the man who would eventually become her murderer.

Although on the surface the couple’s relationship appeared happy – they had several children together, Ray shared Sandwich’s admiralty apartments and they went about together to concerts and parties – it seems at one time at least, Martha had investigated the possibility of striking out on her own, and making a professional career out of her singing.  Ever possessive, Sandwich appears to have quickly quashed this attempt at independence.

This attempt to break free may have been due to the fact that despite providing Ray with a generous allowance, Sandwich failed to make any financial settlements on Ray or her children – if Sandwich died before Ray she could find herself in dire financial straits. As a practical woman who had grown used to the finer things in life, and with a number of illegitimate children to support, Ray would naturally have been looking for some kind of guarantee of financial security.  She was also talented enough to support herself through her singing. It has been suggested that this wish for financial security, or perhaps respectability, may also have led to her dallying with the idea of marriage to a young man who had ardently pursued her since their first meeting at Hinchingbrooke….[5]

Hinchingbrooke, country home of the Earl of Sandwich c1787, public domain (?)

James Hackman, Soldier, Stalker and murderer

James Hackman, the sentimental killer, public domain via wikimedia

James Hackman was born in 1752 in Gosport, Hampshire.  Described as of too impatient and volatile temper to go into trade [6] in 1772 his parents instead purchased a commission as Ensign in the 68th Regiment of Foot.  Sometime in 1775 he was heading up a recruiting party in Hertfordshire when he was invited to Hinchingbrooke by Lord Sandwich, here he met Miss Ray.

From the very first, the young man was utterly bewitched by the talented, charming and intelligent older woman.  In an age of sentiment and feeling, Hackman became utterly obsessed by Martha Ray, his unattainable goddess.

He was a frequent visitor to Hingingbrooke and seems to have begun pursing Ray with offers of marriage very early in their relationship.  Ray always rejected his offers – perhaps aware that a poorly paid soldier could not afford to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed.  Ray seems a practical and pragmatic woman, prepared to stand on her own two feet given the opportunity, however, as virtually no letters or written accounts exist from Martha Ray herself, it remains speculation as to whether she as an agreeable hostess, merely tolerated Hackman’s advances, or if she welcomed and encouraged them, or whether she feared them.

The day of the murder

On the day of the murder, Hackman, who had recently been ordained a minister of the Church of England (perhaps impatient that his army career often took him away from the object of his obsession),  had tried to approach Martha Ray by letter, but upon calling on her had been turned away by Ray’s companion and fellow singer Caterina Galli.  His letter was returned unopened.

Commemorative Engraving from May 1779, the murder scene is show beneath the portrait © National Portrait Gallery, London

Later that day, he dined with his sister and brother-in-law telling them he would return later in the evening.  However, fired up by his earlier rejection, he instead set out to pursue Miss Ray.  At about 6pm he saw Lord Sandwich’s coach heading out with Miss Ray and Signora Galli, towards Covent Garden.  He pursued it.  The ladies were off to watch Love in a Village by Thomas Arne.  They may have been joined by male companions – friends of Lord Sandwich.  Driven to a frenzy by this perceived betrayal, Hackman rushed back to his lodgings, wrote two letters: one a suicide note to his brother-in-law, the other a love letter to Miss Ray.  He also loaded two pistols.

Just past 11, Miss Ray and Miss Galli were exiting the piazzas at Covent Garden and were being so jostled by the crowd they were unable to reach their coach.  A gallant Irish Attorney, John MacNamarra, stepped in to assist the ladies through the crowds.  Just as he handed Miss Galli into the coach and was about to assist Miss Ray, Hackman stepped out of the crowd and grabbed her arm.  As she turned to him he pulled out two pistols and shot her in the face.  He then tried unsuccessfully to shoot himself.

MacNamarra, who initially thought Ray had just fainted, later recalled his horror at the events:

“The sudden assault of the assassin, the instantaneous death of the victim, and the spattering of the poor girl’s brains all over his own face.” [11]

Hackman later claimed that he had only intended to punish Ray by making her witness his own suicide, but driven into a jealous frenzy at seeing her on the arm of another man, he turned the gun on her as well.

Aftermath

John Brewer in his fascinating book ‘Sentimental Murder’ explores how the story evolved over time.  Initially there was some consensus and agreement about the individuals involved in the event, Hackman’s camp and Sandwich’s camp both agreed to present all participants in the best light. However the sensational murder was a constant source of gossip and speculation, James Boswell visited Hackman in jail; Horace Walpole sniped about the age difference of victim and killer;  Dr Johnson speculated that the fact Hackman took two pistols proved he intended there to be two deaths.

Soon contemporary authors, such as Manasseh Dawes and Sir Herbert Croft began manipulating the story to fit the sentimental ideal of the day, they helped to create in Hackman a sympathetic figure, a paragon of sentimental feeling and a man overtaken by his emotions for a woman whom he had a sexual relationship with, but who had at best rejected him and at worst betrayed him.  Readers were invited to  feel pity for or even identified with the killer rather than the victim [7].  Later still Victorian writers tended to view the tragic outcome of the meeting of Hackman and Ray as the inevitable wages of a sinful life, symptoms of the louche and decadent Georgian age.  Martha became culpable for her own demise.  Yet it seems to me that it is entirely possible that Martha Ray was the innocent victim of a stalker.

Anatomy of a stalker

Stalkers are most commonly men in their thirties, and most frequently men who have had a previous romantic relationship with their victim.  Stalking has been described in such cases as an extension of domestic violence [8] this sub-type of stalker is most likely to fall within the ‘rejected stalker type.  If gossip and later writers were correct in their surmise that Ray and Hackman did have a brief romantic relationship in 1778, this could be a match for Hackman.

Another possible stalker type for Hackman is the ‘intimacy seeker’.  Intimacy seekers may be strangers to the victim, perhaps dazzled by celebrity, talent or beauty (Martha Ray certainly had all three in spade-fulls) and bent on pursing a romantic relationship with that person. This type of stalker can be delusional and suffer from erotomania – a belief that their victim actually reciprocates their feelings [9].  Hackman may only have been a periphery figure in Ray’s social world – the only firm evidence of their meeting is during 1775 and there is no clear evidence that they were ever intimate.  In fact all accounts seem to agree Ray consistently rejected Hackman’s marriage proposals.

Hackman, smitten with Ray, then pursued her at a distance, following her, observing her and writing to her. Unfortunately Ray’s correspondence does not survive so we can never know if she confidently brushed off Hackman’s pursuit, or whether she came to dread his missives, dread the black clad figure constantly dogging her footsteps.

He resorted to murder when he perceived she had betrayed him with another man.

Katherine Ramsland, writing for The Crime Library, gives a five point progression for stalkers which seems to fit with Hackman’s behaviour:

1. After initial contact, the stalker develops feelings like infatuation, and therefore places the love object on a pedestal.
   
2. The stalker then begins to approach the object. It might take a while, but once contact is made, the stalker’s behavior sets him up for rejection.
3. Rejection triggers the delusion through which the stalker projects his own feelings onto the object: She loves me, too.
4. The stalker also develops intense anger to mask his shame, which fuels the obsessive pursuit of the object. He now wants to control through harassment or injury.
5. The stalker must restore his narcissistic fantasy.
6. Violence is most likely to occur when the love object is devalued, as through an imagined betrayal.[10]
   

At his trial, Hackman provoked sympathy, his handsome and polite demeanor coupled with his tears of grief and contrition, all scored points with the sentimental ‘audience’ at the trial.

He claimed he only intended to kill himself, using his letter to his brother-in-law as evidence:

“My Dear Frederick, When this letter reaches you I shall be no more…….You know where my affections were placed; my having by some means or other lost hers,….has driven me to madness…May heaven protect my beloved woman, and forgive this act which alone could relieve me from a world of misery I have long endured.  Oh! If it should be in your power to do her any act of friendship…” [12]

and he justified his actions as those of a man driven to a temporary frenzy by love and jealousy:

“I protest, with that regard to truth which becomes my situation, that the will to destroy her who was ever dearer to me than life, was never mine till a momentary phrensy overcame me, and induced me to commit the deed I now deplore. The letter, which I meant for my brother-in-law after my decease, will have its due weight as to this point with good men.” [13]

Despite his fine appearance and genteel manners, and his ‘extenuating’ circumstances, he was found guilty of the murder of Martha Ray.  James Hackman: soldier, clergyman, stalker and murderer was hanged at Tyburn on 19 April 1779.

James Hackman may have had his just punishment under the law, but in the literature of the following two centuries he was often presented as more of tragic figure rather than a jealous murderer; his motives were explored and he was seen as a victim of his heightened sensibility and of a fickle woman.  Martha Ray, attractive, charming, intelligent and talented, almost becomes the villain of the tragedy or is depicted as at least partially responsible for her own death.  Sympathy is not with the victim of this crime but with the perpetrator.

Perhaps this is somewhat jaded view, but it sometimes seems that little has changed, society and the media all too often seem willing to provide a damning moral judgement on women when they are the victims of violent or sexual crimes.

Notes and sources

Akwagyiram, Alexis http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/3717696.stm [8]
Brewer, John (2005), A Sentimental Murder: Love and Madness in the Eighteenth Century, Farrar, Straus and Giroux
[3] [7] [11] [12]
Castleden, Rodney, Infamous Murderers: Maniacs filled with hatred and rage via googlebooks [6]
Craddock, Joseph, 1826, Literary and Miscellaneous Memoirs [4]
Muller, Robert , Ph.D. In the Mind of a Stalker, 2013, http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/talking-about-trauma/201306/in-the-mind-stalkerPsychology Today [9]
Ramsland, Katherine, ‘Stalkers:The Psychological Terrorist, http://www.crimelibrary.com/criminal_mind/psychology/stalkers/5.html [10]
Trial of James Hackman, http://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?ref=t17790404-3 [1] [2] [13]
Tim Hitchcock, Robert Shoemaker, Clive Emsley, Sharon Howard and Jamie McLaughlin, et al., The Old Bailey Proceedings Online, 1674-1913 (www.oldbaileyonline.org, version 7.1, 24 March 2014
Wikipedia,  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martha_Ray [5]
Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Hackman

 

Merlin and the Silver Swan

Tags

Age of Enlightenment, automaton, Bowes Museum, Charles Babbage, early computers, eighteenth century, Georgian Society, history, John Joseph Merlin, North East England, robots

The Silver Swan, 1774, created by John Joseph Merlin and James Cox.

The eighteenth century was a time of magic and mystery despite – or perhaps because of – the Enlightenment.  The more scientific, rational and demystified the world became, the more people sought out the shadows, the unknown and the extraordinary.  From the passion for the Gothic Novel, to the vogue for seances and Phantasmagoria, the thrill seekers and the curious were desperate to be amazed.  Science helped to fulfill this need, and Scientists became the new Wizards of the age – often just as good showmen and PR guru’s as any  market-place mountebank.

Automata were at the forefront of eighteenth century technological developments, yet they were also things of beauty and wonder that posed philosophical questions about the human condition.

One of the most sublime and magical of the Automata, in my opinion,  is the Silver Swan created by a later-day Merlin.  Truly a master of mechanical magical arts – John Joseph Merlin (1735 – 1803) was an eccentric Belgian inventor who came Britain.

John Joseph Merlin

John Joseph Merlin, by Gainsborough, Public Domain via Wikipedia

Merlin was from an early age a genius with clockwork.  He studied at the Academie des Sciences in Paris and at only 25 years old he was already a well-known inventor, so much so that he was brought to England by the Spanish Ambassador.

He enthusiastically threw himself into the heart of Georgian celebrity culture, he had a knack for hanging out with the intellectual and artistic ‘in-crowd’ (Dr Johnson, Gainsborough, Walpole and JC Bach (son of JS) to name but a few).  He also had a talent for publicity.   One of his favourite publicity stunts was to attend soirees dressed up as a barmaid, whilst whizzing round the bemused guests on roller skates (also his invention) serving drinks – or playing the violin (he could do that as well –the smarty pants!).

On the subject of his inventing roller skates, I can’t help but mention on of the most famous and oft-repeated anecdotes about him, which was recorded by Thomas Busby in 1805 (some years after Merlin’s death):

“One of his ingenious novelties was a pair of skaites contrived to run on wheels.  Supplied with these and a violin, he mixed in the motley group of one Mrs Cowley’s masquerades at Carlisle House; when not having provided the means of retarding his velocity, or commanding its direction, he impelled himself against a mirror of more than five hundred pounds value, dashed it to atoms, broke his instrument to pieces and wounded himself most severely”

Note the wonderful eighteenth century emphasis on the damage to property prioritized over personal injury! Fortunately Merlin is said to have had a good sense of humour (and a strong constitution – one hopes).

He was also noted for being very musical (hence the violin) and inventing and improving various musical instruments including a Barrel Organ for a princess and a compound harpsichord with pianoforte action which was used by Bach.

The Silver Swan and the modern computer

The famous Silver Swan came about through a partnership between Merlin and James Cox.  Cox was a jeweller and clockmaker with brassy flare of a showman.  The perfect promoter for top end exquisite and exclusive Automata.

The Silver Swan, Bowes Museum, Durham

The Silver Swan, created in 1773, was a show stopper from the start drawing huge crowds to ‘The Mechanical Museum of James Cox’ in London.  It was exhibited in 1867 at the Paris Exhibition, and bought by John and Josephine Bowes in 1872 for their museum in Barnard Castle.  And that is where it remains to this day – as the star turn of Bowes Museum.

The Swan is the ultimate luxury object – solid silver, with a top of the range clockwork mechanism and artistic touches such as the uneven glass rods that form the water in which the swan sits – Cox gave the Swan its beauty whilst Merlin gave it life.

Imagine the swan in action in candle-light, flickering flames making the water shimmer as the swan inclines its elegant silvery neck, whilst eerie music plays from within its mechanism.

In 1783, after Cox ran into financial difficulties, Merlin opened his own show room: ‘Merlin’s Mechanical Museum’; it ran with great success for a number of years. Amongst his clock-work masterpiece was a perpetual motion machine run by changes in atmospheric pressure as well as his famous automatons.

Charles Babbage, inventor of an early proto-type for modern computers visited this museum as a child and was mesmerised by what he saw, and became hooked on the potential of automata.

He was so taken with two saucy little nude automata that years later he eventually acquired them for his own delectation (all in the course of research – naturally).  He described them thus:

“..she used an eye-glass occasionally and bowed frequently as if recognizing her acquaintances….” the other “..an admirable danseuse, with a bird on the forefinger of her right hand, which wagged its tail, flapped its wings and opened its beak….the lady attitudinized in a most fascinating manner.  Her eyes were full of imagination, and irresistible.”

The price of perfection

There was also a dark side to this beauty and technology.  For much of the eighteenth century these beautiful and innovative creations were produced by highly skilled low paid workers.  Artisans who worked by candle-light on tiny mechanisms.  Many of them must have damaged their eyesight or gone blind.  And of course, most ordinary people would never have been allowed to glimpse these marvels of the age as they were primarily for the entertainment of the wealthy elite. One famous maker – Pierre Jaquet-Droz even vowed that no servant would ever see his creations.

Automaton owned by Marie Antoinnette, Versailles collection.

Automatons were so much associated with the elites and ruling classes that during the French Revolution, revolutionaries likened the hated aristo’s to the automatons that they loved so much: “bodies without souls, covered in lace”.

The Legacy of Celestial Clockwork

Mark Twain described his viewing of the Silver Swan in action in his book ‘Innocents Abroad’:

“I watched the Silver Swan, which had a living grace about his movement and a living intelligence in his eyes – watched him swimming about as comfortably and unconcernedly as if he had been born in a morass instead of a jeweller’s shop – watched him seize a silver fish from under the water and hold up his head and go through the customary and elaborate motions of swallowing it..”

Automaton from Dr Who ‘The Girl in the Fireplace’

I think Mark Twain truly captures the essence of automata here, they were not just imitations of life, there was a growing philosophy that the body and machine could become one and be recreated in clockwork.  Scientists and philosophers saw automatic movements and processes in the way the bodies of humans and animals worked and many automaton’s were designed to replicate these processes and in doing so posed the question were humans really any different from machines?

These early Automatons also hinted at the industrial revolution and the mechanisation of many industries (such as the textile industry) which had a direct impact on the working classes.  They were also very early precursors of the computer: automatons were directed in their actions by Cams, each cut differently, and capable of ordering the movements of the automaton.  Often hundreds of cams were required, and as many were numbered, potentially an automaton could be programmed to perform a variety of tasks by rearranging them – a mechanical form of computer programming.

They have also helped inspire and drive the creative imagination in literature and in science in the form of robots and androids.  And reality is fast catching up with sci-fi with sophisticated robots such as Asimo, and the current debate about the possibility of creating ‘killer’ robots in the not to distant future.

**

Unfortunately very few of the original automatons survive, and those that do, are often just as inaccessible to ordinary people as they were in the eighteenth century.  However, it is still sometimes possible to glimpse one of these remarkable creations in action.  The Silver Swan at Bowes Museum, Barnard Castle, is operated every day at 2pm for the public.  I have seen the swan in action, it is incredible to watch a clockwork masterpiece built 240 years ago working so perfectly.  You can see it in action on You Tube on the link below, and details of how to visit can also be found  below.

Link to Silver Swan display:

Sources

Bowes Museum website, http://www.thebowesmuseum.org.uk/collections/the-silver-swan/history/
Busby, Thomas, 1805, ‘Concert Room and Orchestra Anecdotes’
Leinhard John H, John Joseph Merlin, http://www.uh.edu/engines/epi630.htm
Rendell Mike, John Joseph Merlin Part One, http://blog.mikerendell.com/?p=5077
Rendell, Mike, John Joseph Merlin Part Two, http://blog.mikerendell.com/?p=5097
Schaffer, Simon, Mechanical Marvels: Clockwork Dreams, BBC4 Broadcast 3/6/13
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Joseph_Merlin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Cox_%28inventor%29
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silver_Swan_%28automaton%29

Chevalier d’Éon: Soldier, Spy and Transvestite

Tags

Chevalier d’Éon, cross dressing, eighteenth century, espionage, french history, history, LGBT, spy, transgender, transvestite

In June 2012 the National Gallery revealed its new acquisition.  Discovered by the London dealer, Philip Mould at a provincial sale in a suburb of New York, the painting had been mistakenly sold as a portrait of an unknown woman.  Philip Mould immediately recognised it as being a portrait of a man dressed in women’s clothing,

Chevalier d’Eon by Thomas Stewart, bought by the National Portrait Gallery.  Photograph: National Portrait Gallery, London

“Even in its dirty state it was clear that this woman had stubble…basically he was a bloke in a dress with a hat”

Whilst visiting the National Gallery the other day, I came across the painting by accident.  My friend glancing at it from a distance said “It is a woman?” Concentrating on the face I replied that I thought it was man or if not, a very unattractive woman, completely missing the low cut neckline and the hat with a large bow and feather. The name on the caption read “The Chevalier d’Éon”.  Although I have read quite a bit on pre-Revolution France, I couldn’t recall coming across a cross-dressing spy and it is not something that is easy to forget. The painting piqued my interest and as soon as I got home, I began to try to find out as much as I could about this Chevalier but my reading threw up more questions; was the Chevalier forced to wear women’s clothing? Was he transgender or transsexual? How did he manage to convince some of the leading figures of the 18^th century that he was in fact a woman?  The story of the Chevalier is stranger than fiction, a fascinating and confusing character who was brave enough to live life as he wanted and whether as a man or a woman was acclaimed by his peers as a person of exceptional courage and fortitude.

Early years

Charles-Geneviève-Louise-Auguste-Andrée-Timothée d’Éon de Beaumont was born on the 5 October 1728 in Tonnerre in Burgundy to a poor but noble family.  His name a mixture of male and female forenames bizarrely suggests that even his parents weren’t quite sure about the gender of their own child and wanted to hedge their bets! Later in his memoirs d’Éon revealed that his father’s determination to have a son at any cost resulted in him being raised as a boy, a subterfuge which his mother happily took part in. This version differs slightly from the explanation given to the French court when he claimed that his father was forced to raise him as a boy in order to receive an inheritance from his in-laws.

D’Éon apparently excelled at school and in 1743 moved to Paris to study canon and civil law at the College Mazarin.  His first posting on graduation at the age of 21 was as secretary to Bertier de Sauvigny.  Eventually his success and intelligence brought him to the attention of King Louis XV and his initiation into the “Secret du Roi”.

Maid of honour to the Empress of Russia

Catherine the Great, by Fyodor Rokotov [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The Secret du Roi, Louis XV’s personal undercover organisation functioned outside the French government often working on assignments contrary to official policies and treatises.  Around 1756 D’Éon along with the Scottish Jacobite, Chevalier Douglas crossed the border into Russia.  The aim was to meet with Elizabeth, Empress of Russia to convince her to collaborate with them in their intrigues against the Habsburg monarchy. At the time Britain in an attempt to prevent an alliance between France and Russia only allowed French women and children to cross the border.  Although no actual documentation exists to support the theory it is widely believed that D’Éon disguised himself as a woman and calling himself Lea de Beaumont managed to sneak into Russia.  If it is true then he must have been a brilliant actor and fearless as if he had been caught by the French, British or Russians he would have faced execution.  Eventually in order to get as close to the Empress as he could, he arranged for himself to be chosen as one of her maids of honour.  It is hard to imagine how a man would have achieved this.  The Empress’s inner circle would have been fraught with intrigue and gossip and newcomers subject to intense scrutiny.  If the story is true it really could only have succeeded with the support of the Empress. Whatever really happened direct communication between the two countries was re-established, Douglas became the French Ambassador to Russia with D’Éon employed as his secretary.  A role he held from 1756 to 1760.

The Seven Years War

On his return to France, D’Éon was generously rewarded and granted a commission as Captain of the Dragoons. Famed for his bravery and acknowledged as one of the greatest swordsman of his time, D’Éon fought in the later stages of the Seven Years war and at the Battle of Villinghausen in July 1761.  He was wounded later that year at the Battle of Ulstrop.

In 1762 D’Éon was sent to London to negotiate and draft a peace treaty which would end the Seven Years War.  Eventually both the French and British agreed to the terms of the treaty, which was signed in Paris on the 10 February 1763.  In recognition of his service to the French state, D’Éon was awarded the Order of Saint-Louis which permitted him to be called the honorary title of “Chevalier”.

An exile in London

D’Éon stayed in London after the peace treaty had been signed, acting as interim ambassador after the Duc de Nivernais returned home.  Aside from his official duties he continued to act as a member of the Secret du Roi working with other agents to survey the British coastal defences and collect information for a possible invasion.

With the arrival of the new ambassador, the Comte de Guerchy, D’Éon found himself caught in the middle of the various French political factions.  Finding himself put in an impossible position and clearing feeling vulnerable and threatened, D’Éon refused to obey when he was recalled to France.  The British always happy to annoy the French, refused to extradite him.

Hostility between Guerchy and D’Éon reached breaking point when D’Éon in a letter to the Louis XV accused Guerchy of trying to poison him whilst he was dinning at Monmouth House in Soho Square.  In order to gain the upper hand D’Éon published a series of letters about his recall whilst threatening to go public with the letters pertaining to the planned invasion of Britain.  The French faced with the growing support of the British for D’Éon, a lawsuit for attempted murder and guaranteed war if the French invasion plans were revealed, recalled Guerchy and reinstated D’Éon’s pension.  D’Éon kept his papers as an insurance policy and continued to work as a spy, living his life as a political exile.

Life as a woman

By Pierre Adrien LE BEAUd’après Claude-Louis DESRAIS [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

It is unclear when exactly the rumours began that D’Éon was actually a woman.  It must have been sometime in the mid-1770s, shortly before his return to France in 1777.  Did he start the rumours, and if not, who did? Had he already started wearing women’s clothing? Was it a pragmatic move to allow him to return to France and effectively disempower him, removing him as a threat to the French state? Did he actual believe he was a woman? Was he desperately short of money? Whatever the truth,  in 1777 D’Éon had convinced the French government that he was a woman and was permitted by the new king, Louis XVI to return to France on one condition, issued as an edict (possibly the strangest edict ever written by a government)

“By order of the king: Charles-Geneviève-Louise-Auguste-Andrée-Timothée d’Éon de Beaumont is commanded to leave off the dragoon’s uniform which she is wearing, and to dress according to her sex.”

D’Éon agreed to the condition, now called the Chevalière, D’Éon must have been extremely happy when the state granted her funds for a new wardrobe!

Banished from the French court (maybe she was considered an embarrassment), D’Éon returned to Tonnerre, where she lived for six years.  With the start of the revolutionary movement, D’Éon’s property was confiscated and in 1785, she was allowed to return to England.

The Chevalier fencing By Charles Jean Robineau [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

For the next 25 years, D’Éon lived in Britain.  With the diplomatic service closed to her as a woman (D’Éon did write to the French National Assembly offering to lead a division of women soldiers against the Habsburgs) and her pension stopped, D’Éon was forced to give public displays of fencing to earn a living.  Wounded in a show in Southampton in 1796, D’Éon spent her last years living with a widow, Mrs Cole.  Landing in a debtor’s prison, she eventually died in poverty on the 21 May 1810 aged 82.

Contemporary attitudes

D’Éon has often been celebrated as the first open cross dresser accepted in British Society. Personally I think that this is quite a simplistic view. From around 1775, D’Éon encouraged the rumours that he was a woman, forced by his parents to dress and act as a man, “I was born with a caul…and my sex was hidden in nubibus”.

Although Britain was used to eccentricity in its aristocracy, the fact that D’Éon was French might have made the British more inclined to accept his story, as many considered the French a strange breed anyway. D’Éon whether as a woman acting as a man or as a woman fencer was seen as an oddity, a one off, the fact that men might want to be a woman or just enjoy wearing female clothes would, I personally think, have been seen as against the rules of nature, something that just could not be tolerated in society at that time.

D’Éon’s sexuality caused confusion amongst his contemporaries.  The playwright, Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais who wrote “The Marriage of Figaro” was so convinced that D’Éon was a woman that he helped him in his dealings with the French government.  Mary Robinson and Mary Wollstonecraft were also certain that D’Éon was a woman.  Wollstonecraft so much so that she included D’Éon in her Rights of Woman, calling her one of the exceptional woman along with the likes of Sappho and Macaulay, “who transcend the limitations of their gender”.  Even Mrs Cole with whom D’Éon lived with for a number of years never believed anything different.  D’Éon was considered a feminine woman, always hitching up her skirts when she went up and down stairs.

Not everyone was so convinced, James Boswell stated that “she appeared to me a man in woman’s clothes” whilst Horace Walpole on meeting D’Éon commented that she was loud and noisy “her hands and arms seem not to have participated of the change of sexes but are fitter to carry a chair than a fan”

Confusion was such that men started to a pool on the stock exchange with more than £200,000 bet.  The situation became so unstable that some of the English gamblers sued the court which led to the Chief Justice Lord Mansfield passing the verdict that D’Éon was a woman.

Final Verdict

In May 1810, a body lay on the autopsy table of the surgeon Thomas Copeland.  Around the table stood a number of men, possibly six or more.  Maybe some of them were the gamblers who had risked so much on the stock exchange or simply curious bystanders.  The final mystery was to be revealed, was D’Éon a man or a woman.  Carefully Copeland removed the layers of petticoats and undergarments.  The truth was there for them all to see, Copeland wrote

“I hereby certify that I have inspected and dissected the body of the Chevalier D’Éon…and have found the male organs in every respect perfectly formed.”

The D’Éon Legacy

D’Éon has left behind an interesting legacy. The word Eonism the tendency to adopt the costumes and manners of the opposite sex was derived from his name and his surname was adopted by the Beaumont Society, an organisation which was founded to support members of the transgender community.  A number of books have been written about him and he is often included in articles on gender studies.  There has even been a Japanese manga series called “The Chevalier D’Éon” which is set in the time of Louis XV and follows the lead character’s quest to find the murderer of his sister.  The twist is that whilst he is searching the soul of his sister, Lia, enters D’Éon’s body.  I would love to see the series but haven’t been able to get hold of a copy.

Whatever the truth behind the story of D’Éon, the fact is that he was a unique and brave individual who lived his life as he wanted.  From his portrait in the National Gallery he seems to stare sadly but kindly at the viewer, maybe the greatest lesson of D’Éon is simply “be true to yourself”.

References and further reading

Charles, chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont, http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/189379/Charles-chevalier-dEon-de-Beaumont
Man AND Woman: The Truly Peculiar World of Chevalier D’Éon, http://surviving-history.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/man-and-woman-truly-peculiar-world-of.html
Portrait mistaken for 18th-century lady is early painting of transvestite, http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2012/jun/06/portrait-18th-century-early-transvestite
The Strange Career of the Chevalier D’Éon de Beaumont: Minister Plenipotentiary from France to Great Britain in 1763, John Buchan Telfer
The Chevalier D’Éon and His Worlds: Gender, Espionage and Politics in the Eighteenth Century, Simon Burrows
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Mary Wollstonecraft

Mother Shipton: Yorkshire’s Nostradamus

Tags

English history, history, Knaresborough, Mother Shipton, Nostradamus, Petrifying Well, seventeenth century, tourism, witches, Yorkshire

Old Mother Shipton

I visited Knaresborough in Yorkshire on a family holiday when I was a teenager.  One of the things I remember most about the trip was a visit to Old Mother Shipton’s cave and the Dropping Well – famed for its petrifying properties (hang a teddy up and it will turn to stone in under five months).

The Dropping Well, Image by Chris (click image for copyright info)

For a start Old Mother Shipton looked like the archetypal witch, but more than that, she was credited with being Yorkshire’s answer to Nostradamus.  She was a prophetess and seer who had predicted everything from the death of Cardinal Wolsey, the great fire of London, the building of Crystal Palace, the Crimean War, the train, the car, the telephone – you name it Mother Shipton had prophesied it!  I was understandably impressed.

The legend is born

Sculpture of Mother Shipton in the cave where she was alleged to have been born. Image by Chris, click image for copyright info.

In 1488 Ursula Southeil was born out-of-wedlock to a fifteen year old girl called Agatha.  Agatha steadfastly refused to name the father of her child and sought refuge in the cave by the dropping well on the banks of the River Nidd, here she gave birth to the remarkably ugly Ursula.  Agatha either died in childbirth, or gave Ursula up for fostering when the child was two.  Because strange happenings followed the child, people began to suspect her father was non other than Old Nick himself.

Tales of objects moving around or going missing and furniture shifting about were common.  In one such tale, the foster-mother returns home to find baby Ursula gone, and a commotion in her cottage.  Upon entering, she and her companions are set upon by imps disguised as monkey’s.  Ursula is finally located swinging in her crib – up the chimney!

Ursula Southeil was noted for her startling appearance.  One early source describes her thus:

“She was of an indifferent height, but very morose and big boned, her head very long, with very great goggling but sharp and fiery eyes; her nose of an incredible and improportionable length, having in it many crooks and turnings, adorned with many strange pimples of divers colours, as red, blue and mix’t..”  (1)

When she married Toby Shipton at the age of 24, it was said she used a love potion to attract him (either that or else he just had very bad eyesight!).

Their home in Shipton soon became the focus for people seeking advice and her reputation for wisdom grew.  She was particularly good at locating lost or stolen property.

She is most famous for her prophecies, many of which came true during her life time.  She was also supposed to have predicted her own death, at the age of 73, in 1561.

A talent for prediction

Mother Shipton did not write down any of her prophecies.  As a poor woman in the sixteenth century the chances of her being able to write would have been slim – nevertheless her biographers credit her with a sharp intelligence and inborn ability to read from a very early age.

Mother Shipton and Cardinal Wolsey, image Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

Her fame grew beyond her locality when her prophecies were published in 1641.  ‘The Prophesie of Mother Shipton in the Raigne of King Henry the Eighth’ was printed in York and was composed of regional predictions and had only two prophetic verses, this version did not predict the end of the world (2).

A later version of her life and predictions ‘The Life and Death of Mother Shipton’ was published in 1684 by the unfortunately named Richard Head.  It is likely that he invented most of the biographical details about her.

A still later version published by Charles Hindley in 1862 contains the famous rhyming couplets relating to Crystal Palace, cars trains, and the famous end of the world prediction (1881):

“Carriages without horses shall go,
And accidents fill the world with woe.
Around the world thoughts shall fly
In the twinkling of an eye.
The world upside down shall be
And gold be found at the root of a tree.
Through hills man shall ride,
And no horse be at his side.
Under water men shall walk,
Shall ride, shall sleep, shall talk.
In the air men shall be seen,
In white, in black, in green;
Iron in the water shall float,
As easily as a wooden boat.
Gold shall be found and shown
In a land that’s now not known.
Fire and water shall wonders do,
England shall at last admit a foe.
The world to an end shall come,
In eighteen hundred and eighty one.”

Sir Henry buys a well

In 1630 Sir Henry Slingsby, a local grandee, purchased some land around the River Nidd from King Charles I.  The land contained the Dropping Well (now known as the Petrifying Well).  The enterprising Sir Henry, seeing the potential in such an extraordinary geological feature quickly constructed an exhibition and began running tours.

Could it be co-incidence that only 11 years after he begins this commercial venture, a book of prophecy linked with the well is published?  As Philip Coppens points out, having a famous prophetess linked to the miraculous well would be an added draw to reel in visitors.

Some believe that the well was feared and avoided by the locals during Mother Shipton’s life – supposedly believing that its petrifying properties would turn them to stone.  However, this does not seem to have been the case with everyone.  John Leyland, the Antiquary of Henry VIII visited the well during Mother Shipton’s lifetime – 1538.  He remarked that the well was known for its healing properties and was regularly visited.  He doesn’t seem to have mentioned Mother Shipton at all.  All of which would point to Mother Shipton being a fabrication to bring in paying visitors.

And tourists did come – even the famous female traveller Celia Fiennes visited the cave in 1697 and noted the following in her journal:

‘and this water as it runns and where it lyes in the hollows of the rocks does turn moss and wood into Stone …I took Moss my self from thence which is all crisp’d and perfect Stone … the whole rock is continually dropping with water besides the showering from the top which ever runns, and this is called the dropping well’(3).

The Truth behind the legend…

So what is the truth behind the legend?  Well, the historical evidence for the existence of Mother Shipton is as scarce as clear skin was on her nose.  This is not necessarily proof she didn’t exist, but if Leyland visited the well during her lifetime  and knew of the miraculous properties of the well, surely he would also have mentioned the presence of a noted seer so closely associated with it?

The links to the commercialisation of the well and the publication of the first prophecies are also suggestive of her tale being fabricated.  Also, as Philip Coppens points out: it is quite a common historical feature to associate oracles with wells, caves and other subterranean features.  Mother Shipton added a mythic dimension to the geological feature.

Mother Shipton working at her predictions, image public domain via Wikipedia Commons

There might even be a hint of intercontinental rivalry going on here as well – the French had Nostradamus, so maybe the English came up with Mother Shipton?  It is notable that after the repeal of laws relating to witchcraft in 1736 Mother Shipton’s image began to transform from the archetypal witch, to a more benign prophetess, depicted with scrolls instead of familiars, and much less warty about the nose.

As for the predictions – the earliest are from 80 years after her death, and relate mainly to events that have already happened.  The later versions seem to have embellished the prophecies.  Charles Hindley author of the 1862 version (extract quoted above) later admitted to inventing the predictions he published.

A Folk-memory of a cunning woman?

For hundreds of years (and well into the nineteenth century) the cunning woman or cunning man was an integral part of village life in England.  A local healer who could offer advice and assistance in the form charms and love potions.

I like to think that Mother Shipton falls into this category.  That she did exist in the capacity of a local cunning woman, and that a folk-memory of her endured until Sir Henry’s day allowing him to appropriate her for his own purposes. The facts and details of her life that have come down to us may be total fabrication and her prophecies have certainly been elaborated down the centuries, but I think that there is a tiny grain of truth in the tale of Mother Shipton which has fixed her in to the very fabric of folk-memory and the landscape itself.

The Cave and Well are open to the public, you can find details of how to arrange a visit on the Museum website:  http://www.mothershipton.co.uk/

River Nidd, Mother Shipton’s Museum just visible under the arches.

Notes

(1) Extract from ‘Yorkshire Legends and Traditions’ by Rev. Thomas Parkinson 1881, himself quoting from Richard Head’s 1684 account.
(2) Wikipedia/Mother Shipton
(3) Morris, Christopher (Ed), The Journeys of Celia Fiennes, Cresset Press, 1947.

Sources

http://www.ephemera-society.org.uk/articles/shipton.html
http://www.mysteriousbritain.co.uk/occult/mother-shipton.html
http://www.philipcoppens.com/mother_shipton.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother_Shipton

Wicked Jimmy Lowther: The Toadstool Earl

Tags

Earl of Lonsdale, eighteenth century, english aristocrats, English Ghosts, English history, history, Lowther Castle, Toadstool Earl, Wicked Jimmy

Vincent Price, from Tales of Terror (Dir.Roger Corman 1962)

When I first found out about  Wicked Jimmy, otherwise known as Sir James Lower 1st Earl of Lonsdale (1736 – 1802), my imagination ran wild with visions of Lon Chaney or Vincent Price skulking around in cobwebbed castles and dank dungeons getting up to suitably nefarious deeds.   A little digging and I came up with more equally intriguing nick-names: Jemmy Grasp-all, The Gloomy Earl and  most delicious of all The Toadstool Earl – just who was this man, and why did he end up with so many unflattering sobriquets?

Well, James Lowther was a very, very, very rich man.  He inherited not one, not two, but THREE fortunes making him one of the Georgian era’s wealthiest individuals.  One of his fortunes alone (Coal mines, harbour trade, and lots of lovely money) came to a quarter of annual British Exports at the time(1).

Sir James Lowther, by Thomas Hudson (Wordsworth Collection)

Despite being born with the proverbial silver spoon, it seems he may not have enjoyed a happy childhood.  His first fortune was inherited from his father who died when James was only 9 years old.  John Sharpe a Local Historian believes that his widowed mother pushed him into becoming ruthlessly ambitious – it would seem that Pushy Parents aren’t a new phenomena.

Sent away to boarding school he found himself the target for bullies – English Public Schools at the time could be brutal places. Nevertheless he soon graduated to the top of the pecking order and became a bully himself – a characteristic he seemed to have maintained all of his life.

How the Earl got his Ninepins

Despite his great wealth, Sir James’s lust for power set him on the path of politics.  Politics in the eighteenth century was a shady business and Sir James seems to have had a natural flare for political skullduggery.  He entered politics in 1757 in Cumberland, and soon proved adept at rigging elections and controlling boroughs.  He also seems to have been good at spotting talent because he helped William Pitt the Younger to enter politics in the 1781 as MP for Appleby.  Pitt then had a stellar political career and became Prime Minister at only 24 years of age.   The Earl received lucrative kick-backs a plenty from his grateful prodigy including the Earldom of Lonsdale.

Chairing the Member, by William Hogarth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The Gloomy Earl ended up controlling 9 Parliamentary Boroughs in the North West of England and they became known as his ninepins.

The Toadstool Earl and the Mushroom Election

Wicked Jimmy was a name that seems to have attached to the Earl after his death, however The Earl of Toadstool was a name he picked up during his lifetime.  The Earl decided to win the Carlisle seat for one of his relatives and to do so he manipulated the electorate by creating 1400 honorary freemen to vote in the election.  The new freemen were made up of men who were subservient to the Earl – his tenants and workers – and could be relied upon to vote as directed.  The election of 1786 became infamous as the ‘Mushroom election’ because of its mushrooming electorate.

Jemmy Grasp-All

It can often be observed that rich people stay rich by not spending their money – and the Earl was noted for being a fabulously wealthy skinflint.  Unfortunately, one other way the rich stay so rich is by exploiting the masses and Sir James not only exploited his dependents in elections, but he also exploited them in the workplace.  He was a mine owner and his lack of investment in making his mines at Whitehaven safe cost the lives of both workers and pit-ponies in 1791.

He also ensured that the Poet William Wordsworth grew up in poverty.  Wordsworth’s father was agent to The Earl and he died in 1783 with the Earl owing him £5000 (a huge sum in the eighteenth century).

Madman, too influential to be confined(2)

Despite being known as the Gloomy Earl, he was also a fiery character and was not averse to riding 300 miles between Lowther and London and covering the distance in only 36 hours.  He was also a bit of a speed freak and was notorious for driving at break-neck speed – regardless of whether he was passing through a village or not.  I can’t imagine that he was popular in the locality.

Lowther Castle by Simon Ledingham, via Wikimedia Commons (click image for licence info)

The Earl was also fond of a good duel and in 1792 he and a Captain Cuthbertson seem to have had an early Road Rage incident which resulted loud words followed by pistols at dawn to satisfy honour.

Wicked Jimmy and a love that will last for ever….

Wicked Jimmy was a noted ladies man, just because he married the daughter of the Earl of Bute in 1761 didn’t mean he wouldn’t continue to keep mistresses.  Such behaviour was hardly unusual amongst eighteenth century noblemen, and plenty of aristocratic women also took lovers as well (although if they got caught in the act the consequences were far harsher than for the men).

By Józef Simmler [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

One of the more lurid stories that has attached itself to the Earl relates to the beautiful daughter of a tenant whom he seduced.  Legend has it that the girl became his mistress and he kept her in great luxury.  However the girl died young and the Earl was so distracted by grief that he refused to admit she was dead.  When the servants complained about the smell, he is said to have dressed her corpse himself and often dined with her decaying body seated next to him.  Eventually he is said to have had her placed her in a glass coffin. She was finally laid to rest 7 weeks after her death.

If this is true then one can only imagine what the girl’s family must have felt.

Ernest Jones, writing in 1931 in ‘On the Nightmare’ said that such necrophiliac behaviour was rooted in the idea that:

“The dead person who loves, will love forever and will never be weary  of giving and receiving caresses.”

If this story is true, then perhaps at least some of the Earls bluster and bullying was a front for his own lack of self-esteem (he was, after-all,  bullied as a child) or perhaps it was a consequence of the early loss of his father making him unable to cope with separation from someone he loved.  Or perhaps he just couldn’t bare the thought that one of his ‘possessions’ had eluded him by dying.

Whatever the truth behind this very Gothic story, it certainly adds a very macabre twist to the legend of Wicked Jimmy Lowther.

The Earl died on 24 May 1802, and it is said that on the anniversary of his burial, if the moon is full, his spectre can be seen driving his carriage at break-neck speed through the grounds of Lowther Castle.

Lowther Castle is open to the public:
http://www.lowther.co.uk/index.php/visiting-lowther

Notes

1. http://www.lowther.co.uk/index.php/the-lowther-family/the-lowther-family
2. Carlyle, Alexander

Sources

http://www.lowther.co.uk/index.php/the-lowther-family/the-lowther-family
Sharpe, John, 2013, http://www.cwherald.com/archive/archive/%26%238220%3Bwicked-jimmy%26%238221%3B,-1st-earl-of-lonsdale-20130306405026.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Lowther,_1st_Earl_of_Lonsdale

The Real Barry Lyndon – Stoney Bowes, a Georgian Sociopath

Tags

Bowes, eighteenth century, eighteenth century ireland, English history, Georgian, Gibside, history, Irish adventurers, Marriage, Mary Eleanor Bowes, North East, Sociopaths, Stoney Bowes

The Infamous Life of Stoney Bowes

Andrew Robinson Bowes, MP, by John Downman 1781 (Fitzwilliam Museum Cambs)

The tale of Andrew Robinson Stoney Bowes came to the attention of William Thackeray direct from the grandson of one of ‘Stoney Bowes’ most famous victims -his unfortunate second wife Mary Eleanor Bowes – and became the inspiration for Thackeray’s picaresque and satirical novel ‘The Luck of Barry Lyndon’.  Unusually, the fictional character is a much tamer version of the real man, for Stoney Bowes must rank as one of the eighteenth centuries most disturbing characters.  Handsome, charming and deadly he was an adventurer, wife-beater and pathological liar with a victim complex.

His behaviour was often censured by contemporary society as being more extreme than was acceptable but was he just an over zealous eighteenth century male or was his behaviour that of a Georgian sociopath?

Origins

Andrew Robinson Stoney came from a genteel but impoverished Anglo-Irish family and was born in 1747 in Greyfort House, County Tipperary.  Although he was a favorite son, his temperament and ambitions did not suit him to become a down at heel gentleman farmer on the family farm.  Even as a young man he was hot-tempered and arrogant.  By the 1760’s he was enlisted as an ensign in the British Army and following a misprint in a local newspaper promoted himself to the rank of Captain.

His army chums found him good company and his debauchery was well-known to his comrades.  He had the sense to keep it under wraps in polite society where he cut a dashing figure with his good looks, athletic figure and charming Irish brogue – a natty red uniform must have helped too.

“His speech was soft, his height was more than five feet ten, his eyes were bright and small, he had perfect command of them, his large eye brows were low large and sandy, his hair light,  and his complexion muddy, his smile was agreeable, his wit ready.”  So said his friend and some-time henchman the Surgeon Jesse Foot.

The charming Irish adventurer was a staple feature of eighteenth century life and heiress hunting was practically a national pass-time for many an ambitious and penniless gentleman.   This was Stoney’s special area of expertise.  He had a way of gaining the loyalty of men, and the adoration of women.  His first victim – for victim she most definitely was – was Hannah Newton.  As a wealthy heiress from Burnopfield, County Durham, he soon targeted her as a lucrative marriage prospect and he began courting her in earnest.

Bagging his first heiress

18th Century Lady, Bowes Museum

From here the charming adventurer began to show his true colours as a manipulative and mercenary predator.  He successfully inveigled his way into Hannah’s, and even her mother’s, affections by posing as a love-lorn and wealthy suitor.   Very soon the young girl was besotted and Stoney pressed his advantage home – being so frequently in Hannah’s company he was effectively ensuring she would have to marry him in order to protect her reputation from scandal.

Nevertheless Hannah’s father had left a clause in his will to protect his daughter’s inheritance – any future husband must have at least £50 per year income and any interest in the Newton fortune would die with his wife unless a male heir was forthcoming.  Stoney was aware – well aware – of this obstacle.

He considered elopement, but had rejected it as it would cost him Hannah’s fortune and all Hannah represented to him was cold hard cash.  Instead he begged and bullied his family, writing by turns pleading and aggressive letters demanding they give him the money.  At the same time he further manipulated Hannah and her mother by offering to release the besotted twenty year old from her obligations to him.   He is quoted as cynically saying:

Detail from ‘Company at Play’, Thomas Rowlandson, Plate 8 from Comforts of Bath, 1798

“You may be assured I had no intention of going, for I well knew I would not be permitted.  However, with the help of a few tears, I was prevailed to remain with her.”

His machinations were eventually successful, his family made him a settlement, and he was married to Hannah Newton and her twenty thousand pounds fortune on the 5th November 1768.  They moved to her home at Cole Pike Hill in Durham.  Stoney rejoined his regiment and resumed his debauched and violent lifestyle but now with ample funds to squander.

Hannah must have had a miserable marriage and was often at Bath for her health, Wendy Moore writing in ‘Wedlock’ thinks if not physically caused by Stoney, Hannah’s ill-health was exacerbated by his harsh treatment of her.  He engaged in legal wrangles with the Trustees of her father’s will when he tried to exploit the ancient woodlands on her estates, and he forced her to make a £5000 settlement on him should she die childless.  eventually Hannah did die, along with the child she had just given birth too.  Stoney reluctantly gave up his grip on her fortune.

A second heiress comes along

£5000 in his bank account, Stoney left the North, and set out in search of another cash cow to wed.  Anne Massingberd of Ormseby Hall was his next target and he soon had her eating out of his hand, his attentions were callously calculated to  ruin her reputation and any alternative marriage prospects.  However Stoney was in for a shock when he realised that Anne wasn’t quite as well off as she seemed and the liaison was soon over as far as he was concerned.  Anne felt differently and does not seem to have gotten over being jilted by Stoney, writing many letters to him begging for him to return to her.

The Richest Woman in England in his sights

Mary Eleanor Bowes, by JC Dillman, 1800 copied from George Englehart (Bowes Museum)

Despite the fact that Stoney’s reputation for bad treatment of women seems to have been well-known it is a measure of his charm and charisma and sexual chemistry that so many women fell for him.  True Hannah and Anne had led very sheltered lives, but his next victim Mary Eleanor Bowes was highly educated, a widow and had been living it up in a very scandalous manner since the death of her husband the Earl of Strathmore in 1776.

But in order to capture the largest fortune in England, Stoney would have to sink to very underhand and theatrical tactics and spin a web of deception and lies.  in 1776 Mary Eleanor was already planning to marry her current lover, Nabob Gray, and had even gone so far as to draw up crucial legal papers protecting her inheritance from any future husband, when Stoney appeared on the scene.  It is rumoured that he boasted openly that he was planning to go to London and marry the dowager Countess of Strathmore, such was his over-weaning confidence.

Duel Thomas Rowlandson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Still, it took a spy in her household, a rigged slander campaign in the Morning Post – where Stoney acted the part of both slanderer and saviour with equal relish – and a faked duel in a crampt and darkened room at the Adelphi Tavern to achieve his aim.  He had already made advances towards Mary Eleanor, and when he offered to fight a duel with the editor of the Morning Post, Mr Bates, Mary Eleanor seems to have been caught up in the drama and romance of the situation, especially when Stoney was mortally wounded defending her honour.

Only, things weren’t quite what they seemed.  Bates and Stoney were in cahoots, they met a year earlier in Bath, and may well have hatched the whole plot there and then.  Stoney also roped in his friend and ally Jesse Foote, a surgeon, in order to authenticate his fatal wounds.  Mary Eleanor didn’t stand a chance, at his apparent deathbed she agreed to his request that he be married to the woman whose honour he had defended.  Thinking he would be dead soon anyway, Mary Eleanor made the biggest mistake of her life and agreed.  On the 17 January 1777, Stoney was carried to the altar in a stretcher, and he married his second fortune and took on the name of Bowes in accordance with her fathers will.

Stoney made a rapid recovery and soon made his true nature know to Mary Eleanor.  Finding out he was not in control of her fortune, and that prenuptial agreements had been put in place to limit the financial powers of any husband, he began a sustained and brutal campaign against her – eventually tricking her in to revoking the deed. She endured 8 years of beatings, starvation, humiliation and control at the hands of Stoney.  She finally escaped his clutches in February 1785, when with the help of her brave maid Mary Morgan and some other equally brave servants, she made her getaway.  Penniless, she set about getting a divorce and regaining her fortune.  She won.  But at a high price to her health and her reputation.

Divorce and abduction

Public opinion was initially with the Countess, the divorce made people aware of the brutal treatment she had suffered at the hands of Stoney Bowes.  But Stoney ruthlessly began to slander her reputation, buying a newspaper for the purpose and commissioning cruel satirical prints against her.  The Georgian public swiftly turned against her, a wife who had lived a scandalous life – he had forced her to write her highly damaging ‘confessions’ and he later published them.  A wife, furthermore, who had tried to prevent her husband from his legal rights to her money and property.  Many people at the time would see him as a man standing up for his rights and he swayed the public opinion in his favour.  Even those people who thought he had gone to far, may have thought she was getting no better than she deserved.

However, when legal proceedings began to turn in favour of Mary Eleanor, and Stoney Bowes knew his case would be lost, he took things into his own hands.  He had his wife abducted in broad daylight.  Bundled into a carriage and dragged back up north.  Threatened with rape and violence Mary Eleanor was then dragged on horseback on a desperate cross-country flight for weeks and in the depths of winter until she was finally rescued, and Stoney arrested.

Stoney Bowes at the Court of Kings Bench, James Gillray

Abduction was one step too far, and Stoney Bowes was given three years in prison for the abduction. The divorce was finally settled in 1789 but not before he had hammed up his own sense of victimisation as much as possible – as Gillray’s cartoon of his Court appearance shows.

Deprived of his wife’s fortune, lambasted in print (even as early as 1777 The Stoniad had accused him of domestic violence and financial abuse of his wife), Stoney Bowes spend the last years of his life in debtors prison –  eventually dying in 1810.

Stoney Bowes via wikimedia

Yet, even in prison he wangled the best rooms, enticed young lawyers to take up his legal shenanigans, and spend his time seducing innocent girls.  Polly Sutton fell into his clutches because her father was  also in prison.  By all accounts she was a lovely young girl with prospects when he met her – yet even in prison he was able to ensnare her. Stoney  had several children with Polly and kept her locked up in a room he hired at the prison.  She got the same treatment that all of his previous wives received – violence and abuse.

Typical Georgian Gent or Sociopath?

The eighteenth century, despite being a rather feminine century, was essentially a mans world.  Men ran things and owned most of the property whilst women were in the power of their fathers, brothers or husbands for most of their lives.  Men expected to own their wives as much as they owned the property their wife brought to the marriage.  Society was also tolerant of some levels of domestic violence against women.

Stoney Bowes went much further than this.  He was clearly charming and charismatic, but he bullied, cajoled, and manipulated male friends into becoming his accomplices, and women into becoming his victims.  He was an extremely good liar, and appears to have had absolutely no conscience in relation to his dealings with women or empathy for the suffering he caused.  He lived a parasitic lifestyle – to him, women were a meal-ticket, he manipulated their emotions then trapped them into violent abusive marriages.  He was promiscuous, violent, controlling and showed no remorse for any of his actions.  I’m certainly no expert on psychology, but I would say that Andrew Robinson Stoney Bowes was quite likely a bona-fide Georgian Sociopath.

Sources

Arnold, Ralph, The Unhappy Countess, Constable, 1987 edition
Moore, Wendy, Wedlock, Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2009
Parker, Derek, The Trampled Wife, Sutton, 2006
Thackeray, William, The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon, Futura, 1974 edition
Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Robinson_Stoney
Author unknown, Profile of the Sociopath, http://www.mcafee.cc/Bin/sb.html

The strange case of Sir Francis Bacon and the frozen chicken

Tags

bizarre deaths, chickens, English history, Ghosts, history, science, seventeenth century

One of the strangest ghost stories that I have ever come across involves Sir Francis Bacon, empirical scientist and a frozen chicken.

Sir Francis Bacon, “The Queen’s Bastard”*

Sir Francis Bacon, by Paul van Somer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Sir Francis Bacon (1^st Viscount of St Albans), philosopher, jurist, statesman, author and scientist was born on 22 January 1561 at York House in London.  At the age of twelve, Bacon was sent to study at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1579 he took up a residence in law at Gray’s Inn.  Famous as a liberal-minded reformer he openly opposed feudal privileges and religious persecution.  He was a favourite with Queen Elizabeth I as well as being a close advisor of the Earl of Essex.  He also flourished under the reign of James I, under whom he was granted a knighthood in 1603.  In 1618 he was appointed Lord Chancellor but his success did not last and three years later, after falling into debt, he was accused of twenty-three separate counts of corruption and thrown out of office.  With the end of his public career, Sir Francis Bacon turned to the other great passion in his life, the philosophy of science. He believed that science should be used as tool for the betterment of humanity and espoused a new approach, one based on tangible proof achieved through experimentation, gathering of data and analysis.  Alas his dedication to his beliefs eventually led to an experiment which effectively caused his death on the 9 April 1626 at the age of 65.

Bacon and the first frozen chicken

In the early part of 1626, Sir Francis Bacon whilst out in his carriage fell into an argument with his companion Dr Winterbourne.  The cause of the disagreement was Dr Winterbourne’s scepticism over Bacon’s hypothesis that fresh meat could be preserved if frozen.  In order to prove his theory he ordered his coachman to buy a chicken from the nearest source.  According to John Aubrey in his book “Brief Lives”,

“They alighted out of the coach, and went into a poor woman’s house at the bottom of Highgate Hill, and bought a hen, and made the woman gut it, and then stuffed the body with snow, and my lord did help to do it himself.

After the chicken had been partially plucked, Bacon placed the chicken in a bag, packed some more snow around it and buried the carcass.  Unfortunately according to Aubrey, Bacon caught a severe chill and was so ill he was unable make the distance to his own lodgings and instead was taken

“to the Earl of Arundel’s house at Highgate, where they put him into a good bed warmed with a pan, but it was a damp bed that had not been laid-in about a year before, which gave him such a cold that in two or three days, as I remember Mr Hobbes told me, he died of suffocation.” 

Death by chicken: Fact or fiction

It is difficult to tell how reliable Aubrey’s sources were.  The main problem with his account is the time of the year. If Aubrey’s report is correct then London would have been suffering from snowy conditions in April 1626.  According to contemporary evidence there is no record of snow in London at that time.  This is not to say that Bacon did not conduct an experiment with a frozen chicken or that it wasn’t an experiment with refrigeration that led to Bacon’s illness.  It could be that either two separate incidences were confused or that the illness that Bacon picked up earlier that year was a lingering one or even more likely that Bacon on returning to analysis the results of his experiment caught a chill in the damp, cold weather.  In fact Bacon himself confirms the cause of his illness.  In a letter written to his absent friend, Lord Arundel, he apologises for being a burden on his household and admits that it was whilst concluding an experiment in refrigeration that he caught a chill,

“My very good Lord,—I was likely to have had the fortune of Caius Plinius the elder, who lost his life by trying an experiment about the burning of Mount Vesuvius; for I was also desirous to try an experiment or two touching the conservation and induration of bodies. As for the experiment itself, it succeeded excellently well; but in the journey between London and Highgate, I was taken with such a fit of casting as I know not whether it were the Stone, or some surfeit or cold, or indeed a touch of them all three”

Whatever the truth behind the story, the death of Sir Francis Bacon will always be linked with that of a frozen chicken,

“Against cold meats was he insured?

For frozen chickens he procured —

brought on the illness he endured,

and never was this Bacon cured.”**

 

The hauntings of Pond Square

In a bizarre twist to the story, Pond Square, believed to be the site of Bacon’s experiment, has developed a reputation for being haunted, not by Sir Francis Bacon as you would expect but by a ghostly chicken.  Numerous sightings have been reported in the leafy suburb of Highgate (in 1864 the pond itself was filled in) during the winter months, and at least twenty of these were made in the twentieth century, most during the Second World War. 

In December 1943, Aircraftman Terence Long was crossing the pond late one night, when he heard noises of what sounded like horses’ hooves and a carriage behind him.  Turning around he was stunned to see something which looked like a half plucked, shivering chicken shrieking wildly and running around in circles until it eventually disappeared. Shocked he then met an Air Raid Precautions fireman to whom he recounted his visitation.  The fireman told him that the bird was regularly seen in the area and that one ARP had chased it, hoping to catch it for dinner until it ran into a brick wall and disappeared. 

Chicken Run; Parks & Lord; Dreamworks Pictures

Again during the Second World War, a Mrs J. Greenhill, a resident of the area, confirmed that she had seen the ghostly chicken on a number of occasions, describing it as a “large whitish bird”.

In the 1960s a motorist who had broken down, reported seeing a half plucked bird in a state of distress, squawking and running in circles.  Going towards it, concerned that it was injured, he was startled when it suddenly vanished into thin air.

The last confirmed sighting of the poultry ghost was in 1970.  The couple whilst kissing were rudely interrupted when a bird dropped out of the air next to them.  They stated that the bird was squawking and running in circles and disappeared shortly afterwards.

Recently the sightings of the ghostly chicken have virtually ceased.  Maybe the bird, distressed at its unorthodox demise has finally accepted its place in scientific history and come to terms with the circumstances of its death. 

Notes

*Edward Coke (opponent of Sir Francis Bacon)

** Composed by the poet, Pip Wilson

Sources and references

 Brief Lives, John Aubrey

Pond Square Chicken, Highgate http://www.mysteriousbritain.co.uk/england/greater-london/hauntings/pond-square-chicken-highgate.html

The Ghost Chicken of Highgate, London http://news.bbc.co.uk/dna/place-lancashire/plain/A14042099

Highgate Chicken Ghost http://www.real-british-ghosts.com/highgate-chicken-ghost.html

The ghost of pond square http://www.unexplainedmysteries.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=3678

The Penguin Book of Ghost Stories, J.A. Cuddon

True Ghosts and Spooky Incidents, Vikas Khatri

Francis Bacon: Biography, http://www.biography.com/people/francis-bacon-9194632