Suicidal Urges In Hyde Park

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Map showing a part of Mayfair, c1799

In October 1818, James Guy walked to Hyde Park from his home at 12 Carrington Street, Mayfair, with a purpose.

He did not mean to perambulate the park in order to get some exercise, or fresh air. He was not meeting friends, or walking to work.

He had set out with the sole purpose of killing himself.

Suicide was illegal; it was a crime. But James had compelling reasons to end his life.

He was a man who had had a good life – a respectable job, a loving family. But within a short space of time, he lost his wife and his job. Now widowed and unemployed, he was left with several young children to support, and no means of doing so. Struggling to keep a roof over his family’s head, he had been unable to find another job, and had finally run out of money.

The London Volunteer Cavalry in Hyde Park, c1804

So on one Friday morning, he went out, armed with twopence, the only money he had left, and bought some milk and bread for his children’s breakfast. He set it out for them, kissed each child, and then left the house again – for the last time.

He walked to the park, found a peaceful spot, and slit his throat with his razor. He was found by some passers-by, who described him as looking like what he was – a middle-aged “reduced tradesman” – and lying with blood flowing from his throat, like a stream.

Yet all was not lost. The passers-by realised that he was still alive – just – and so carried him to St George’s Hospital. There he was recognised, and tended to. Although he was not expected to survive, he was able to spend his last moments not alone in a London park, but looked after by people who knew his circumstances and cared for him.

What happened to the orphaned children he finally left behind, though, is unknown.

Outrage Upon The Prince Regent

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The Prince Regent, later George IV, was not a popular man within his own lifetime. Known for his expensive tastes, his physical corpulence, and liking for the female sex, his subjects sometimes found it hard to treat him with the courtesy due to a future sovereign and member of the Royal family.

One on occasion, in 1817, he was attacked in St James’s Park, as the press later breathlessly reported:

“the following are the particulars of this distressing occurrence as they have bee n communicated by persons who were in the park at the time:

 

“On the return of the Prince Regent from the House of Lords, the crowd assembled in the streets had increased greatly. In St James’s Park in particular the mob was immense, and they began to utter the most violent and indiscreet expressions the instant the royal carriage appeared. When the cavalcade had reached the stable-yard gate, it appears that the glasses of the state carriage were broken on both sides, almost instantaneously. The general impression was that stones were the missiles employed, and yet the galsses, which are of uncommon thickness, were broken as cleanly as if done by a discharge from a musket or pistol.”

The Gateway of St James's Palace

The Prince Regent, with commendable calmness, got down from the carriage at St James’s Palace, and managed to make his way to Carlton House – where he had arranged to meet Lord Sidmouth – in his private carriage.

His Lord in Waiting, Lord James Murray, who had been in the carriage with the Prince, was not so lucky, receiving a blow to his right eye from a piece of broken glass.

Apparently, the “fury of the populace” had originally been directed against the royal carriages and their occupants; but the mob mentality took over to an extent that they took a dislike to the horses drawing the carriages, shouting out, “Down with them!”

Being an unpopular figure was nothing new to the Prince. It was reported that “The Prince Regent looked remarkably well when seated on the Throne in the House of Lords on Tuesday.”

From Jackson’s Oxford Journal, 1 February 1817

Mr Curtis, the chaste bigamist

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One of the things I love about the 18th and early 19th century English press is the frequent use of sarcasm, often denoted by a liberal applying of italics to text.

So when the London Gazette reported on improvements made to Clerkenwell House of Correction in 1800, it made a slightly tongue-in-cheek comment about one of its inmates.

On the surface, the changes denoted a move away from prison as a mind-numbing, soul-destroying experience to a place of rehabilitation, that saw prisoners as human beings. So Clerkenwell now installed fires in all the prisoners’ cells, gave them an increased allowance, and let them talk freely to their friends.

Yet the London Gazette was not, perhaps, as approving of these liberal changes as it first appeared. Although it reported the improvements in a straight manner, it then described the prison governor, in italics, as “the benevolent Governor”, and then reported his equal desire to improve the “spiritual consolation of his tenants”.

Apparently, readers should believe that the Governor was spiritually motivated, because he had allowed one of the prisoners to appoint himself as a virtual chaplain to the rest of the prison community.

Coldbath Fields Prison, also known as Clerkenwell House of Correction

This prisoner, a Mr Curtis, was apparently in Clerkenwell after being convicted of bigamy – but the London Gazette described him as being accused by “the tongue of slander”. This, presumably, was Curtis’s own reasoning for his conviction; he was an innocent man, punished by idle gossip.

He, as an innocent man, had managed to inveigle his way into the Governor’s favour, and was able to deliver sermons to his fellow inmates, exhorting them to “sobriety, temperance and chastity.” (London Gazette, 1 November 1800)

This last italicised word makes clear the London Gazette’s view. This man, convicted of bigamy, has the gall to lecture others about the importance of chastity – something he was not good at himself.

Therefore, the Governor, rather than being benevolent, is actually more of a fool; he has introduced measures that make the prisoners more mollycoddled; and by being swayed by a convict, claiming to be innocent of the charges against him, he has allowed him to gain power within the House of Correction.

So a story that purports to show how one House of Correction is being modernised, and how it ensures that prisoners receive a religious education, is actually telling its readers that the Governor is a weak fool, and that its inmates are, in reality, running the place.

And that’s just from the use of italics.

Falling Vegetables in Covent Garden Market

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Actually, that’s a bit of a misleading post title. This post is actually about the falling price of vegetables in Covent Garden Market, which was concerning market traders and the press in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

Covent Garden was famous – or infamous – for the habit of “forestalling” that commonly took place in the market.

Forestalling is described in the Oxford English Dictionary as the habit of carrying out transactions before a market has officially opened; although frowned upon, it had been recorded as a regular habit in various markets and at various fairs in England since at least the 1600s.

Political economist Adam Smith

Adam Smith went further, describing forestalling as “the buying or contracting for any cattle, provisions, or merchandise, on its way to the market (or at market), or dissuading persons from buying their goods there, or persuading them to raise the price, or spreading any false rumour with intent to enhance the value of any article” (The Wealth of Nations).

Officials believed that carrying out business strictly during the hours of the market would keep prices higher; and, indeed, it was reported that the price of vegetables, which were being sold outside of the regular hours, had fallen as a consequence of being more widely available.

Statutes had previously been passed to ban forestalling, and to give forestallers severe penalties. The London Magazine (also known as the Gentleman’s Monthly Intelligencer), in December 1756, reported that new laws were being passed, aimed at preventing forestalling, and in particular, the forestalling of corn.

Under the new laws, which had been introduced the previous month, a first act of forestalling would now be two months imprisonment and the forfeiture of the corn; for a second offence, six months in prison; and for the third, a forestaller would be put on the pillory before having his goods and chattels forfeited, and then being imprisoned “at the king’s pleasure”. It was further specified that anyone was allowed to sell their corn at market – but at market price, “on pain of forfeiting double the value of the corn so bought.”

 These laws – there were two previous ones, that had been passed under Elizabeth I and Edward VI – were repealed in the 1770s. Those convicted of forestalling could still be subject to fines and imprisonment, but magistrates had, for some time, been reluctant to punish those who had taken part in forestalling.

But as a result of the continuance of forestalling in Covent Garden at the end of the eighteenth century, the Middlesex magistrates decided to get tough with market traders, issuing indictments against stallholders who were found to be selling goods before the market had opened. This was despite forestalling being seen almost as a custom of the area.

The Morning Post, on 8 November 1800, duly reported:

“Vegetables of all sorts have experienced a considerable fall, in consequence of the exertions of the Magistrates to prevent the customary forestalling in Covent Garden market. Not less, we understand, than 58 indictments have been preferred against forestallers in that market. The convictions of such as deserve it, and the punishments that follow, must have the desired effect in preventing others from following their example.”

Henry Mayhew

Forestalling continued to be a problem in London, though. In the 1850s, Henry Mayhew reported on the Billingsgate forestallers, colloquially known as “bummarees” – these fish market forestallers seeing themselves as superior to the “hagglers” in vegetable markets. Mayhew described them simply as “middlemen”, or speculators, buying goods cheaply and then selling them on at a higher price to others (London Labour and the London Poor, vol 1, page 67: “On The Forestalling Of Markets and the Billingsgate Bummarees”).

The Morning Post had been confident that the Middlesex magistrates would be able to tackle the issue of forestalling, issuing indictments to many as a warning to others not to follow suit. But Mayhew’s investigation into London life half a century later shows that the problem seems, if anything, to have become even wider spread, and more accepted, than it had been previously.

An Unsolved Murder In The Regent’s Canal

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Samuel Grakett, 45, was a workman employed by the Imperial Gas Company in London. One Saturday night, he was standing with several members of the large Grakett family in the road near the Cat and Mutton Bridge, which spanned the Regent’s Canal in Hackney.

The Imperial Gas Company Basin on the Regent's Canal. Photo by Dr Neil Clifton at Geograph.

Two men approached, and with no provocation, knocked down one relative, a Mrs Russell, who fell into the road. She got up, and three other men came up and knocked her to the ground again. Her husband was then attacked; he jumped over a fence – not very nobly – and ran away to the canal towpath. The five men then ran off after him, followed by Samuel, wanting to avenge the attack on his female relation.

Meanwhile, at 13 St Andrew’s Road in Hackney, one William Jolly was standing at his front door, unloading some furniture; perhaps an odd thing to do at 12.15am, but it is just as well he was, as he heard some arguing, and then saw a man running past, followed by four others.

They ran to the towpath, where he heard a male voice shout, “Now, throw me into the canal!”,  followed shortly afterwards by a cry of “Police!”

William Jolly ran to the canal, where he saw a man in the water, struggling to keep afloat. He got a rope from the side, and tried to get the man to grab it, but with no luck. He heard a man say, “Oh, leave him alone. He is floating – he can swim.” William doubted their opinion; he saw the man throw up his hands in desperation, before sinking under the water.

Meanwhile Jane Marshall, a 20 year old woman who lived at nearby 19 George Street, had been visiting her neighbours at 28 George Street. Hearing a noise, she went to the canal and heard a man say, “Turn up your toes, you ****.”

She saw several men running away, and immediately turned back for home, where she told her mother and sister what she had seen. From her home, the Marshall women could hear the men continuing to shout: “There is a man in the water.” “There is not!” “There is!”

The Regent's Canal at Mare Street, Hackney. Photo by Pierre Terre at Geograph.

After the police were called out to the canal, the body of Samuel Grakett was found in the water. Although he had drowned, he was also found to have been assaulted before his death, with a blow to the head.

Samuel Grakett had been assaulted, thrown into the water and left to drown. He had been murdered. However, the men who had chased him and Mr Russell were unknown to the family, and despite questioning of those who had witnessed the initial assault, the chase and the final act on the canal side, the identity of the men was never uncovered.

The coroner’s jury, who had heard the evidence in the convivial surroundings of the Three Crown Tavern on Hackney’s Mare Street,  had to return a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.

The controversial case of Captain Kimber: how William Wilberforce made one trial a cause celebre

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"The Abolition of the Slave Trade" by Isaac Cruikshank © The Trustees of the British Museum. The caricature shows Captain Kimber mistreating his female slave.

On 7 June 1792, Captain John Kimber, commander of the ship Recovery, was tried at the High Court of Admiralty of England, on a charge of murdering a female slave.

The case, which was held at the Old Bailey, was an interesting one, with two of the prosecution witnesses, Thomas Dowling and Stephen Devereux, being accused of contradicting themselves in their statements to the court.

The ship had been travelling from Bristol to Grenada in 1791, and Kimber had bought 300 slaves en route. Dowling, the ship’s surgeon, had originally given a statement on oath at Grenada, where the ship had been docked, stating only that the slave had died – and, in fact, had said she had died of dysentery. The accusation of murder only came later, and when he gave his evidence at the Old Bailey, he denied having said anything previously on oath – saying instead “he did not kiss the book” and therefore it was not an oath.

Their evidence was followed by five defence witnesses, all of whom contradicted what Dowling and Devereux had said. There were said to have been between 30 and 40 other witnesses who were willing to give evidence for the defence, but after this first five, the jury stated in court “they were perfectly satisfied, and had been for above an hour” before the evidence had finished.

The judge, Mr Justice Ashurst, said that if the jury was satisfied, then he was too; and promptly declared Captain Kimber not guilty of murder, and acquitted him immediately. The jury made a statement that “the [prosecution] witnesses were unworthy of belief”, and Dowling and Devereux were sent in Kimber’s stead to Newgate, to await a trial for perjury.

The case had been a media story before the trial had begun, primarily because of the involvement of abolitionist William Wilberforce. He had heard about the case, apparently from Dowling, and used it during a debate on the slave trade in the House of Commons on 2 April 1792 to accuse Kimber of murder. He also described Kimber as:

“a very bad man, a great spendthrift; one who would swear to any falsehood, and who is linked with a set of rascals like himself.”

Kimber had then been forced to place an advert in the local press to deny these allegations – ones that today would cause Wilberforce to face a contempt charge.

So there was substantial interest in the case by the time the trial began. The trial itself, should have been a discussion of whether the girl had died of natural causes, or as a direct result of alleged mistreatment by Kimber – which was said to have included being whipped whilst suspended upside down by her ankle. In fact, there were rumours that Wilberforce had been behind the prosecution of Kimber, seeing it as a way of publicising the plight of slaves. Instead, it became lost in the argument about perjury, and whether Dowling had sworn an oath or not; and whether he and Devereux were motivated by a personal antipathy towards Kimber, whom they had previously argued with.

Wilberforce was furious at the acquittal of Kimber. The Life Of William Wilberforce records that he felt Kimber had “escaped” justice:

“through the shameful remisses of the Crown lawyers, and the indecent behaviour of a high personage who from the bench identified himself with the prisoner’s cause.”

Even the acquittal of Kimber, the subsequent acquittal of Devereux and conviction of Dowling for perjury, failed to put an end to discussion of the case. Nearly a year later, in February 1793, it was again brought up during another debate on the abolition of the slave trade in parliament.

William Wilberforce, 1794, by Anton Hickel

Wilberforce proposed the establishment of a committee to explore the current state of the trade. Sir William Young wanted to wait a while to discuss the situation, arguing that he had visited the West Indies “and had found the condition of the Slaves very easy and comfortable”. He also argued that the slave trade should not be abolished –

“as thereby an estate that was unfortunate by the small-pox, or other contagious disorders, would be rendered unserviceable to its owners, as it was notorious it could not be supplied with negroes from other estates.”

He argued that the planters themselves should be allowed time to discuss the subject and be allowed to become less “agitated” about the prospect of gradually losing their slaves.

Mr Cawthorne MP backed Young’s plea for a longer timescale. He used Captain Kimber’s trial, and his subsequent acquittal, to argue that this meant black girls were not being mistreated by their ’owners’. William Smith refuted this argument, saying that he had been acquitted not necessarily because he was innocent, but because Dowling, as a witness, had been suspected of perjuring himself (and, in fact, was found guilty of this “on a collateral point” at a later trial, although Devereux was acquitted).

Smith then denied that William Wilberforce “had anything to do with the prosecution of Captain Kimber”. Wilberforce responded that:

“he was determined to persevere, and never to rest till this trade, which was a disgrace to the British nation and to human nature, was finally and completely abolished.” (The Times, 27 February 1793)

A vote was then carried out. 53 MPs voted to keep to the original, shorter, timescale to discuss the abolition of slavery; but 61 voted for an amendment, creating a longer timescale, “putting off the consideration of the circumstances of the Slave Trade for six months”.

WIlberforce had failed to get abolition discussed as quickly as he would have liked; and that was not his only problem. Kimber was furious at Wilberforce’s slandering of his character, and demanded a public apology, £5,000 in what we would call damages, and a government position. These demands were, after advice from William Pitt, rejected, and so Kimber then started calling at Wilberforce’s house, “lying in wait” for him, as he later put it, and being abusive. The situation became so bad that Wilberforce had to have a friend, armed, accompany him on outings. Eventually, Lord Sheffield managed to “terminate this annoyance” by calming Kimber down.

However, Wilberforce knew how to use Kimber’s aggressive behaviour to his advantage, and even hoped that the latter would succeed in attacking him:

“I really believe, that if he were to commit any act of violence it would be beneficial rather than injurious to the cause.”

Wilberforce continued fighting for his “cause” until the Slavery Abolition Act was finally passed in 1833. He died just three days after learning that slavery would finally end.

There is a good account of Kimber, from a local press perspective at the PortCities Bristol website. The quotes from WIlliam Wilberforce about John Kimber are taken from “The Life Of William Wilberforce” (1838) by his sons, RI Wilberforce and S Wilberforce. Other quotes taken from parliamentary debate coverage and trial coverage in The Times.

The State Of Marshalsea

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From page 3 of The Times (5 November 1811):

“The building of a new prison near St George’s Church, in the Borough, instead of the Marshalsea, which is in a very ruinous state, is rapidly proceeding. A large space in the interior is to be appropriated for the exclusive custody of persons terms Admrilalty prisoners, who are sentenced to various periods of imprisonment, by Naval Courts-martial.”

In 1815, a report was carried out into the state of the King’s Bench, Fleet, and Marshalsea prisons in London. The Times duly reported its findings and recommendations, and set out how the prisons operated.

In 1815, Sir James Bland Burges was Marshal of the Marshalsea, enjoying a salary of £500 per annum (around £17,000 in today’s money). He also received a fee of 20 shillings for every prisoner who was discharged from the Marshalsea, which amounted to around £20 extra each year.

Sir James’ deputy was the prison keeper, Mr W Jenkins. He made money from a variety of means; a basic salary of £300; work as clerk of the papers, which gave him fees of £70 or £80; two guineas a week for “rent of the tap”; and half a guinea for running a chandler’s shop.

There were then two watchmen and two turnkeys, a surgeon and a chaplain, all of whom received a combination of salaries and fees.

The Marshalsea is remembered best today as a debtors’ prison, one-time home of Charles Dickens, after his father was imprisoned there. But it also had a role, as the name suggests, as an Admiralty prison, and those condemned to death could be paraded from the prison to Execution Dock in Wapping on their final journey in this world.

On 5 April 1814, there were 60 debtors being held at the Marshalsea, and between six and ten prisoners in the Admiralty cells. On the whole, The Times was pleased to note,

“The conduct of the debtors within the Marshalsea is stated as orderly and regular.”

Men and women were held together; wives and children were allowed to stay with their husbands and fathers, which in April 1814 meant there were an additional 24 women and 32 children at the prison, in addition to the actual prisoners.

Visitors were “admitted indiscriminately” between 8am and 10pm every day, allowing families little privacy. Men had to pay eight shillings on admittance to the Marshalsea to pay for using the common fire, accessing water and reading hte newspapers. Women paid the lesser sum of 5s 6d.

The committee report of 1815 expressed its “disapprobation” of confining Admiralty prisoners with debtors, because:

“The former are generally midshipmen and warrant officers mostly young men. The entire absence of all control, the riot in which they live, and the licentious examples which are before them, cannot fail to send them back to their profession and to the world worse members of society than when they first entered the walls of the prison.” (The Times, 25 August 1815)

Young sailors were seen as a corrupting influence on those whose only crime was to be poor. There was a recognition here that prison might not be the best solution for some people, who might be ruined further by a spell in the Marshalsea; yet people continued to be imprisoned here until the1870s.

“

The largest brothel in the metropolis

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The Fleet Prison - from Robert Chambers' Book Of Days

The Fleet prison was designed to hold both debtors, and those charged with contempt of court (which, in the early 19th century, was contempt of the courts of Chancery, Exchequer and Common Pleas).

In 1815, the report into the state of the prisons stated that the staff of the Fleet consisted of Warden John Eyles; Deputy Warden Mr Nixon; and a Clerk of the Papers. There were also three turnkeys (“who have each half a guinea a week and a room rent free”); a crier, who was a combined watchman and scavenger, as well as being an existing prisoner; and a chaplain. There was also a clerk, on a salary of £10 a year, “who is at present an old man, and has been a prisoner for 30 years.”

Rules for the prisoners were complicated, and ironically given the status of the majority as debtors, involved money. Those admitted to the master’s side of the prison had to pay £1 8s 8d on entering, and those on the common side 15s 4d. Then there was room rent of 1s 3d every week, payable quarterly. If an inmate could not pay his fees, he had to “seek a lodging in the prison at his own expense”, although there was a poor box that he could apply to for help.

The prison contained 109 rooms. 15 were called “Bartholomew Fair” rooms and were reserved for poor debtors with large families. A further 30 had no fireplace and must have been uncomfortable cold in winter.

The common side of the prison contained four cabins, each able to hold seven or eight prisoners. On 25 March 1815, there were 20 prisoners on this side, “four of whom were on the begging gate”.

Not all debtors had to live in the prison itself; some simply had to live within a certain area – the Rules or Liberty of the Fleet. So many still found ways to spend money – and not just on prison fees, as the report, and press, made clear:

“The Belle Sauvage public-house, and the London coffee-house, are both within the rules of the Fleet, and it is in evidence that the substance of the prisoners is much wasted by expensive living in those places.” (The Times, 25 August 1815)

A Debtor In Fleet Street Prison, by Thomas Hosmer Shepherd

In fact, life in the Fleet was not conducive to a healthy life. The report into the prison said it  could be “considered as healthy” as the number of prisoners who had died there in the last three years had “only” been 15. But further to that:

“The state of discipline and morals in the Fleet is extremely irregular and depraved. Scenes of riot, drunkenness and disorder are prevalent; women of bad character gaining admission, excite disturbances in the galleries and violence frequently ensues from their riots and intoxication…” (The Times, 25 August 1815)

In fact, the Deputy Warden of the place called the Fleet “the largest brothel in the metropolis.”

The report into the Fleet duly recommended that the deputy warden should manage the prison better, and “preserve uncontaminated and undestroyed, the morals and habits of those whom the laws of the country place under his control.”

Some thirty years later, the Fleet prison, that den of iniquity in the authority’s eyes, was demolished.

 

Mrs Gotobed and the Captain: a bizarre case of bigamy and big babies

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Barbara Gotobed was a woman with a past – as well as a somewhat come-hither surname. She was the defendant in a complex, and sometimes frankly ludicrous, court case at the Old Bailey in the early 1860s that resulted in her acquittal of criminal charges, but with her reputation in tatters.

It is probable that she was born Barbara Catherine Morris around 1832 in Sussex. She came to public prominence on her marriage to the wonderfully named Captain William Langham Hazelrigge Le Hunte Wilson at St Pancras Church in 1858. Her name, by this point, was as good as her new husband’s – Barbara Catherine Howard Morris Gotobed Gordon. She was listed on her marriage as being a widow; common enough, but her new family took an instant distrust to this woman, who already had a past and a reputation.

For Barbara was an actress – a job viewed with suspicion by the well-to-do in Victorian society. She had been performing at a small provincial theatre in Northampton when William Morris, stationed in the area, turned up to watch a production one evening and fell in love with the young thespian.

Their marriage took place shortly afterwards. It was a real achievement for Barbara, for Captain Wilson was a man of property and money, owning an estate in Gloucestershire as well as property in London. If he died childless, though, his estate would be inherited by his brother; so there was a clear need for his wife to produce a son and heir.

Two years passed without a pregnancy, and it was widely assumed that the couple were unable to have children. But then, in the winter of 1860, a son was born – William Lucan Francis Lettante Doyle Wilson. He was sent out to a wet-nurse, who was taken by the impressive size of the baby. Somewhat unwisely, she told her employer that baby William was more the size of a three-month old child than a newborn. She was promptly dismissed from her job.

The child’s size, and the wet-nurse’s comments, soon led to rumours that the baby was not Captain Wilson’s. It was rumoured that a year before the apparent birth, Barbara and her female companion, a Miss Earle, had travelled to London, met up with a couple named Brown, and that Barbara had returned with the Browns’ newborn child, whom she passed off as her own in order to ensure that the Wilson inheritance continued.

Miss Earle, a bit later, had a falling out with Barbara, and, bitter, she ran to Captain Wilson’s mother, who lived in a Herefordshire village. There, she passed on the rumours, apparently either admitting her part in the deception, or being persuaded that the events had happened as rumoured. The Wilson family then launched proceedings against Barbara of deception and attempting to pass off the child as a Wilson.

The Old Bailey

It soon transpired that there was no solid evidence that the child was anything but a Wilson, and the case was removed by certiorari – a writ challenging a legal decision – from the Central Criminal Court to the Court of Queen’s Bench, and back again. By the time the trial began at the Central Criminal Court, the charge was bigamy, and all reference to the child’s parenthood was removed – it was his legitimacy that was now in question.

Barbara spent the time between the charges being set and the trial beginning in Paris, apparently without her husband. She had asked to speak with him, confident that any “lies” being spread by the Wilsons could be put to rest if she could get William to look into her eyes. He steadfastedly refused to talk to her, though.

The court case was long and drawn out. During the case, it emerged that yes, Barbara had married Wilson whilst previous husband Jonathan Gotobed was still alive; but then it turned out that not only had she had another husband in between Gotobed and Wilson, but that Gotobed had in fact committed bigamy when he married Barbara, making their marriage invalid.

It turned out that Gotobed, a builder, had emigrated to Toronto around 1837, and had married his first wife, Margaret Gay. He walked out on her in the 1840s, leaving her destitute, and returned temporarily to England, where he met and married Barbara Morris. He had later returned to Canada, possibly with Barbara, but she had then married a Captain Gordon. He had died in Canada, leaving her a bonafide widow, as her marriage to Gotobed was illegal given the continued existence of his first wife, who was still alive certainly into the early 1850s.

All of these events may have been somewhat unusual and controversial – but Barbara had not committed bigamy. An interesting aside to the case was the fact that the Gotobeds were somewhat embarrassed about their surname; Jonathan now preferred to go by the name of Jonathan Gee, and both had attempted to persuade others that the correct spelling and pronunciation of the name was Gotobeed (as they had stated on their marriage licence) – a fact that caused the court to burst out laughing when it was mentioned.

The court case took months to settle, due to the length of time to get witnesses and evidence to London from Canada. In June 1862, eventually, Barbara was acquitted. She left court in the company of her friends – her husband still refusing to talk to her after the embarrassment of the case.

Barbara took her son to live with her in Kensington, a young female relative acting as her companion. In 1873, William Wilson finally lodged a case to divorce his actress wife, drawing a line under that complex and rather too public part of his life.

 

Debauchery at the Bartholomew Fair

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The Bartholomew Fair in 1808, by Rowlandson and Pugin

“The screaming of fiddles, the belching and bursting of French-horns and trumpets out-of-tune, the squeaking and squalling of wretched clarionets…” (Morning Chronicle, 4 September 1802) 

This was part of the Morning Chronicle’s coverage of the annual Bartholomew Fair, detailing the many, many ways in which it was an affront to all senses.

The Bartholomew Fair, which started in the 12th century, took place annually in the environs of West Smithfield.

The duration of the fair varied from three days to two weeks; from 1691, it was dhortened to four days. From 1753, it took place in early September.

The Lord Mayor of London would open the fair on St Bartholomew’s Eve, stopping at Newgate Prison to accept a cup of wine from the prison governor.

Ben Jonson's 1614 comedy was set at Bartholomew Fair

There was plenty to occupy visitors to the fair – from acrobats and wild animals to freak shows and prize-fighters. But it was a victim of its own success, its reputation going before it. It became known for the trouble some of its participants could cause; in 1786, The Times reported:

“we consider that the fair does not answer one single purpose that can at all be put in competition with the mischief it does…” (7 September 1786)

And in 1801, the Morning Chronicle reported that the authorities were now trying to pre-empt trouble by locking away people who might cause problems when the fair was on, even if they had not committed any crime at that point:

“A number of loose, disorderly girls were committed to Bridewell till after Bartholomew Fair, most of them being old offenders.” (1 September 1801)

The fair’s reputation was known throughout the country, and reported on with enjoyment by the provincial press. Jackson’s Oxford Journal, for example, reported in 1801:

“The usual warfare of the first of September commenced yesterday… In the neighbourhood of the Metropolis an incessant fire of musketry was kept up all day to the great terror of domestic animals. No correct return of killed and wounded has, however, yet come to hand. Whatever were supposed most to resemble Frenchmen were in greatest danger, therefore the show-folk, on their way to Bartholomew Fair, were obliged to observe a sharp look out, and keep their monkeys close chained to their berths.” (5 September 1801)

Drinking was a popular activity at the Fair...

The Fair was a good opportunity to air grievances, to forget work by drinking, and to indulge in jingoistic or nationalistic acts of violence or aggression – especially against nations we had recently, or were currently, at war with.

A year later, the Morning Chronicle started its report into the entertainment at the Fair by writing, wearily:

“Yesterday this annual exhibition of profligacy and dissipation commenced.” (4 September 1802)

Yet the paper then went into a detailed discussion of the stalls, sounds, sights and language of the fair, relishing its descriptions of the “oceans of gin” and “mountains of gingerbread” that were available to visitors.

But then came the moral stance:

“To be serious:… the attention we have bestowed upon it is more than it deserves…. The evils attending it are most severely felt. It takes the artisan from his labour, who has a family depending upon his earnings. It is a field for vice, wickedness, and depravity of every description. It has, and every year does, prove the ruin of many innocent, unsuspecting females, who are decoyed into the dancing-houses at night…”

Those poor women, being dragged into places and forced to dance and listen to music. I bet they all loathed it and tried desperately to sit the dances out.

But it was not just the weak-willed, wide-eyed females who were at risk:

“The people who from curiosity alone visit this pestiferous sink of iniquity, are robbed and plundered of their property by thieves from all quarters of the island… We could pursue the subject farther, but feel disgusted at the idea.”

Although they weren’t so disgusted at the thought of mountains of gingerbread.

The Morning Chronicle concluded by asking that the Fair be quickly banned, because it was “hostile to virtue and decorum, and a professed enemy of every thing that is decent, respectable, and moral.”

Despite the indignance of the press, the public got to enjoy their festivities for another half a century. It wasn’t until 1855 that the City of London finally suppressed the Bartholomew Fair for encouraging debauchery and public disorder.

An Unusual Fight Brewing In The Coffee-House

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Detail of Tom King's coffee house, from Four Times Of The Day by William Hogarth

The Leicester Coffee-House in Leicester Fields – now Leicester Square – was, in the early 18th century, a popular place for local magistrates to meet and relax.

It was a nice environment; at around that time, Leicester Fields was described as:

“a very handsome square, railed about and gravelled within. The buildings are very good, and well inhabited, and frequented by the gentry…” (Strype, 1720, quoted in British History)

- although it was rapidly being encroached by building works around Oxford Street, thus losing its “rural” charm. The London Gazette of 28 June 1726 states that the Leicester Coffee-House was actually located in Green Street, at the south-east corner of the square, and also known, less salubriously, as Dirty Lane, and now as Irving Street.

The danger with coffee-houses lay in their use as places to debate politics and the law. Get magistrates who disagreed over such subjects together in such a coffee-house, and tempers were bound to fray. Two Justices of the Peace took this to extremes in March 1731, as the London Evening Post excitedly reported:

“On Saturday night, Justice Webster, of Castle-street, sent from Leicester Coffee-House in Leicester-Fields, to speak with Justice De Veil, who not being at Home, Justice Webster said he would wait his Coming; and as soon as Mr De Veil came in, he went to the Coffee-House, and sent to let Justice Webster know (who was in another Room) he waited his Commands: when they met, high words arose, and at last Mr Webster struck Mr De Veil; upon that Mr De Veil retreated to draw his Sword, which as soon as he had done, Webster rush’d upon him, seiz’d Mr De Veil’s sword and held it in his Hand, whilst he stabb’d him on the left Side of his Belly; the Wound is about five Inches deep, and half an Inch broad, and he now lies very ill, tho’ thought out of danger.” (London Evening Post, 13-16 March 1731)

An 18th century depiction of Leicester Fields

What was the cause of an argument so violent that it resulted in one magistrate stabbing another? Work, of course, and being seen to be impinging on another man’s jurisdiction.

Justice De Veil, who was a Westminster magistrate, had, apparently, issued a warrant ior an Irishman who had been reported for beating his wife.

However, Justice Webster, who was a magistrate for neighbouring Middlesex, had then attempted to supercede the Westminster warrant with a warrant of his own. This rubbed De Veil up, and he had made his feelings clear to Webster. The two had attempted to sort things out in a civilised manner in the confines of the Leicester Coffee-house – but, perhaps made brave by a drink or two, the “quarrel” had turned into a full-blown fight.

The paper fails to note which magistrate issued a warrant to Justice Webster for his assault on his colleague.

 

 

 

A precipitous end for the highway robbers of Islington

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The Old Bailey in 1808

Martin Clinch and James Macklay were two Georgian criminals who had been given the death penalty. The two men, aged only in their early twenties, had been sentenced after killing Sidney Fryer in an opportunistic attack in May 1797.

Sidney had been out for a walk on that May evening with his cousin Ann. They had set off from Southampton Buildings in Holborn, and were intending to walk as far as Islington. Unlike today, the walk north involved a trek through fields – known as Cricket Field and Workhouse Field.

They reached a place called White Conduit House, the last building before the fields. They then had to climb a stile, but as they went to do so, they were accosted by Clinch, who wore a handkerchief across his mouth and chin, and a round hat, as a disguise. Sidney had asked the man what he was doing; he promptly raised a pistol and shot the unlucky walker in the head.

Routes into Islington - from Bowles' Pocket Map of 1795

Clinch, wearing a striking blue coat, then demanded money from the horrified Ann, who, shaking, handed over her purse. She was then allowed over the stile, only to be confronted by Macklay, who had been hiding, but now demanded her cloak.

Clinch then called “Come on!” to Macklay, and the two men ran off. Ann, who was able to take refuge in the nearest inn – the King’s Arms in Islington – was later able to identify them as they stood in the dock at the Old Bailey. She particularly remembered Macklay’s “carrotty” hair.

Clinch, at least, may have had a reputation for violent crime or highway robbery; he had been charged in February 1797 with highway robbery on the road between Barnet and Whetstone, but had been acquitted as a witness couldn’t positively identify him by the time of the trial.

But both parties had been convicted for this crime. They knew the procedure for going to their execution; the prayers, the caps being placed over their heads to hide the view of the scaffold from them; the usual routine.

Unfortunately, though, the equipment at the Old Bailey – where they were to die – wasn’t the newest, or strongest.

On 11 June 1797, at 7.30am, Clinch and Macklay stood at the scaffold, and had the ropes tied round their necks by the executioner. Each man had a clergyman standing next to him – one Protestant, one Roman Catholic – and the executioner stood with his assistant.

Suddenly, with no notice, the platform that all the men were standing on gave way. The priests and executioners fell through, luckily sustaining no injuries – but the two unlucky felons were launched into eternity rather precipitously.

There had been no time for prayers to be said for the men by their clergymen; no time for the caps to be placed over their heads. Perhaps this lack of notice was good, as it meant the terror of the occasion was cut short.

The authorities, however, were horrified that the correct procedures had not been followed; and Mr Ramsden, the prison surgeon, hurriedly ran to the still warm dead bodies and, belatedly, put the caps on them.

The very last act for the men, though, went according to plan. Their bodies were taken off and dissected.

Information taken from the trial of Martin Clinch and James Macklay on 31 May 1797 at Old Bailey Online; and report of their execution in the Gloucester Journal of 12 June 1797 (not available online).