22 June 2024

A recovered lunatic

The West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum opened to patients on 23rd November 1818 with the aim of providing mental health care assistance to people from poorer backgrounds.

In 1831, Dr Charles Caesar Corsellis was appointed Director and Resident Physician; he remained there until 1853.

Corsellis was one of the many children of Nicholas Caesar Corsellis and his long-term mistress, Sarah Plampin. He was born in Caister-on-Sea, Norfolk, on 1 February 1800 and baptised at St Mary the Virgin, Wivenhoe, Essex on 8 July 1813. On 31 August 1827 he married Caroline Coolidge Turkington in London. After his time at Wakefield, he moved to Llandysul, Cardiganshire, and then to Oxford where he died on 1 January 1876.

Mary Hutton, née Taylor, the writer of these lines appreciative of the care given to her by Dr. and Mrs. Corsellis, was born in Wakefield on 10 July 1794. She moved to Sheffield when young and spent most of her life there.

On 4 March 1844, the Sheffield social campaigner, Samuel Roberts, and the poet, James Montgomery, published an open letter in a Sheffield newspaper entitled The case of Mrs Mary Hutton. This letter detailed the plight of Mary Hutton and her husband, who had been "thrown into great difficulties...his wife, who detested and publicly denounced, in verse, the dreadful New Poor Law, was of too independent a spirit to apply to it for relief. They struggled on but the struggle was too much for them both; their strength, their health, and, at length, HER reason gave way. Her husband was then compelled to apply for her to the Workhouse, while he himself was admitted as an in-patient of the Infirmary". 

In 1843 Mary was sent to Attercliffe Asylum, which had recently been the subject of an enquiry into the forced restraint of inmates. The letter continues "There she remained during two weeks of such dreadful sufferings, that had they been longer continued, they must, she says, have precluded all hope of recovery". 

Mary was then sent to the West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum, and the care of Dr. and Mrs. Corsellis, "a change as she states, almost resembling a removal from hell to heaven".

Leeds Intelligencer - Saturday 23 March 1844

The following lines, which we have great pleasure in publishing, have been written by Mrs. Mary Hutton, the poetess, of Sheffield. The writer, who has long had to struggle with poverty and privations, was a few months ago deprived of her reason and she became an inmate of the Lunatic Asylum at Wakefield, where she continued for four months, when she happily recovered. 

In some letters to her friends, written whilst she was in the Asylum, she speaks in the highest terms of thankfulness to Dr. Corsellis and his lady, and on her release she wrote the following lines.

To Dr. and Mrs. Corsellis

To you, ye worthy, noble minded pair.
Devoted love and gratitude I owe;
For your exalted skill and timely care,
Uprais'd me from the lowest depths of woe.

When in a storm of wild convulsions toss'd
My health and strength and blessed reason lost;
And when I scarce could know my depth of pain,
Through the wild whirlings fever'd brain;

Angelic tones fell softly my ear,
And sweetly soothed and bade banish fear,
And cheer'd poor desponding soul with love,
And bade me hope and trust heaven above.


We may just add that Samuel Roberts and James Montgomery, Esqrs., of Sheffield, have made an appeal to the public on behalf of this poor woman which we hope will be successful.

17 March 2024

In defence of the "Savages of North Devon"

The first of several letters to the Editor of the North Devon Journal from Rev. T. J. Leslie, Appledore, published Thursday, 23 November 1871. The "Special Commissioner" was James Greenwood who later published an expanded account.

The "So-Called Savages of North Devon"

Upcott, photographed about 1860 by William Hector
Dear Sir,

Will you kindly publish the following facts in reference to the above subject?

On the 23rd October the Daily Telegraph published a report of a visit made by their "Special Commissioner" to the house of Mr. C. Cheriton, of Nymet Rowland. The report being greatly exaggerated and highly sensational, and having been reprinted by many of the daily and weekly newspapers throughout the country, I wrote to the Editor of the Daily Telegraph, not as an apologist for Cheriton or for his ill-deeds, but simply to place a few facts, which had come under my own notice, before the readers of the said report, so that they might have more correct account of poor Cheriton and his family. But to my astonishment the editor has not published my letter. Such conduct, to say the least about it, is mean in the extreme. It unjust to the poor man and his family; and it unjust to North Devon.

Many my friends, knowing that I knew the neighbourhood of Nymet Rowland, have asked me for my opinion about the report of the "Special Commissioner;" and my reply has been—It is greatly exaggerated. It contains some of the most unjust charges and abominable insinuations that it is possible for a corrupt mind to think of; and if the "Special Commissioner" be the author of them, I fervently pray that he may never again visit the North of Devon. I will not repeat the abominable and vile insinuations which the report contains, but will point out to you a few things connected with the family, which may be of interest to readers of your paper, and secure for the Cheritons that justice which is their due.

It is not a difficult matter for a few rich farmers to invite a reporter to come down to "interview" a poor family, who may be disagreeable neighbours—give him good fare for the day, and frank his expenses. Many of their prosecutions of the Cheritons have savoured much of the spirit of persecution. The "Special Commissioner" in his report says, "Thus saith rumour." Allow me to tell him that rumour also saith, "The rich farmers would like to rid the parish of the Cheritons." I would suggest to him, and through him to them, that would be more Christlike, if, instead of persecuting them, they would try a little kindness and respectful forbearance. 

The "Special Commissioner" speaks of "a mud floor, walls as black as soot, and full of chinks." He says "There was no fire place; but a ruddy glow smouldered from a hole in the floor of earth, and over it, by an "iron chain, a cooking pot was suspended." If he had examined other houses in the neighbourhood, he would have found that nearly the whole of them are built of "cob," the floors made of what he calls "mud," (lime and sand, or paved with small stones,) and very few would have fire-grates, the fire being on the hearth, with an open chimney place, and the pot or kettle hung over it by a chain fastened to a cross-bar in the chimney. Wood and not coal is mostly burned in the neighbourhood. 

A person coming down from London would conclude at once that such houses were not fit for human beings live in: but the natives like to live in houses built of cob, and to have good fire of wood upon the hearth. I admit that poor Cheriton's house is in a very dilapidated condition; it needs much repairs; but I very much question whether any of his detractors in Nymet Rowland would let him have a few bundles of reed to repair the roof with. 

Much of the cottage property of North Devon is far below what it ought to be; but such reports as the one written by the "Special Commissioner of the Daily Telegraph" will not tend to improve it. The landlords themselves are aware of the fact, and many of them are improving the cottages of their workmen. The "Special Commissioner" makes much of the fact that there was a little mud between the gate and the house through which he had to pass. I could take him to respectable farm houses where he would experience some difficulty in getting from the gate to the house in wet weather without dirting his boots.

This "Special Commissioner" tells us that he came down to interview this poor family because "a clergyman had this time spread the amazing intelligence." I am sorry to hear it. It is a great pity that a clergyman, who is paid by the State to instruct the poor, should have nothing better to employ his time than write to the Times against one of his own parishioners, who could not reply to his letter. I would suggest to the "Special Commissioner" that the next time he makes a visit to North Devon he should enquire into the conduct of some of the clergymen who have lived in the neighbourhood of Nymet Rowland; and I am sure he will be able to write a report far more sensational than the one he wrote about the so-called savages of North Devon. 

There are several state-paid clergymen living within the radius of a few miles of Cheriton's house. What, I ask, have they done to save this poor family from a life of sin and misery? They cannot plead a lack of time, for some of them have time enough to go fox-hunting. They need not fear being molested, for I have passed the house both by day and night without fear or harm. Let the clergy of the county do their duty, as before the Lord, (which I am thankful to say many of them are endeavouring to do,) and there will soon be no (so-called) savages of North Devon to write the newspapers about.

I admit they are in bad repute in the neighbourhood, but, speaking from what I used to see of them, I am bold to say that they do not deserve the treatment which they have received. When I was pastor of the Independent Church in Lapford I frequently saw them at the chapel. At other times I have seen them going to the church. I conducted religious services in a cottage at Nymet Rowland, and I have seen some members of the family there. I have also seen them at the meeting at Chenson, and they always behaved themselves in proper manner. 

Having spoken of them as I knew them a few years ago, let me now speak of them as they are at present. My wife went with a lady to see them last Thursday. They drove up to the gate, and one of them alighted and went into the house. A young woman came out, and took charge of the horse and trap, and then gave the horse some hay. When they entered the house they found a young woman sitting near the fire, who was evidently very ill, with the baby on her knee (of whom the "Special Commissioner" gives such a graphic description). They spoke kindly to her (she was very weak and faint), and looked at the baby, which they found to be sickly, but not in the state as described by the "Special Commissioner." 

The other young woman then entered the house, and said that her mother had gone to the shop at Lapford to buy some things, but added—"She will back soon." Three little boys came and looked in two or three times: at length one of the little fellows ventured in, and sat down beside his mother. The old man was out working on the farm, but a message having been sent to him, he came to the house, and seemed to very pleased to see his visitors. He rubbed his hands, smiled, and said—"I am glad to see ye, I be; but I be afeard ye will not be comfortable here. Will ye mind going to the Public, and I will pay for a glass each for ye." 

They thanked him for his kindness, and said they had brought some provisions with them and they were going to take tea with him. He thanked them much, and appeared to be somewhat confused. Tea was provided, and they were all enjoying the social cup when the old woman returned. She looked as if she was taken aback, but, recovering herself, soon made herself at home, and began to tell them how they were persecuted and annoyed. 

She complained very bitterly of the infamous report of the "Special Commissioner." She says that he called and them if they would give him a drink of water, and, thinking that he was an honest man, she told her daughter to give him a drink of milk; at the same time saying, she knew gentlemen liked cider, but that they were quite out of it. She declares he is a bad man, or he would never have drank the milk, which she gave to him, and afterwards and write lot of lies about them. 

Before leaving my wife said they had brought two New Testaments with them, and they intended to read a chapter and pray together before they left. Cheriton said he should be pleased if they would do so. But as she was beginning to read Matthew, xxv. chapter, a voice was heard outside, "Is your father at home?" Cheriton went to the place where the door once stood, and the voice was heard again, "I have come to speak to you as the head of the house about your family insulting my servants." 

The daughter went to the door, and the voice was heard again, "You women are the worst." They replied, "Your servants, and a brother of one of them, were here last night stoning us for an hour and half: they won't let us alone." The voice was heard again, "I am going now, and if you do not behave yourselves I will get a summons for you." The old woman called out, "It is you who put the letters in the papers." The voice was again heard, "I know nothing about that, I have come now to talk to you about your conduct." That voice was the Parson's

The above facts will speak for themselves. During the last few weeks they have received several letters, some of which are full of silly questions, such as—"Can you read?" "Can you say the Lord's prayer? If you cannot, then go to the clergyman and he will teach you." Several persons have called, but they have no confidence in these "special" visitors, and they have refused to have any conversation with them. 

My wife did not see the eldest son. She enquired where he was, and they said, "He had gone to help the daughter's husband with little work he had to do. 

Cannot something be done to help this poor family? It would not cost much money to repair the house, and provide a little clothing for them. Things have gone from bad to worse, and members of the family have been fined at various times by the magistrates, so that they are not able to repair the house, although they may desire to do so. 

A christian lady has kindly promised to give me ten shillings if a subscription list is opened on their behalf. I shall be willing to receive other sums toward the relief of the so-called savages of North Devon. Subscriptions will be acknowledged through your paper.

I am, Dear Sir, yours truly, 

T. J. LESLIE, Independent Minister. 

Appledore, North Devon, November 18th, 1871.

[We readily make use of our correspondent's letter. All will admire the audi alteram partem ["listen to the other side"] spirit which prompted him to say what he knew that was favourable to, or extenuating of, the Cheritons. All will do justice to the kindness of the ladies who visited them. Still, there can be no denying that, under how much provocation soever, they have been guilty of many indefensible breaches of the law, and that their mode of living is an outrage on the proprieties of civilization, the more inexcusable because it is idle to say that a family occupying their own freehold of forty acres have not the means of living in decency. 

One can't much wonder if the rich farmers in the neighbourhood do wish to be rid of such neighbours. We hope they will bethink themselves that there is a better thing to be aimed at than even to be rid of them. If they would but try what the "law of kindness" can do, it might astonish them by its results. It has wrought greater wonders than it would be even to convert these "savages" into a family and household restored to the pale of civilization, "clothed and in their right mind." Doing full justice to the kindness which only can have suggested our reverend correspondent's appeal for pecuniary help, does he think the case a man living in his own freehold is one for which eleemosynary assistance can be fairly asked, or that, if rendered, it could be expected to do real and lasting good? 

Injustice is always to be condemned; but is there not danger in leading persons who are unquestionably wrong doers to conceive themselves martyrs He knows the case better than we do, and he has, no doubt, weighed the matter. If, indeed, they have been wronged and soured by persecution, possibly that might be means by which society might make a sweetening and purifying compensation.—Ed.]

A Daily Telegraph reporter visits a Devon farming family

From In Strange Company: Being the Experiences of a Roving Correspondent, by James Greenwood (London: Henry S. King, 1873)

Some facts

James Greenwood (1832-1929) was a reporter working for the Daily Telegraph. In 1871 he travelled to Nymet Rowland and wrote a sensational and widely-syndicated article about the family.

Christopher Cheriton, of whom Greenwood writes, was a real person, son of John and Frances Cheriton and baptised in Down St Mary, Devon, on 18 September 1803. In the census taken take two years Greenwood published his book, he was living at Upcott in Nymet Rowland, farming 30 acres and employing one labourer. The cottage at Upcott was demolished in the 1880s and the current Nymet House built on the site, immediately bringing into question the accuracy of Briggs's drawing below. Christopher died at Ash in the parish of Sandford on 29 October 1884, leaving an estate of £174. His executor was his brother Hermon Cheriton of Western Road, Crediton. He was buried at Crediton on 4 November 1884.

The North Devon Savages

Upcott, photographed about 1860 by William Hector
STRANGEST of all strange company was that which, in my journalistic peregrinations, it was my lot to fall in with in North Devon. At first the vague rumours of a veritable savage tribe existing at a remote place called Nymet Rowland was received by the British public with incredulity. At the nick of time, however, I received from the good minister of the parish such information as decided me to make the journey, and if possible glean, as an eye-witness, some particulars of the manners, habits, and customs of these modem barbarians who were scandalizing the land. Without daring to breathe a word of my intention to anxious friends or family, I made the first step towards invading the barbarian stronghold by taking a North Devon ticket at Waterloo Railway station. 

Nymet Rowland, approaching it across country, is about a mile from Lapford station, on the North Devon line. The village is not numerously inhabited, but it contains several substantial farm-holdings, a sprinkling of the handsome residences of gentlemen farmers, and a venerable and goodly-sized church. Almost within the shadow of its ivy-clad square tower is to be found the kraal of the savage tribe of Cheriton. Hut, hovel, stye, or whatever else it should be termed, it is in every respect inferior to anything in the way of house architecture that can be met with in the most barbarous regions on the earth. 

A mandan of the Indian prairies would laugh to scorn such an effect at hut-building; a man-eating Fijian would regard as a wanton insult the suggestion that the hideous structure at Nymet Rowland might serve as a pattern useful to be followed in his construction of a dwelling-place. Carved and painted warrior as he is, he has at least some notions of decency and domestic life, and of home comfort for those dependent on him. He will take care that his house is shut in from the inquisitive gaze of neighbours by a wattle wall or latticed fence; and, with no other material at his command than rough-hewn timber, grass, and reeds, he constructs a clean and commodious habitation, not uncommonly 
with some attempt at ornamentation in its exterior. 

Within the hut of the Fijian will be found a fire-place, even though it be nothing more than a slab of stone edged about with a curving of iron-wood; he recognises the utility of doors and windows, and weaves mats for the floor. Even the benighted Esquimaux, who has nothing besides snow to serve in the place of bricks and mortar and timber, somehow contrives a house of which he has no reason to be ashamed. He provides a window of thin fresh-water ice in the wall of his snow-hut; and he has raised seats for his family and guests, covered first with a layer of whalebone, then with sealskins or deer pelts; and all within is made as snug as possible. 

But the barbarian tribe of Nymet Rowland, squatting amid the model dairy farms and mellow apple orchards of Devonshire, are less fastidious in their domestic economy. They care no more for the house they inhabit than the pig does. The pig indeed! I can imagine with what disgust and scorn a daily-scrubbed, milk-and-bran-fed, white prize Windsor pig would curl his dainty snout were he condemned to pass a single night in the crazy, breezy hovel in which the individuals who have earned for themselves such unenviable notoriety are born, are bred, and pass their lives. To be sure, the premises in question give shelter to pigs as well as people; but they are pigs of a bad sort—unhappy animals which have had constantly before their eyes the villainous example their owners and fellow-lodgers have set; and therefore it cannot be expected that they should be so delicate in their tastes as pigs more fortunately circumstanced. 

The savages of North Devon are by no means shy. The threshold of their abode, although not exactly on the highway path, is not so far removed therefrom that it would not be quite easy for the passer-by to pitch a penny piece into any one of the yawning holes in the wall or roof, partly mended with wisps of filthy straw. The building is not large, and it is difficult to decide whether it was originally a farm-house, a granary, or merely a cow-house. It is perhaps forty feet long by twenty-five feet wide; its walls are apparently a mixture of lime, mud, and pebbles, and very thick; and the thatched roof is surmounted by a wide-mouthed chimney partly blown down. The front of the hovel may be made out with tolerable distinctness from the road. There are several apertures, designed and accidental; but the main opening, which I suppose is designated by a window, is a jagged hole about seven feet high and five wide, 
into which, by way of window blind, ragged bundles of straw are piled. 

This was the inviting domicile for which I was bound; and the closer I approached, the more vividly rose to my mind the current stories of its redoubtable inhabitants—of the eldest son, the lawless villain with a gun who, on the smallest provocation, or none at all, would let fly at a peaceful neighbour; of the shock-headed amazons, who, from concealed parts of the premises, hurled bricks and other unpleasant missiles at strangers. I thought, too, of the offensive farmer who, guilty of no crime more grave than that of looking over the fence behind which these savages dwelt, was set on and so terribly cut and mauled, that, in the words of the local guide book, "he bears the marks of his barbarous treatment to this day." 

There was a gate—a five-barred gate—with its posts rotten and sunk all aslant in the ground; and between it and the "house" such a quagmire of black mud, that it looked more like a pitfall for the inquisitive and incautious than a path to be trodden by visitors. Besides this, it was a gate with a curious crook for a fastening; and, one way and another, I deemed it advisable to make my presence known before I proceeded any farther. I shook the gate and rattled on it with my stick; and from amid the bundles of straw I have mentioned as piled in the great jagged hole at the front of the premises was protruded what, in consequence of the hair growing over the eyes, could be recognised as a human head only by the open mouth and remarkably white teeth. The eyes in the head having from behind its covert of thick hair, contemplated me for some little time, the head was withdrawn, and one of a larger size filled its place—a female head this time, with a face tolerably clean, and a pair of cheeks rosy as any Devonshire milkmaids; a "devil" of a face all the same, with high cheekbones and a retreating forehead, and eyes deeply set in their orbits. 

Like the first inquisitor, this one had, as I believe most savages have, a splendid set of teeth, but, oh! the voice that proceeded from between them. 

"Well, what is it?" It was the voice of a full chested "navvy", grown hoarse through long toil in tunnels and deep railway cuttings. 

"Well, what is it?" 

"Have you got a drink of water to give to a thirsty man?" 

She did not say she had not, nor did she say that she had. She appeared undecided on the matter; and I thought it a good opportunity for unhitching the gate-fastening, and walking in—slush, plash—through twenty yards of mud that covered my boot-tops. Then I had a fair view of the savage interior through the opening before-mentioned. 

A mud floor, walls black as soot, and full of chinks as a child's dissecting puzzle with the bits wrongly placed together; and overhead the roof, through which protruded faggot-sticks and smoke-dried blades of straw that had dropped through holes in the rotten ceiling above. The depth of the place might have equalled that of an ordinary dwelling-house; and through a great gap at the farther end, partly curtained with a piece of frowsy red baize, came a breeze that bore on its wings a strong odour of pigs and their favourite food. The porkers, however, were not yet in sight. The visible living creatures within the shanty, besides half-a-dozen cocks and hens and a duck or two, were seven human beings—an old woman, three young women, a girl of about twelve, a boy of about fourteen, and a baby. 

There was not a single article of what could be called furniture to be seen—neither chair, nor stool, nor table. Ranged against the wall to the right was a long rough-hewn bench, and above it was slung a shelf on which were stacked a few odd bits of crockery, five or six yellow quart basins, and an old earthenware foot-bath patched and tied round with string, which, since a ladle reposed in it, and the idea of feet-washing among such a community was simply ridiculous, I presume was the family soup tureen. On the bench were a pile of onions, a monstrous loaf or two of hearth-baked bread, a battered tin pail three parts filled with milk, a ragged old saddle, and some jars and bottles containing apparently medicine for cattle. 

There was no fire-place; but a ruddy glow smouldered from a hole in the floor of the earth, and over it, by an iron chain, a cooking pot was suspended. Round about the fiery pit hole, squatted on their hams, were two of the young women and the younger girl ; while the fourteen-year-old lad was prone on his belly among the ashes, with his hideously dirty face resting on his infinitely dirtier hands, and his keen eyes twinkling through his matted hair. They all wore clothes of a sort, and the young women had shining eardrops hanging from their ears. I renewed my application for a drink of water, and, emboldened by the fact that no savage of mankind appeared, accompanied the request with a second—"Might I get a light for my pipe at the fire?" 

A general stare, and a rumble of masculine laughter on the part of the damsels by the fire-hole, were the only immediate response; so, seeing no other way in, I stepped round to the back of the hovel, and putting aside the red baize curtain, walked in. The pigs were a sight obstruction. An enormous black sow, with monstrous flapping ears and an iron ring through her snout, was sprawling in what, from its recognised relation to the rest of the building, might be designated the back parlour ; while nine or ten little piglings, as fierce-looking as herself were eagerly besetting her for natural nutriment. This impediment overcome there was nothing to bar my way to the fire. 

Bad as they may be, these North Devon barbarians—bestial, filthy, and inexpressibly vicious—they at least exhibited towards me, a chance visitor and complete stranger, an amount of hospitality that smote my conscience hard when I reflected how little I deserved it. A damsel of the tribe, aged apparently about twenty, with thick clouted boots on her feet like those of a maltster, and a white rag bound about her muscular jaws, caught up an antique pot or piggin of red clay, capable of holding, I should say, a  couple of gallons. This she took out, and brought it back full. Then she got a little jug and half filled it with water out of another vessel, filled it up with milk, and presented it to me with the polite observation that " she wished as how it was cider, but they were quite out of it." 

"You're a stranger? " said she, interrogatively. 

I nodded. 

"Don't know the passen (parson), or any of them in these parts?"

"No; shouldn't know them if I saw them."

"There, I told thee so," said she, turning to the others; whereon, as though it was the constant recreation of their lives, and my entry had interrupted it, there arose a family chorus of the foulest abuse and cursing, directed against "passen" and all his friends, that might have made my blood run cold, only that I was stooping over the red-hot chumps and sticks to get a light for my pipe. 

"Parson a bad sort?" I ventured to enquire. 

"A reg'ler old ——," spoke the young gentleman in the ashes, deftly picking up a stick with his toes, and thrusting it into the fire; "that's what I'd like to do wi' passen," a sentiment which was highly applauded by the rest, one of the girls adding, in far more idiomatic language than I dare use, that she would like to perform upon the gentleman in question the operation of disemboweling.

"He don't come here very often, I'll wager," I remarked, wickedly joining in the hideous laughter. This crowned the joke. Come there! "Passen" come here! The little villain in the ashes was so tickled that he almost stood on his head, his mahogany-coloured legs writhing convulsively in the air; while a comely squaw of thirty, who as she sat in the dirt was engaged in patching an old pair of corduroy trousers with some twine and a carpet needle, flung aside her work to grasp her sides, they ached so with laughter. 

"You're a droll 'un," exclaimed the old woman, grinning till she showed her toothless gums. "Passen come here! ho! ho! Gi' he some more milk, Lisa." 

"I suppose the old fellow is too wide awake to chance it," was my next irreverent remark, for which I humbly beseech the clergyman's forgiveness. 

"He ain't old, him; he's young enough to take a young wife," returned the female savage, named Lisa. "He got married a bit ago, and come up with his—(it was a mercy that the villainous epithet she applied to the bride did not sear her heathen throat)—and we all of us went to the gate to gi' 'em a warmin'. Ha! ha! ho! ho! She won't forget us more'n passen will. It'll make him hotter agin us than ever, —— his carcase!"

I wanted to prolong my stay a little, so looked about for an excuse; and at that very moment the baby which the old woman was nursing thrust its little face forward, and presented a convenient, though at the same time an appalling, pretext for talk. It was a ghastly contrast, that between the nurse and the child. The former was a creature wrinkled gray, and hideously dirty, but still with some tigerish light in her deep-set eyes, which, combined with her flat, backward-slanting forehead, and her hard-set thin lips, betokened the constitutional inclination to vice that tempted her to the dreadful path she had entered forty years ago, and which still sustained her in that path unashamed and dauntless. This was the female founder of the savage tribe by which she was now surrounded, and her arms held the last fruit of the inhuman stock—a five months old, as I was informed; but there were more than as many years of suffering in its poor little yellow, pinched face, its weak watery eyes that blinked shyly at the light, its frothed lips, and the sickening sores that disfigured it.

"Does the doctor come and see it?" I asked.

"He don't come here, he'd be afear'd; nobody comes here;" the old hag replied, with an ugly grin. "I takes it to the doctor, but he don't do it any good; and I ain't goin' to stand his humbuggin' any longer. It's been like it ever since it was born; the biles come up on it, and they break and leave sores. Look here." As she spoke, she turned the helpless infant savage over, and showed me its neck and shoulders; and glad indeed was I to escape from the sight on pretence that my pipe had gone out again, giving me an excuse for turning towards the fire. There was another baby somewhere—I had learned that previously—and some allusion was made to it by a member of the family; but I could not see it anywhere, and I did not care to appear too curious. I did not like even to ask to which of the three strapping wenches present the poor little horror belonged.

And here I have to touch on the most repulsive and scandalous feature that distinguishes the North Devon haunt of savagery and its occupants. The facts are simply these: Here is a man Cheriton by name —who takes a woman as his mate; and the pair agree to defy decency and goodness in any shape for the remainder of their lives, and "to do as they like." The den they inhabit at the present time is that in which more than forty years ago they first took residence. They can afford to keep aloof from their neighbours, their homestead being surrounded by about forty acres of good land, their own freehold. In the natural course of events, they have children; their daughters grow up and have children, and the latter in turn grow up and become mothers; but no one ever yet heard of a marriage in that awful family, or ever knew any male stranger to be on visiting terms with it. The only adults of the masculine sex ever heard of in relationship with the Cheritons are the old man, Christopher; his eldest son Willie, aged thirty-five or so; and the fourteen-year-old youth I have already mentioned. 

They decline communication with the world outside the boundary hedges of their estate. Accidental encounters with civilized beings are invariably accompanied by conflict, physical or verbal. No one knows when a child is about to be born in this mysterious settlement, for they dispense with the service of a doctor and nurse each other. No one knows to whom a child belongs when it is born, nor are the neighbours usually aware of the fact until by chance some one gets a glimpse of the infant two or three months afterwards. Supposing the members of this awful tribe to be so inclined, they might dispose of their infant dead and nobody would be the wiser. The horrible suspicion is, that they herd together like brutes of the field, and breed like them. 

Thus saith rumour; and my personal observation enabled me to gather what may be regarded as corroborative evidence in support of much of it. The ground-floor of the hovel is at once the living-place, the cooking-place, the pig-stye, and the sleeping-place. As I have mentioned, not a single 
article of furniture is contained within it; there is not even a bedstead. The family bed, on which repose savage old Christopher, Willie his middle-aged son, the old woman, the three strapping daughters, the big boy and the big girl, and the smaller fry, including the horrifying baby or babies, consists of an accumulation of foul straw, enclosed within rough-hewn posts driven into the earth. 

It has been said that the tribe sleep in a pit;. but if so, the pit has become filled in with fresh "layers" till now it is raised nearly two feet above the level of the ground. The bed space is about that of the floor of a country waggon, and in or about it not a vestige of sheet, or rug, or blanket was visible, thus there seems no choice but to suppose that they burrow in the straw like rats or ferrets, and so keep themselves warm. 

That they are more decent in their behaviour than they used to be, is allowed by very good authority in Nymet Rowland. I was informed by a gentleman whose extensive estate joins that of the savages, that not more than two years since, it was quite common to see dreadful old Christopher sunning himself at noon, with nothing but a wisp of dirty rag slung round his waist, his body being otherwise perfectly naked, except for the dirt that begrimed it; while the daughters, grown women and mothers, thought nothing of attending to their daily farm duties, clad airily in a single garment of calico. 

The most incomprehensible part of the business is, that the Devon authorities, who have effected a partial reform, are not strong enough entirely to wipe the disgrace from their country. If the horrors proved, and the dreadful suspicions whispered, came to civilised ears concerning some benighted tribe at the Gaboon or Tierra del Fuego, every community of Christians, with missionary power at its disposal, would be roused to immediate action, and the whole religious world thrown into a state of commotion, until the happy day when it was announced that the barbarians had been brought to acknowledge the iniquity of their ways, and had given substantial security against longer continuance in them. But Nymet Rowland is not in a savage land. It is in the heart of fruitful Devon. You may take a railway ticket at Waterloo Station at noon, and arrive at Nymet Rowland in time to see grandmamma savage slinging the iron pot over the fire-hole to brew tea for the evening meal. 

Whoever sets about the task of converting the savages of North Devon should, however, be thoroughly surprised of the attending difficulties. He should be a man accustomed to barbarians in grain, to their manners and customs—a Moffat, a Livingstone, or a Williams. Savagery is in the blood of the Cheritons. It is a fact that a brother of the present old Christopher Cheriton, Elias by name, was even more strongly tainted than the latter with the family malady; but by some merciful dispensation of Providence, he lived and died a bachelor. Elias Cheriton resided at Whitsone [Whitestone], which is not very many miles from Nymet Rowland. Like Christopher, Elias was freeholder of land to some extent; but unlike him he had not a house or a hut to live in. He lived in a cask, with a few rags and some straw, just like a make-shift mastiff-kennel. The cask was placed under a hedge that skirted one of his own broad meadows: and it was his serious declaration that there was nothing on earth so handy as a tub to live in because one could shift it about according to the quarter, from which the wind blew.

Elias, however, though he neglected his land, was famous for rearing poultry—making caves and breeding-places for them in the earth all round about the spot where his gipsy kettle was slung, and where he sometimes cooked the meat he ate; and when he died, which is no more than two years back, 
he was able to leave to his dear brother Christopher between three and four hundred pounds. Of the five-and-thirty or forty acres owned by the Cheriton savages, not a fifth part is under cultivation; it being their practice to grow no more than suffices for their personal consumption, and that only in the way of potatoes and cabbages, and a little wheat which they dry and grind for themselves. They breed a few sheep—a mere dozen or so. They hire no labourers, the whole family engaging in the necessary field-work; the females helping at the plough, assisted by an old horse and a bull. 

The animal I have just mentioned was out of work when I saw him, and taking his ease in a field; but, as though determined that all their belongings should be in keeping with their savage selves—the horned brute has the reputation of being the most vicious and dangerous bull in the county. The only way of getting him to work yoked with the old horse is to envelop his head and shoulders in a sack; and even then he needs to be pretty sharply watched, lest in his blind malice he should wickedly prod his equine comrade through his sackcloth hood. They are proud of their bull, those wild Devonians. He has never slept under cover since his calfhood, one of the damsels informed me; and she showed me out in the open the tree to which the creature was tethered at nights, all withered and barren in consequence 
of the bull's fierce assaults on its bark, which was gored and torn all away. 

"They'll be home with him presently," said old grandmother savage, who sat rocking the awful baby that was squeaking like a snared rabbit.

"Who will be home with him?" I asked.

"My old man and Willie," she replied.

Willie was the young fellow who had nearly smashed the unoffending farmer; so, inwardly thanking her for the timely hint, I bade the interesting family good-morning, made for the five-barred gate that grew out of the black mud, and sought the sweet highway.

Further reading

A Family of Savages in Devonshire. Reprinted from the Daily Telegraph by the North Otago Times, 26 January 1872. James Greenwood's original article.

Baring-Gould, Sabine. An Old English Home and its dependencies. London, Methuen, 1898.

Christie, Peter. The True Story of the North Devon Savages. Transactions of the Devonshire Association, Vol. 124 p.59-85. Exeter: Devonshire Association, 1992.

Girvan, Ray. The North Devon Savages. JSBlog - Journal of a Southern Bookreader, 2009 [online]

The North Devon Savages. Devon Perspectives, n.d. [online]

Heard, Nick. The Story of Ellen Wright. A Criminal Past, 2018. References to the photographs of Upcott.

14 February 2024

A Nurse's Terrible Journey in Serbia

 From the Luton Times and Advertiser - Friday 28 January 1916

A Nurse's Terrible Journey in Serbia

Leighton Lady’s Experiences

Edith Dickinson outside her tent in Belgium, 1915
Miss Edith Dickinson, a daughter of Mrs. Dickinson, of Heath-road, Leighton Buzzard, was one of the party of British doctors and nurses which accompanied the Serbian Army in its retreat, and her dreadful experiences form a long story of terrible hardships.

Miss Dickinson arrived in England few days ago, and, being blest with a good constitution, the rest that she intends to take should leave her little the worse for what she has been through, but the horrors that daily accompanied the retreat are indelibly engraved upon her memory.

Miss Hilda May Dickinson (a sister) who is now engaged in Belgian Relief work in London, was with her sister doing Red Cross work in Belgium when the invasion was at its height.

From Miss Dickinson's story in the Leighton Observer, we gather that the fall of Belgrade marked the opening of what proved to several days terrible hardships. After reciting a vain attempt to leave by railway for Salonika, the line having been torn up, she says:

After proceeding some distance farther by motor car this also had to left and the journey continued on foot. Waggons drawn by oxen and containing stores also had to be abandoned until the party had nothing beyond what they carried and what clothing they stood up in. The Austro-German army was then only a few miles away, and their big guns were action.

The route that was eventually decided upon was an uneven, muddy track, and along this trudged groups of many thousands of grief-stricken refugees, and the remains of the Serbian army. On the way the party had to pass numerous dead horses and cattle which had figured in the earlier stages of the retreat, and been abandoned by the refugees. The dead bodies of human beings also lay by the roadside half-covered by snow.

With these sights an all too frequent occurrence the sorrowful procession wended its way over the mountains for ten days. Piercing blizzards and rain storms beat down upon the party unmercifully, and the wonder is that the toll of death and disease numbered so few among its victims.

At one stage in the journey the strain proved too much for Miss Holland (a nurse associated with Miss Dickinson), and she undoubtedly owed her life to that lady who, although herself weak, was able to support her companion over a great stretch the journey.

At night tents were pitched in the snow, and into these the exhausted refugees flung themselves to sleep. Sometimes rest houses—small wooden buildings—were used, and into these the people flocked, glad of the opportunity to lie on the floor.

The track was altogether too dangerous go along night, for in some places the "road" was little more than a narrow ledge on the mountain side, and on more than one occasion vehicles were precipitated over the edge, and fell a distance of many feet throwing out and either killing or injuring those who happened to inside. The toll of death in this way included one of the nurses, a Scottish lady.

The food supply was very limited and rations had served out gradually diminishing quantities. The prisoners who accompanied the party received food as far possible. On many occasions these prisoners, who were Bulgarians and Austrians, had nothing to eat, and many died of sheer starvation. Miss Dickinson saw officers high rank in the Austrian army pick cabbage stalks that had been dropped by the others, and bite at them ravenously.

In the matter of food, the hospital party itself was better off than the great bulk the refugees, although the only bread they had was black bread and maize bread. The party had fortunately retained some of the hospital stores, of which Bovril and condensed milk came in very handy. For some days, however, they had nothing to eat but a little bread and some Bovril, and when a nurse discovered a tin of margarine and divided it, everyone who was fortunate enough to share it said it was delicious.

The cold grew intense as the party got high up into the mountains. In many places they had to wade through streams owing to the bridges being broken, and there was no chance drying the clothes, which froze on the wearers and became stiff as boards. In this respect some of the lady nurses came off worse than others, as they were attired in light summer dresses, and were wearing shoes totally unfit for such a journey. Miss Dickinson had the good fortune to be provided with breeches and top boots, for which she was very thankful. The track was frequently knee deep in mud and slush, and hard and slippery with a temperature of nearly 40 degrees of frost.

Two of the mountains the party had to ascend were 8,400 and 7,600 feet high respectively. Upon descending on the Adriatic side the atmosphere became warmer, however, and relieved the sufferings some what.

The hospital party sailed across the lake of Scutari, and a farther tramp of two days enabled them to reach San Giovanni di Medua [Shëngjin]. Their dangers had not ceased here, for they were told that the Austrian Army was on the move, and that unless they embarked on a small Italian vessel which had arrived with food for the Serbian Army, for Brindisi, they might have to remain. It was decided to risk the journey, and 300 people were packed into the vessel, which had to combat heavy seas, and many of the voyagers fell ill.

The party presented a sorrowful spectacle arrival at Brindisi, and there was difficulty in getting sufficiently into the authorities’ good books to be allowed to land. "In fact," says Miss Dickinson, "we looked simply wretched. Most of were ragged, muddy and dirty, not having been in a bath for weeks. On top of this they were distressingly thin, and our feet were showing through our boots."

The party entrained at Brindisi for Paris, and thence Havre and England.

18 October 2023

The evils of overpaying your servants

The Times - Friday,  Dec. 25, 1795

To the CONDUCTOR of the TIMES.

London, Nov. 23.


Various are the receipts for cheap puddings, and many long and useful letters have appeared in your very excellent paper, towards alleviating (as much as is in the power of every Housekeeper) the scarcity and dearness of bread; by substituting rice and potatoes in the room of pies or flour puddings; but there still exists an evil which I have not seen spoken against, and which certainly occasions a very great consumption of starch; 

I mean the general fashion which has prevailed for some years, and does still, from the highest to the lowest, of wearing white dresses, which, upon a moderate computation, for every individual, must consume at least double the soap and starch than when coloured callicoes, silks, and stuffs were in fashion; added to this, that every maid servant (who, though she is perhaps not worth a second pair of shoes) will wear her muslin handkerchiefs. 

I think it is the duty of every good master and mistress, to stop, as much as possible, the present ridiculous and extravagant mode of dress in their domestics. 

View on a Sunday a tradesman’s family coming from church, and you would be puzzled to distinguish the porter from his master, or the maid from her mistress. Formerly a plaited cap and a white handkerchief served a young woman three or four Sundays. 

Now a mistress is required to give up, by agreement, the latter end of the week for her maids to prepare their caps, tuckers, gowns, &c. for Sunday, and I am told there are houses open on purpose, where those servants who do not chuse their mistresses should see them, carry their dresses in a bundle, and put them on, meet again in the evening for the purpose of disrobing; and where I doubt many a poor, deluded creature has been disrobed of her virtue. They certainly call aloud for some restraint, both as to their dress as well as insolent manner. 

Tell a servant, now, in the mildest manner, they have not done their work to please you, you are told to provide for yourself, and should you offer to speak again, they are gone. 

Surely no set of people are more capable of rendering our families comfortable, or the reverse, than domestic servants, nor any set of people who feel the present dearness of provisions so little.

I look upon their exorbitant increase of wages as chiefly conducive to their impertinence; for when they had five or six pounds a year, a month being out of place, was severely felt; but now their wages are doubled, they have, in a great measure, lost their dependance; and what is this increase of wages for, not in order to lay by a little in case of sickness, but to squander in dress. No young woman now can bear a strong pair of leather shoes, but they must wear Spanish leather, and so on in every article of dress. 

No wonder then that there should be so many prostitutes and so few good wives.

By inserting these hints as soon as you conveniently can, you will much oblige,


23 July 2023

An exchange of emails with George Logan (Dr Evadne Hinge)

The Background

In July 2002 I came across an account of the funeral of Patrick Fyffe, better known by his stage name - Dame Hilda Bracket.

Since the BBC repeated the radio plays Henry Reed's "composeress" Dame Hilda Tablet in the 1980s I'd wondered if the two Dame Hildas were connected in some way. So I emailed George Logan to ask him.

Email is evanescent so I'm publishing lightly-edited versions George's replies here to give them a degree of permanence.

3 Jul 2002, 22:46

Dear Chris

Your eMail was forwarded to me by Nigel Ellacott. What a surprise!

You see, I have been trying to get information on the Hilda Tablet broadcasts for some time.  I remember hearing a couple of them (Emily Butter, certainly, and I think, Musique Discrete - was that the one where someone recited Enobarbus's "The barge she sat in" to a 'musique concrete' commentary?  And where Hilda's lady friend Elsa sang a song which quoted the Austrian National Anthem at some length?) I was about twelve or thirteen at the time and found them uproariously funny.  As I was training as a musician I found the humour of the pieces very much to the point.

To answer your question. Or try to.  Patrick had never heard the Hilda Tablet plays, and the name was made up quite independently.  I don't think I mentioned them to him until some years into our partnership.  However, there's no question that the whole atmosphere of the pieces had a very considerable effect on how saw the Hinge and Bracket ambiance and setting, and the character of Doctor Hinge I'm quite sure inherited some characteristics from the programs.

She - Dr. Hinge - was always the more musically literate of the two, and the style of her compositions - I don't know if you have heard her 'Liste des Vins', her unfinished 7-act opera The Golden Twinset  - a duet from which was sung by the ladies on the occasion of the 90th birthday celebrations, held at the Royal Opera House, of that other great soprano, Dame Eva Turner - or her operetta The Fondant Hussar... well, the names alone make the influence very clear.

Incidentally, I'm pretty sure that the redoubtable Dame Eva also contributed something to the whole Hilda Tablet thing. I got to know both she and her companion of many years, Anne Rudyard, quite well during the last few years of Dame Eva's life.

I would be fascinated to find out if it is possible to obtain anywhere recordings or scripts of these wonderful pieces.  Please let me know of any information you may have - I'd much appreciate it.

As a footnote, I was interested to see in your notes on the pieces that Marjorie Westbury played Elsa.  In the last few years, Patrick and I were in the habit of doing a section in our stage show based on radio signature tunes, asking the audience to identify this or that melody.  One of these was Paul Temple, and one of the questions Dame Hilda would ask was 'Who played Paul Temple's wife, Steve'?  It was, of course, Marjorie Westbury...

Best wishes, and thank you for any information you may be able to supply regarding recordings or scripts of these marvellous programs.

George Logan

I replied, offering George copies of all the plays on CD

4 Jul 2002, 19:14

Dear Chris

How kind of you!  Yes, I would be delighted to have a copy of the Hilda Tablet plays on CD - and as you are good enough to offer them to me free of charge, I hope you'll allow me to reciprocate in some small measure.  I have a large number of tapes of various things Patrick and I did over the years, and it would be a pleasure to put together a Mini disc or CD of some of the things that never made it to
disc commercially, including excerpts from Dr. Hinge's own oeuvre, the 'Liste des Vins', both the original version with string quartet and her 'revised and augmented' version with full orchestra, the Grand Scene and Duet from Act 6 of The Golden Twinset, concert excerpts from Act 1 of The Fondant
Hussar and her unforgettable but largely forgotten arrangement for piano and orchestra of Liszt's arrangement for solo piano of the sextet from Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor!

My address:

George Logan
SG14 3AY

Thank you so much.

I hadn't realised it was Donald Swann who wrote the music for the Hilda Tablet pieces.  I remember he used to come and see Hinge and Bracket regularly in the very early days when we appeared at such legendary venues as the Union Tavern, Camberwell, and the Black Cap, Camden Town.

Best wishes

George Logan

21 Jul 2002, 12:25

Dear Chris

I've been away for a few days, and was delighted to return home on Friday to find my Hilda Tablet CDs waiting for me! :)

So far I've listened to Emily Butter and Musique Discrete - both of which I think I mentioned I had heard before - marvellous!  I've just started the series in chronological order, and plan to settle down this afternoon with the first two plays in the series, neither of which, I think, I heard in the past.

What marvellous actors these were, and how evocative and absorbing a well-written and well-produced radio play can be.

I had no trouble figuring out which bits of the various plays went where, so to speak.

Thank you so much for the time and trouble you have taken over this for me.

I plan to get down to sorting out the large number of tapes of H and B I presently have in order to pick out some of the best bits for you.  After Patrick's recent death, I and a close friend of his have been sorting through his personal stuff, and of course it turns out that he had a large number of things I don't have.

I will be in touch in the near future to let you know I have dispatched something to you.

Best wishes

George Logan

10 May 2023

George Hought - killed by lightning

The burial register of the East Riding of Yorkshire parish of Hutton Cranswick records the burial of George Hought of Hutton on 16 August 1851, aged 25.

The vicar, Rev. Joseph Rigby, added a note to the final page of the register to explain the circumstances:

George Hought of Hutton Cranswick was killed by lightning August 4th 1851. He was working in a field at Gowdy Hole, and a storm coming on, he had gone under an elm tree for shelter; he being in his shirt sleeves at the time. He was found soon after by his master Mr. Coates, his clothes were torn, and his body very much blackened: he left a widow and two children to mourn over their sudden bereavement.

 Caelo tonantem credidimus Deum regnare

The Latin quotation is from Horace's Odes, Book 3, Poem 5. 

Translated literally into English it means "we believed that Jupiter reigned in heaven when we heard him thunder".



08 September 2022

'The head of the Duke of Suffolk'

From Walter George Bell's Unknown London, 1919

The Duke of Somerset was the father of of Lady Jane Grey, Jane of England, uncrowned queen for nine days in July 1553. Is this his head?

In the early years of the eighteenth century the ancient church of Holy Trinity, Minories, near the Tower of London, underwent a substantial rebuilding. This is said to have included the vaults beneath the church.

In 1851 further building works were being carried out at the church. In one of the vaults the workman found a small square wooden box. It was so fragile that when they moved it it nearly fell apart. Inside was oak sawdust and a well-preserved mummified head.

The incumbent, the Rev. Mr Blunt, also a teacher at Merchant Taylors' School, summoned a fellow clergyman, the Rev. William Quekett to see it.

"It looked just like a New Zealand chief's head of which I had seen a great many. The countenance expressed great agony; the eyes, the teeth, the beard were perfect; and at the back of the head a very deep cut was visible above the one that separated the head from the body."

Mr Quekett contrived to meet Lord Dartmouth, whose family was responsible for the church. Lord Dartmouth looked at the head. Later he communicated the news that it belonged to a member of his family and at one time the failure of the executioner's first stroke was well-known in connection with the individual.

Lord Dartmouth did not suggest it was the head of the Duke of Somerset. That came later.

Sir George Scharf, Keeper of the National Portrait Gallery was asked to give his opinion on the head. Lord Ronald Sutherland-Gower said of Scharf that no better judge of a historical head existed, and Scharf thought the head corresponded with a portrait in the Gallery of Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk.

Dr F. J. Mowat, a Local Government Board Inspector, examined the head but didn't attempt to prove that it was the Duke of Suffolk's.

The link with the Duke of Suffolk was made because the precinct of the Minories was granted to him by King Edward VI. It was therefore assumed that, if the ground and house belonged to him, so did the head. This was being refuted as early as 1890 by Rev. E. M. Tomlinson, a former vicar of Holy Trinity, and the man responsible for the head being placed in the glass box pictured here.

There is one further grisly complexity in this story. In the late eighteenth century the beadle and sexton of Holy Trinity hit on an ingenious way of increasing his income. A neighbour looked into his house one day and saw him sawing up coffins - for firewood.

A parish meeting was convened almost immediately and parishioners entered the vaults of the church. Coffins lay around - and so did a large assortment of bodies and body parts which had been emptied from them.

So was the head simply a misplaced body part which had been boxed in some of the sexton's sawdust?

Holy Trinity was closed in 1899 and the head was transferred to St Botolph's, Aldgate, and was there until at least 1952. When I found this illustration in 2008 and tried to trace its whereabouts I was told it is no longer available to be viewed at St Botolph's. More recently I have discovered that during an archaeological investigation of the crypt in 1990, a preserved head was rediscovered and buried in the churchyard. (St Botolph, Aldgate T Q 3358 8120 (Julian Ayre, Sean O’Connor) SAB87.)

In her 1996 book Children of England: The Heirs of King Henry VIII, 1547-1557, Alison Weir takes the story at face value and does not question that it might not have been the head of the Duke of Suffolk:

"His head fell into sawdust that had become impregnated with tannin, which preserved the head perfectly for 400 years. It was shown as an object of curiosity until the Second World War, but after that it was buried in St Botolph's Church, Aldgate, London."

Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk

Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk was born on 17 January 1517, at Bradgate, Leicestershire, the eldest son of Thomas Grey, second Marquess of Dorset, and his second wife, Margaret, daughter of Sir Robert Wotton.

In May 1533 his guardian arranged Grey's marriage to Frances (1517–1559), the daughter of Mary Tudor, the younger sister of Henry VIII.

King Edward VI arranged the marriage on 21 May 1553 of Grey's daughter Jane to Lord Guildford Dudley and later altered his will to enable her to succeed him. King Edward died on 6 July, and three days later Suffolk, Northumberland, and other councillors proclaimed Jane queen.

A life in the complex politics of the times saw Grey finally found guilty of treason, condemned, and executed at the Tower of London on 23 February 1554.

03 June 2022

Eli Hudson, 1877 - 1919

Eli Hudson

Flautist and founder member of the London Symphony Orchestra and New Symphony Orchestra.

Hudson was born Eli Hudson Rennison, the illegitimate son of John Capstack Hudson and Emma Rennison, nephew of violin maker George Hudson, and grandson of Richard Hudson, known as "Dick o' Newlaith", one of the group of amateur Lancashire musicians called the "Larks of Dean".

John Capstack Hudson was a musician in Skegness and it was there that Eli grew up and was soon, even as a child, recognised as a piccolo virtuoso. At the age of fourteen, in the 1891 census, his occupation was given as "musician". A few days after the census, his parents were finally married in Ilkley. A year later Eli's sister Winifred ("Winnie") Dagmar Hudson was born in Skegness.

In 1895 Eli won a scholarship to study flute at the Royal College of Music in London, This lasted three years and he left with an ARCM. While there he met fellow student Eleanor Tydfil Jones, a soprano from Merthyr Tydfil, and they were married in in Chelsea in 1899. Eleanor's career did not come to an end, and she continued to sing as Eleanor Jones-Hudson.

Eleanor Jones-Hudson

Eli and Eleanor had three sons: Richard Henry John Hudson (1900-?), Hubert David Rennison Hudson (1902-1957) and Alfred George Dunning Hudson (1904-1989).

In 1904, Eli became a founder member, and flautist, in the new London Symphony Orchestra. In the same year he made his first flute and piccolo recordings for the Gramophone Company, taking part in concerts where the recording was played and followed by a live performance.

The following year, 1905, Eli and the clarinettist Charles Draper also became founder members of the New Symphony Orchestra. Another gramophone concert was given in December 1906 in the Royal Albert Hall including Patti, Melba and Caruso on record, and Eli in person. The recordings were amplified using the compressed air auxetophone.

The year 1907 saw the issue of a new record featuring Eli and his sister Winnie both playing piccolos in the "Concert Polka". The same year saw him advertised widely as the "King of Flautists".

January 1909 brought a new venture, planned for some months. Eli and Eleanor were already used to touring the country and, on occasions, performing in music halls. The Hudson Trio, comprising Eli, Olga (Eleanor) and Elgar (Winnie), made their first appearance at the London Coliseum. This was the first of many similar appearances the trio made across the country.

'Eli, Elgar and Olga'

On 30th April 1914 at the Holborn Empire, the Hudson Trio gave the first performance of the song The Sunshine of your Smile.

The outbreak of the Great War a few months later didn't greatly affect Eli, but on 3rd January 1917 he enlisted as Private 764433 in the 28th Battalion of the London Regiment (Artists Rifles) at Chiswick Town Hall. On 31st August he was appointed Second Lieutenant, 46th Anti Aircraft Company of the Royal Garrison Artillery.

The end of Eli's life came quickly in the months after the end of the war. He died of carcinoma of the  liver or stomach at Queen Alexandra's Military Hospital, Millbank, Westminster, on 18th January 1919. He was buried at Highgate Cemetery East two days later.

On Eli's death, Eleanor gave up her career and returned to live for the rest of her life at 13 Cromwell Street, Merthyr Tydfil. She died there in 1945.

In November 1919 Winnie Hudson married Timothy Adolphus O'Sullivan in Liverpool Register Office. She had already borne a child in 1917, the father being Ernest Richard Oscar Ferguson. Winnie and Timothy were divorced in 1921 and she died in London in 1957, using the surname Ferguson.

The loss of the 'Anna Helena', 13th November 1890

The Crew

George Crosby, 17, apprentice, of Wivenhoe
William Goodwin, 42, Master, of Wivenhoe
Frederick Hubard, 42, A.B., of London
Charles Kitching, 16, apprentice, of Whitby
John Langlands, 17, apprentice, of Gateshead
August Ludquest, 25, O.S. of near Copenhagen, Denmark
William Stonhold, 35, mate, of Wivenhoe

Hampshire Independent - Saturday 22 November 1890


On Friday afternoon last week an object was discovered, just awash, between the Nab and Owers light ships. Upon examination it proved to be the topmast of a submerged vessel.

Information of was promptly reported to the Coastguard, and the authorities at once placed a beacon on the spot to caution mariners of the danger to passing vessels.

The captain of the Java steamer which arrived at Southampton on Sunday reported having seen the mast of a sunken vessel when about four miles to the southward of the Putter buoy, which is in close proximity to the spot buoyed by the Trinity authorities.

In response to a telegram, the Trinity schooner Mermaid left Cowes on Saturday morning for the scene of the disaster. Two of the masts showed above water, and from soundings made by the Mermaid, it was evident that a collision had occurred, and that the sunken ship was cut in two. The wreck lay in eight fathoms of water, four-and-a-half or five miles S.S.E. of the Nab light.

The exact position of the wreck was about midway between the Boulders shoal and the Bullock patch, but to the southward of them, and, in all probability, the lost vessel was steering a course for some port inside the Solent. The steamer Schmiditan arrived in the Thames having been in collision with a sailing vessel, name unknown, to the south-west of Selsea Bill.

On Tuesday it was reported that bodies had been seen floating, and it was reported that one of these was a lady. The topgallant yard and square sail were picked up and left at the Portsmouth Custom House, the sheet measuring 27ft. by 11ft. and having the word "Glasgow" stamped upon it.

The ill-fated craft eventually proved to be a brigantine, which apparently had been in collision and cut down by a steamer. On Wednesday the Trinity Schooner Mermaid proceeded to the spot from Cowes, and with a charge of 120lbs. of powder blew up the wreck, which was a danger to navigation, the mast and other spars being towed into Cowes.

The crew consisted of eight hands, and as none of them have reported themselves it is feared they all perished. The Mermaid returned to Cowes at midnight. The wreck is the brigantine Anna Helena, of West Hartlepool, laden with coal. Her destination is unknown. The boats are missing from the wreck, and there is a faint chance that some of the men may have been picked up.

East Anglian Daily Times - Monday 24 November 1890


A disquieting rumour is in circulation as to the supposed drowning of Captain William Goodwin, of Wyvenhoe, whose vessel, the Anna Helena (brigantine), of Hartlepool, became a total wreck near the port of Cowes. It to hoped, however, that the captain together with William Stonhold, the mate, who is a Colchester man, have been rescued by some outward-bound vessel.

Southend Standard - Thursday 27 November 1890

Three Essex men, W. Goodwin (Wyvenhoe), W. Stonehold (Wyvenhoe), and G. Crosby (Colchester) were drowned on Friday by the foundering of the Anna Helena.

Stockton Herald - Saturday 29 November 1890


Further information received by Messrs Leonard and Danby, of West Hartlepool, goes to confirm the impression that their vessel, the Anna Helena, was run down, probably by a steamer. The wreck lies in two pieces off the Nab Light, and right in the track of vessels passing down channel. The ill-fated vessel had arrived within nine miles of Portsmouth, her port of destination, when the disaster happened, and the blow which sent her to the bottom must have also carried away her boats, as there were no signs of any boats near the sunken wreck. The chances that the crew escaped in a passing vessel are remote, as if this had been the case the probabilities are that they would have been heard of before now.

Essex Standard - Saturday 6 December 1890


Sir, — I beg the favour of space in your columns to inform the public that a fund has been instituted for the relief of the family of the late William Goodwin, of Wyvenhoe, master of the above-named vessel, which was lost in a gale while on a voyage recently from Hartlepool to Portsmouth, having been found on or about the 12th November, 1890, sunk at her anchors near the Nab Lightship.

The widow, who is in a very delicate state of health and suffers from heart disease, is left entirely without means, and with a family of eight children, the eldest being under 16 years of age and the youngest an infant, all of whom may be said to be dependent on the widow, as the two elder ones only are earning small wages.

It is intended to apply any fund which may be raised to the relief also of the widow's mother, Mrs. Stonhold, of 4 Morgan Cottages, Bourne Pond, Colchester, who is 75 years of age and an imbecile, and has been supported solely by her son, who sailed as mate in the ill-fated vessel, and was lost in her at the same time. The widow is thus doubly bereaved by losing her brother with her husband.

I sincerely hope this sad case may commend itself to the public as being in every way worthy of their aid, and that they will contribute generously to the fund.

Mr. Claude E. Egerton-Green has consented to act as treasurer, and cheques and postal orders may be made payable to "Goodwin Family Relief Fund," and crossed "Round, Green, Hoare and Co., Colchester."

A list of subscribers and balance sheet will be published as soon as possible after the closing of the fund, showing the disposition or investment of the money subscribed, as may be determined upon by the Committee.

— l am, &c,

D. HAM, Hon. Sec.

The Quay, Wyvenhoe, Essex,

Dec. 3. 1890.

Chelmsford Chronicle - Friday 12 December 1890

A fund is being raised for the relief of family of the late William Goodwin, of Wyvenhoe, master of the Anna Helena, which was lost in a gale while on a voyage from Hartlepool to Portsmouth. The widow, who is in a very delicate state of health, is without means, and has eight children dependent upon her. Her brother was lost on the same ill-fated vessel, and he leaves a widowed mother, who is 75 years of age and an imbecile, without support.

Essex Standard - Saturday 13 December 1890

The Loss of the Anna Helena.

Captain Ham of Wyvenhoe, has received from the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society a donation to be applied to the temporary relief of the relatives of the captain and mate of the Anna Helena, which was recently lost at sea.

Essex Standard - Saturday 13 December 1890

Loss of the Anna Helena.

On behalf of the fund for the relatives of W. Goodwin, of Wyvenhoe, and W. Stonhold, of Colchester, an attractive entertainment is to be given on Thursday next, Dec. 18, at the Board Schools, Wyvenhoe, by Colchester amateurs. Tickets and programmes may be had of Mr. Goodwin, Post Office, Wyvenhoe; Mr. H. L. Griffin, High Street, Colchester; Mr. Ernest S. Beard, Church Street, Colchester; or at the Essex Standard Office. Admission: Front seats, 2s.; Second seats, 1s.; back, 6d.

Essex Herald - Saturday 20 December 1890

On Wednesday evening an entertainment was given at the school in aid of the fund being raised for the widow and orphans of the late Wm. Goodwin, captain of the Anna Helena, recently lost at sea. The sum of nearly £4 will be handed over to the fund.

The Misses Owen and Miss Gale opened the proceedings with a pianoforte trio Young England, and later on the Misses Owen played a pianoforte duet. Songs were given by Mrs. Pettifer, Mrs. Smith, Mr. Phillips, Mr. H. Peacocke, Mr. Chell and Mr. Hoather. Dr. Pettifer played two viola solos, and the Misses Harvey and Barttelot sang duet. Variety was given by Miss Parker reciting Sims' Life boat and Mr. Owen reading The wreck of the Hesperus and The station master’s story. Messrs. Chell (piano), Phillips (1st violin), Cosgrove (2nd violin), and Hoather (’cello), played a lively polka, by Coote. The accompaniments were played Miss K, Owen, Mrs. Smith, and Mr. Chell.

Essex Standard - Saturday 27 December 1890

The loss of the Anna Helena

Death of Mrs Stonhold

With reference to the fund being raised for the relief of the late Wm. Goodwin, of Wyvenhoe, master of the Anna Helena, of West Hartlepool, which was lost in a recent gale, it was intended by the Committee who are interesting themselves in the matter to apply the fund also to the relief of the widow's mother, Mrs. Stonhold, of 4 Morgan Cottages, Bourne Pond, Colchester. Mrs. Stonhold, however, died on Monday, Dec. 22, so that the fund will now be applied entirely to the relief of the widow and family. Mrs. Stonhold, who was 75 years of age, was an imbecile, and had been for some time supported solely by her son who sailed as mate in the ill-fated vessel and was lost in her at the same time.