In the past few years I seem to have been reading more and more about the idea of “segmented sleep” – the concept of a night’s sleep being broken into first and second sleeps of around 4 hours each, with a gap of 1 or 2 hours in the middle. The gap being known in French as the dorveille, or wakesleep. It’s claimed by some to have been an absolutely widespread concept throughout history, and the natural form of human sleep. People were supposed to have done all manner of things during the wakesleep period – read, eat, visit neighbours, as well as it being considered a fruitful time to attempt to conceive.
However, the practice of segmented sleep was said to be permanently disrupted by Edison and his lightbulbs, which lit up the night as never before.
I’m very interested in the concept, although having had a version of this when my son was little and woke up in the middle of the night every night, I found 1-2 hours wakefulness at around 2am anything but restful. Mainly though, I’ve found it difficult to believe that such a supposedly common and well-known practice could have fallen so completely from general knowledge. There are mentions in literature, but not that many, and not conclusively so, I would say. So I decided to trawl the British Newspaper Archive and see what mentions I could find on the idea of the second sleep. And specifically, the timings of it.
In 1829, this article gave an idea of sleep patterns of the time. Recommended levels being 8 hours for labourers, 6 hours for fops. The fops, however, were keen to sleep a lot longer than that. Power napping worked for seamen. Interestingly, the author states that “I have known persons who have never indulged in a second sleep”, springing out of bed as soon as they awake rather than nodding off again. What seems to be implied here is what I found to be implied in other articles – that rather than a wakeful period in the extreme early hours followed by another half-night’s sleep, the second sleep is more a falling asleep after waking up near dawn. It seems to me to be more the equivalent of hitting the snooze button for a couple of hours than the middle of the night activity I have read of.
Worcester Journal, 22nd January 1829
Here’s an 1846 article stating that moving position during sleep being important for the body. Mr Schub, a surgeon, changed position for “his short second sleep” and found it refreshed him much more than if he didn’t. The mention of the second sleep being short again matches the idea that this could be a shorter snooze around dawn.
The Liverpool Mercury, 1st May 1846
The Duke of Wellington was against the idea of a second sleep, according to this article from 1853. Again, the wording doesn’t sound like it was in the middle of the night – “snatch a second sleep” would be a peculiar description of 4 hours sleeping from 2am or so. Unless the Duke followed the Maggie Thatcher school of sleep deprivation. She famously slept for only 4 hours a night, which might explain a lot.
The Inverness Courier, 21st April 1853
This 1860 article, however, is gratifyingly more specific and matches the articles I have read, “…about 6 in the morning, when all the people are deep in their second sleep…”
Enniskillen Chronicle, 28th June 1860
During a criminal case in 1861, a Prefect of Police in Jersey was “…probably entering on his second sleep,” at almost 5am.
The Jersey Independent and Daily Telegraph, 1st July 1861
This description of life of a farm labourer offers more insight. The farmer’s wife is starting her day at around the time that others are embarking on a second sleep – around 4am.
Illustrated Berwick Journal, 12th April 1872
Here in 1889, though, there’s reference to the second sleep being more of a morning snooze. “It appears that we all need that second sleep of a morning which lazy maidens call their beauty sleep……The French army doctors declare that the most refreshing sleep is enjoyed at or after dawn, and that this second but less profound slumber is absolutely necessary if the troops are to be kept up to their work.”
Beauty sleep! That’s a good one that I will have to remember next time I want a lie-in, although I feel it’s always asking for a sarcastic reply.
Western Daily Press, 19th September 1889
Sluggards, read this! Having children has sadly curtailed my sluggardly tendencies (although my brilliant other half admittedly lets me sleep in far more than he does). If anyone had told me that waking up at 8am is an actual lie in on a Sunday I would not have believed it. This article must be talking to the serious sluggard, though, with its advice to get up 10 minutes earlier every day for 2 weeks until you’re used to getting up more than two hours earlier every day. I feel quite faint at the thought of a 4.30am wake up call.
The article quotes 18th century surgeon John Abernethy on the subject of the second sleep, which again appears to me to be essentially pressing the snooze button at dawn. “I always caution patients against sleeping too much; waking from sleep indicates that the bodily powers are refreshed; many persons upon first waking feel alert and disposed to rise, when upon taking a second sleep they become lethargic, can scarcely be awakened, and feel oppressed and indisposed to exertion for some time after they have risen.”Â
Sunderland Daily Echo, 4th July 1891
The cycling enthusiast of the late Victorian age apparently “rise at an early hour, and are on the road to the countryside ere most folks have had their second sleep.”
Bath Chronicle, 12th May 1898
A 1901 column on Household Hints offers advice in sleeping – “Sleep is deepest during the first hour. Then from hour to hour it diminishes till we wake spontaneously when nature bids us rise. A second sleep, therefore, is comparatively unrefreshing.”
Again, this doesn’t sound like it’s recommending 4 hours sleep in total for the night. “When nature bids us rise” sounds like it refers to a full night’s sleep in one go, and the second sleep is nodding off again afterwards.
Lancashire Evening Post, 21st May 1901
How not to neglect your chickens during “the worst month of the whole year” – November. “Before retiring for the night put that alarm clock of yours on to an hour or so before your usual time. The hour should be at daybreak, and when the ringing of the alarm awakes you from your dreams, do not yawn and turn over on your other side and go off to sleep again. This second sleep does you no good whatever, and does infinite harm to your birds.”
Burnley News, 13th November 1915
The latest reference I found to the second sleep was in 1939. A scouts trip took place “on Sunday morning when all good Scouts are turning over for a second sleep, the boys arrived at the Scout Hut…” I can’t see this as being any earlier than 6am. This is the time that Baden-Powell used to like to be out and about, and for which he invented the word “goom”. The goom being the time just before daybreak before people got up and the day started. “Good morning. The goom is over.”
Falkirk Herald, 18th March 1939
So….what do I think?
Well, it appears to me that I’ve found less to suggest the night’s sleep being cut into two chunks of 4 hours, with a gap for activities in the middle, than the “second sleep” being used as a term to refer to lying in bed post-daybreak. Of course, the time of daybreak differs wildly across the year, especially in the days before daylight savings.
One of the reasons I’ve seen given in articles on the subject as to why there are relatively few references to segmented sleep in history is that it was so well-known and commonplace as to barely warrant a mention. Certainly, there were few references overall in the Newspaper Archive, but as this stretches from the 18th century to the 1950s, the high point of segmented sleep was in all likelihood earlier in history. I can imagine that the upright Victorian mind would consider the sluggard as a sinner, and perhaps the term changed to refer to morning snoozing instead. But it looks like the truth is still out there.
I like this Advice to Husbands, as published in the Manchester Courier in 1877. It seems to me to be hiding its essential compassion and wisdom underneath a veneer of curmudgeonly Mark Twain-style humour.
The Manchester Courier, 2nd July 1877
ADVICE TO HUSBANDS
Never talk in your sleep unless you are sure what you are going to say.
Don’t be discontented. It is much easier to make your wife feel that way.
Never tell your wife she is a charming singer unless you happen to be deaf.
Don’t flatter yourself that you know more than your wife until you have got home from her funeral.
Don’t be too friendly with your prospective son-in-law. He may think you intend to live with him after he is married.
Don’t try and fool your wife about drinking unless you happen to marry an idiot. Then it isn’t worth while to do so.
Never tell your wife how much better some other woman dresses unless you have more money than you know what to do with.
Never boast to your wife about the value of your past experiences. Your mother-in-law may settle herself down on you next week.
Never find fault with the quality of your wife’s cooking. You may possibly drive her to join some cooking club, which would be much worse.
Going to school in the 1980s, the year 2000 was a popular subject for homework on predictions about the state of the world by the turn of the new millennium. It was just far enough away to be an effective exercise, but soon enough in our lifetimes to guess at where things were heading.
I remember going on a school trip to Hastings when I was about 10, in the mid-80s, where we visited what I remember to be some kind of cave. In one of the walls there was an arrow half-buried in the stone, point-first, Excalibur-like. The guide told us that the arrow pointed to a chamber where a copy of The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle that described the death of King Harold was buried, and that this time capsule was due to be opened in the year 2000. Of course, it would have to be opened very carefully, as the delicate paper of the document could likely crumble to dust. This I found to be extremely frustrating – just open it now, while I’m here, I thought, not at some point in the distant future, when I’m the grand old age of 26! I can’t imagine that far ahead!
I’ve always remembered this trip and the desire to see exactly what was buried in the wall, and I’ve tried a number of times to search on the internet to see if it was indeed opened in 2000. Oddly, I can’t find any reference to it at all, and now I wonder if it was real at all, or just some kind of faux-tourist attraction.
Later, in 1990, my class were asked to write an essay about “The World in Ten Years Time”. I found it in an old schoolbook a few years ago and I was left slightly thunderstruck on reading it again. Alongside my predictions about the Queen Mother having died (I thought, wrongly, that was a certainty) and stamps having been abolished for some reason, I had written that Princess Diana had died in a car crash in 1997, with a mysterious unidentified car being involved in some way. Funnily enough, I remember writing the bits about the Queen Mother and the stamps, but had no memory of writing about Princess Di at all. Extremely peculiar. And now, after my parents moved house, I don’t know where that book is, so I can prove exactly nothing.
Still – predictions of the year 2000 have been going on for a long time. Here’s a handful, as they appeared in the local press over the last couple of hundred years.
I wonder when the first year 2000 prediction happened? I certainly haven’t seen one earlier than this, from the 1833 Taunton Courier, although I bet there’s loads of Age of Enlightenment philosophers that considered it.
“An Author of Romance, foreshadowing the events of the year 2000, among other wonders, predicts that pens will write of themselves; and the Patentee of the Hydraulic Pen may be said to have all but accomplished the anticipated miracle. The invention will be invaluable to book-keepers, authors, and reporters; to all, especially, who wish to keep a clean hand either in court or counting house.”
I think they mean a non-dipping pen, an alternative to the quill and inky fingers, so a successful prediction there, what with ink cartridges and biros.
The Taunton Courier, 17th July 1833
The Hull Daily Mail in 1901 told a joke about the battle of the sexes in the year 2000, and the shocking notion of women wearing trousers, inspired by the Suffragette movement.
“Here,” said the husband of the New Woman, entering a tailor shop and laying a bundle on the counter, “you will have to alter these trousers. I can’t wear them as they are.”
“Really,” replied the tailor, as he opened the bundle, “you must excuse me, my dear sir, those are your wife’s.”
Women now wear trousers – correct.
Hull Daily Mail, 6th June 1901
The Yorkshire Evening Post of 1936 had a surprising article on predicted population growth by 2000. Instead of overcrowding and spiralling numbers, Dr S.K. Young of Durham thought that the birth rate would fall on account of women joining the workplace (if this is what he means by “amazons”) and what’s more, being needed in the workplace.
His calculations figured that the population of the whole of the UK in 2000 would be no more than that of 1936 London (which was around 4.3 million). This wasn’t a crazy thought – the population of London had indeed been decreasing since the turn of the century and the birth rate of the UK was about as low as it has ever been in 1936. 1920 still holds the record for the highest birth rate and it had tumbled dramatically over the next decade so it was a justifiable, if incorrect prediction – the population of London alone is now 8.5 million. Some interesting information on the ups and downs of the UK birth rate and baby booms is here.
Yorkshire Evening Post, 4th December 1936
Still in The Yorkshire Evening Post, the paper published a quite detailed consideration of what 2000 might look like. It was December 1949 and the imminent new year bringing the second half of the twentieth century with it, provoked a look ahead at what this half-century would bring.
Yorkshire Post, 30th December 1949
Here it is in more detail. It predicts “Extensive use of helicopters to take business men almost from doorstep to doorstep; The disappearance of trams from city roads; Segregation of different forms of traffic; A tendency for housing and industry to be concentrated in more compact areas to conserve agricultural land; In the home, television, refrigerators, washing machines and labour-saving devices as commonplace as radios; Open fireplaces replaced by cleaner and more economic forms of heating.”
Apart from the helicopters, this is pretty astute predicting. Although the death knell of most of the trams was pretty evident by then.
Yorkshire Post, 30th December 1949
Yorkshire Post, 30th December 1949
Yorkshire Post, 30th December 1949
And finally, still from The Yorkshire Evening Post, comes a prediction from 1955. The British Newspaper Archive only goes up to the mid-50s, and I expect as the century went on, there were many more such articles.
Here, an exhibition at Olympia which envisioned a 2000-era Soho is described. It’s a very futuristic vision, “a city clothed in glass“, edging towards the kind of dystopian future seen in 1960s and 70s sci-fi. Soho is encased in a glass dome, on top of which (on top!) are 24-storey blocks of flats, made of glass in the shape of stars. Helicopters land on the roof of those flats, and there is no traffic, people getting around by gondola on a system of canals.
“A rather soulful commentary….added a hope that man, in this new Soho environment, “might be no longer vile”. The paper concludes that while “Soho at rooftop height looked uncomfortably like Aldous Huxley’s vision in “Brave New World”, it was more interesting than some of the features seen in “the bad old one”. Although this didn’t come to pass, it was successful if boiled down to the essential fact that glass was probably the most important feature of architecture in the second half of the century.
The Yorkshire Post, 17th November 1955
In short – I think the transport systems of today might come as a bit of a disappointment to the people of the past. Not too many personal helicopters and gondolas.
This is an area I could research for years, really. I’m endlessly fascinated by future predictions – and I’m especially amused by the not-entirely-serious 100 years of fashion I found in an old Strand magazine here, and one of my favourite childhood books on what life would be like in 2010 here.
I’ve got a rather strange prediction for the year 2000 in a book of inventions from 1949 too, now I come to think of it. I’ll need to dig that out…..
Mark Twain was the greatest ever American writer, as far as I’m concerned. Not only a genius-level author, he was a thinker, and a very funny man to boot. His mind was as independent of its time as far as that is possible – just read the incredible ending to The Mysterious Stranger, an attack on the hypocrisy of organised religion.
His mind was always on the go, and here, in the 1889 Manchester Courier, is the report of his latest invention, a self-pasting scrapbook. I have suddenly realised this is exactly what I need for my recipe scrapbook – a copy of River Song’s diary from Doctor Who that I used to paste in recipes I find from newspapers and magazines. I certainly identify with the “barrels and barrels of profanity” when finding my Pritt stick is “so hard it is only fit to eat.”
Here he is, in typically amusing fashion.
Manchester Courier 18th May 1889
[blockquote align=center]
MARK TWAIN’S LATEST INVENTION
Not long ago, Mark Twain took the public into his confidence as to the achievements of a marvellous type-setting arrangement which he had devised. He now offers another boon to mankind in the shape of a scrap-book for newspaper cuttings, in which it is only necessary to wet the gummed columns in order to affix the cutting. The inventor modestly speaks of his achievement as follows: – “I hereby certify that during many years I was afflicted with cramps in my limbs, indigestion, salt rheum, enlargement of the liver, and periodic attacks of inflammatory rheumatism complicated with St Vitas’ dance, my sufferings being so great that for months at a time I was unable to stand upon my feet without assistance or speak the truth with it. But as soon as I had invented my self-pasting scrap-book and begun to use it in my own family, all these infirmities disappeared. In disseminating this universal healer among the world’s afflicted you are doing a noble work, and I sincerely hope you will get your reward – partly in the sweet consciousness of doing good, but the bulk of it in cash.” The following remarks are extracted from a letter to the publishers of the “notion”: – You know that when the average man wants to put something in his scrap-book he can’t find his paste – then he swears; or if he finds it, it is dried so hard it is only fit to eat – then he swears; if he uses mucilage, it mingles with the ink, and next year he can’t read his scrap – the result is barrels and barrels of profanity. If you still wish to publish this scrap-book of mine, I shall be willing. It is a sound moral work, and this will commend it to editors and clergymen, and, in fact, to all right-feeling people. If you want testimonials, I can get them, and of the best sort and from the best people. One of the most refined and cultivated young ladies in Hartford (daughter of a clergyman) told me herself, with grateful tears standing in her eyes, that since she began using my scrap-book she has not sworn a single oath. Truly yours, MARK TWAIN
I loved it a few years ago when the Google Van came round at Halloween and, for a while, the picture of our house on Google Earth showed a grinning pumpkin in the window. Actually, along those lines, in our previous house I was sure I could see a little boy peeping out of our bedroom window on the Google picture (this was pre-children), but when I look at the picture now I can’t see it anymore. Sadly, the pumpkin picture has now been replaced, but it’s still Halloween in spirit everyday in our house. A few years ago, I realised I had overplayed it a bit with my 3 year old son when he woke up, rushed downstairs, excitedly peered out of the window, and was bitterly disappointed that there were no walking skeletons, lurking vampires and flying witches to be seen. The bucket of sweets cheered him up later, though.
The origins of Halloween are a bit murky, but it’s been a popular holiday for at least a few hundred years.
Yesterday I talked about the tradition of “Mischief Night” – in Liverpool it’s the night before Halloween, but in other places it’s the night before Bonfire Night. But Halloween itself was also a day of trickery – and there’s still “trick or treat” of course.
In 1856 this article talks of how “People, young and old, play strange pranks on the evening of the day preceding the first of November.” Strange pranks which can “fill the houses of obnoxious individuals with volumes of smoke” and “disturb the equanimity of octogenarians.” Try saying that after a Bloody Mary. Belfast Mercury, 1st November 1856
I’d never heard of “Cracknut Night” before. It was another old name for Halloween at one time, “in allusion to the practice of cracking nuts in the fire on that occasion.”. I love the traditional “youth of today” moan here. The youngsters of 1902 weren’t bothered about your traditions, granddad, they had their “progressive whist and Ping-Pong.” Anyway, the reports of the death of Halloween turned out to be greatly exaggerated. Coventry Herald, 7th November 1902
Some delicious-sounding Halloween treats from 1930. To celebrate properly, you need Midnight Cake, Ghost biscuits, treacle apples and chestnuts. Midnight cake is a cake baked with treacle to make it darkly coloured, and iced as a clock pointing at midnight. Ghost biscuits are two biscuits jammed together and decorated with a spooky chocolate face and a skull and crossbones. I like the Irish mashed potato tradition – filled with thimbles, threepennybits and buttons, like the coin in a Christmas pudding. Then you need to have a treasure hunt for charms, and when they’re all found, hold hands in a circle at midnight and read out your fortune without laughing. Western Gazette, 24th October 1930
“Time was when this day was the greatest social festival of the Scottish year.” Now the author bemoans the fading away of Halloween in an age where “our civilisation is urban and complicated,” and the rural ways of another age have gone by the wayside. I wonder what he’d say to a Halloween that is arguably bigger than ever, although probably not in a way he’d recognise? Aberdeen Journal 31st October 1934
I’m a sucker for a historical mystery, and the Jack the Ripper case is an enduring and gruesome loose end from a fascinating period in history. The news here that the director Bruce Robinson has thrown his deerstalker in the ring is welcome, not only because I love him as the director of one of my favourite films, Withnail and I, but also because his conclusions are intensely interesting to me. The article is to promote his new book They All Love Jack, which is now on my to-read list. It just arrived a few days ago in fact, a massive 800-pager that I can’t wait to get stuck into.
Bruce says, “I honestly think I’ve nailed the horrible fucker.” The nailee is, in his opinion, Michael Maybrick, a celebrated Victorian songwriter better known under his songwriting alias of Stephen Adams. They All Love Jack, the title of Robinson’s book, is also the title of one of Maybrick’s songs. He concludes the police knew he was the Ripper, but he was shielded by the umbrella of Freemasonry.
Interesting stuff, but this is where it gets more interesting still. Michael’s brother, the Liverpudlian cotton broker James Maybrick, has been on the list of Ripper suspects ever since the incriminating “Diary” which bore his name was released in 1992. The Diary is an unresolved piece of the puzzle – it was written in a Victorian scrapbook with what appears to be, after extensive testing, actual Victorian ink. It apparently described details of the murders only known to the police at the time. But it is also said to be more in line with 20th century writing styles, and one of the owners of the diary subsequently confessed to writing it, although he later withdrew that statement. It has been generally dismissed as a hoax in the years since, but no-one has conclusively proved that.
And then there’s the strange case of another piece of evidence related to the family, the Maybrick watch. Following the publication of the Diary, a man in Wallasey came forward with an engraved pocket watch, which suddenly looked very interesting. The watch was a genuine Victorian artefact, made in 1847-48. On the inside cover were scratched the words “J.Maybrick”, “I am Jack” and the initials of the five definitely agreed Ripper victims. It’s too incriminating to feel like it could be real – but analysis has discovered that the scratches really were made decades earlier. At least, it was definitely not created purely on the appearance of the Diary.
And so James Maybrick’s shadowy figure has remained in the line up of likely suspects. The evidence pointing towards him hasn’t been disproved, despite the fact that both the Diary and the watch give the appearance of being fake, but without any of their components actually being fake. Now, I don’t know what Bruce Robinson concludes, but if it was Michael Maybrick, then the possibility that he faked them to put his brother in the frame after his death is very interesting indeed. The idea that the real Ripper actually made them, but as a fraud, is certainly a tantalising one.
Living in Liverpool as I do, of course the Liverpool connection is the most interesting line of research to me and I have been interested in the Maybrick family for some time. The reason I am excited about the switch from James to Michael Maybrick is because of some curious piece of family history I half-came across some time ago. I used to work with a man whose girlfriend was a descendant of the family. He told me they had a family diary or some other written documents which he had read, and which had convinced him of Maybrick’s guilt. I was dying to see what the evidence was myself, but I never did, as I had the impression that this was something that the family didn’t want to advertise. I did ask if anyone else had ever seen it, and he said no, they hadn’t. Now, what confused me was that this was a decade after the “hoax” Maybrick diary had been published and it didn’t really make sense that he was referring to that. But what else could it be? And so the possibility that there is a different suspect, in the same family, is a very interesting one.
However, my post today isn’t covering the Ripper murders, but another death connected with the whole saga. The murder of James Maybrick himself, in 1889, ostensibly by his wife, Florence. She was American, 23 years younger than her husband, a popular member of Liverpool society, and a noted beauty of her day. Her trial was one of the most sensational and controversial of the Victorian era.
James Maybrick was absolutely not a Ripper suspect at the time of his murder, at least as far as it is known. His death was not newsworthy on those terms – it was widely written about because his brother was a famous composer, his wife was a beautiful younger woman, and because it was a classic whodunnit scenario of death by poisoning. If Robinson is right, though, maybe his brother was the real killer. There’s everything in there that one of those modern-day murder mystery entertainments could wish for, in other words.
We know Florence was beautiful by the fact that this was noted in newspaper reports of her arrest, subsequent imprisonment, and eventual release. Of course, there’s all the associated implications hiding between the lines – a beautiful but untrustworthy woman, a temptress, a gold-digger, a beautiful face which masks a psychopathic intent. It occurred to me that I couldn’t imagine reporting of this nature nowadays – and then I remembered the circus around Amanda Knox, “Foxy Knoxy”, and how the more things change, they more they stay the same.
This is the way Florence Maybrick’s case, otherwise known as “The Aigburth Poisoning Case”, was reported.
Florence and James Maybrick
Florence and James Maybrick lived in Battlecrease House, Riversdale Road, Aigburth, Liverpool. The house is still there. Here’s what it looks like now, from Google Earth.
What used to be called Battlecrease House.
James Maybrick died at Battlecrease on 11th May 1889 after suddenly being taken ill two weeks earlier. His brother, Michael Maybrick, thought the circumstances of his illness and death were suspicious and an inquest was held in a hotel nearby. This concluded that he was most probably killed by arsenic poisoning. Rumours abounded as to who the killer may have been, with his wife’s name at the forefront of suspicion. On 20th May 1889 she was charged with his murder, the trial due to be held at Liverpool Crown Court.
All was not well with the marriage, evidently – Maybrick had multiple mistresses and Florence was also having an affair with another Liverpool cotton broker named Alfred Brierley. Alfred is presumably the person mentioned at the bottom of the following article – “The name of a third party has been freely mentioned in connection with Mr Maybrick’s mysterious death”.
Manchester Courier 18th May 1889
There was “grave evidence” against Florence – revolving around the fact that she had been seen to be soaking fly-papers in water in her bedroom, an old method of extracting the arsenic contained within. She had also, apparently, poured James’ medicine from one bottle to another larger one, her stated reason being that the sediment in the medicine could not be properly shaken up in the smaller bottle.
Derby Evening Telegraph, 20th May, 1889
She was charged and “exhibited no emotion” although she was looking “very haggard”. A rather negative spin on potentially being in shock – and shades of the way Amanda Knox’s behaviour was reported as well.
Hartlepool Mail, 20th May 1889
I’m a big fan of the invalid cookery of days gone by, beef tea being the mainstay of how the Victorians fed their sick. Here, beef tea destined for James to drink was said to have contained arsenic.
Northern Daily Mail, 23rd May 1889
Rumours abounded regarding “the other man”, that Florence was involved with.
The Journal, 25th May, 1889
Despite being haggard on her arrest, Mrs Maybrick was otherwise “pretty and accomplished”, and of good breeding.
The Cornishman 30th May 1889
The motive was established – a scandal of some kind. Florence and James had argued after the Aintree Races in April and Florence was heard to say “Such a scandal; it will be all over town tomorrow.” James replied “Florry, Florry, I never thought it would come to this.” What the scandal was, exactly, was not determined.
An interesting snippet here – James was said to have become sick “from an overdose of the medicine the doctor in London had ordered.” James had, in fact, been staying with his brother Michael in London at this point.
Michael confirmed on 30th May that James had been to visit him five weeks earlier. At this point, James had been dead for three weeks, and had been ill for two weeks before that. The time frame points to Michael just as much as Florence. The London medicine was quite definitely in the frame here – and Michael may well have had access to that himself.
The Cornishman 30th May 1889
On being telegraphed that his brother was sick, Michael Maybrick came to Liverpool straight away. He flagged up his suspicions of poisoning very quickly indeed. In fact, he was the one to tell the doctors that he considered his brother to be poisoned, rather than the other way around.
Derby Daily Telegraph, 28th May 1889Burnley Express 3rd August 1889
The “smoking gun” of the trial, alongside those soaking fly-papers, was Florence’s letter to her lover, where she describes her husband as “sick unto death”. The doctors stated at her trial that, at this point, they had not described James’ condition as being inevitably fatal. Florence writes to Alfred that he can “relieve his mind of all fear of discovery now or in the future.” The rest of the letter convinces me that she means discovery of the affair, rather than anything murderous.
Tiverton Gazette, 4th June 1889
However, the circumstances surrounding how her maid got hold of the letter are suspicious – she was allegedly given the letter to post, but it dropped in some mud. She took out the letter, meaning to put it into a clean envelope – but instead she read it, and handed it over to Michael. She couldn’t explain why the letter showed no signs of damage from the wet mud.
More evidence – a bottle labelled “poison” and a handkerchief with Florence’s initials on were found in a travelling case. More “Scooby Doo” style obvious murderer clues, bringing to my mind the Diary and that watch. The maid seems very taken with Michael, and hands everything over to him again.
Tiverton Gazette, 4th June 1889
A very important point arose in the trial – James Maybrick was already known to take medicine which contained arsenic. This muddies the fly-paper-water a bit.
I’m imagining Death from Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” pointing a long, bony finger – “The BEEF TEA!”
Tiverton Gazette, 4th June 1889
“Was it possible that the lady, small in figure, neatly attired in deep mourning, her fair and well-rounded face – that is the lower half of it, for the upper part was hidden behind a thick veil – showing in pale relief against the sombre hue of her attire, could be guilty of the crime laid to her charge?”
Dover Express 14th June 1889
It was noted that Michael Maybrick was very harshly accusatory of Florence throughout the trial. The letter is considered to be the essential piece of evidence, along with explaining how the arsenic got in James’ liver. I don’t think the letter refers to a poisoning myself, and it was known that James had taken arsenic anyway.
Western Times 7th August 1889
After lengthy proceedings, Florence was convicted of murder and sentenced to death.
Yorkshire Evening Post 24th October 1941
Quite spooky seeing the two big news stories of the time connected here – Bonfire Night in 1889 had many instances of two very topical Guys that year – Jack the Ripper, and Mrs Maybrick. There was no sense at the time that actually these stories may be connected.
Dundee Evening Telegraph 6th November 1889
After the trial, Michael Maybrick went to ground for a few months. He reappeared in January 1890, singing his own composition “They All Love Jack”.
Aberdeen Evening Express 7th January 1890
And he was in the public eye again in 1891, challenging James’ life insurance policy in court. He and his brother argued that the sum of £2000 should be paid out to them and the will in Florence’s favour be overturned. They were unsuccessful.
Derby Daily Telegraph 20th July 1891
However, there was much support for Florence and a feeling that she was the victim of a miscarriage of justice, with the manner of how the judge had conducted her trial being questioned. Again, I’m reminded of Amanda Knox – a trial where, in the initial stages, she was viewed unsympathetically and with the implication that she was already guilty. Then, following conviction, a building sense that she may have been mistreated due to the lack of definite evidence and a questionable trial.
A re-examination of her case reduced her sentence to life imprisonment. In looking at the trial, an important piece of evidence was discovered – Florence had given her maid a prescription to be taken to the local chemist. The chemist refused to make it because it contained a poisonous drug and there was no doctor’s signature on it. Whether the prescription came from James himself, or Florence (or Michael?) is not known. It was also stated that James had in fact died from 21 “irritant poisons” and it had not been a downward spiral into fatal ill-health – he may have initially had gastro-enteritis, which was then exacerbated by harsh medicines, rather than being struck down by poison on day one.
Florence was definitely considered to be mistreated by many – there were numerous petitions submitted to the Home Office. One in Birmingham alone gathered an incredible 45,000 signatures, with an enthusiastic public meeting held as well.
In 1892, news arose of a purported “death-bed confession” from a man who said he had conspired to put Mrs Maybrick in the frame.
Northern Daily Mail, 13th October 1892
The Home Office initially refused to release her in 1894, despite the incriminating new evidence. A friend had come forward to say that James had admitted to being “an arsenic-eater” and that he “found it difficult to supply his needs in Liverpool.” Maybrick had also said to him that he “could take with impunity enough arsenic to kill any ordinary man.” An “arsenical face wash” of Mrs Maybrick’s had also been found, the prescription for which had presumed to be lost. The Victorians used arsenic in too many things.
Surprise was expressed that the Home Office had passed over such evidence with no comment. It reeked of corruption.
Tamworth Herald 26th May 1894
There were many letters written to newspapers arguing her innocence. “In my opinion there was no medical evidence that would hang a dog,” says this commentator.
Manchester Courier 24th August 1896
Florence’s sentence was eventually commuted, and she was released in 1904. She was reported to still be an attractive woman on her release. In fact, she was “more beautiful than she was even on the day of her arrest…”
Western Gazette, 5th February, 1904
This is her after her release. She looks utterly haunted.
An aside. A specialist in mental health, Dr Forbes Winslow, died in 1913. This article at the time informs us of two points – “He took an especially active search for “Jack the Ripper” and always declared that he knew who the “Ripper” was but that the police refused to act on his information. He also took a leading part in the agitation for the release of Mrs Maybrick.” Admittedly, both were news stories at much the same time, but I still find this juxtaposition very strange indeed, particularly if he did indeed know who the Ripper was. Police refusing to act on information ties in with Bruce Robinson’s Masonic cover-up too.
Excitingly, Dr Winslow thought the world was going mad, quite literally. The numbers of lunatics were spiralling upwards, and he predicted that “one person in every four in 2159 would be mad.” I wonder why he specified the year 2159?
Nottingham Evening Post, 9th June 1913
Michael Maybrick died two months after Dr Forbes Winslow, in 1913. He had disappeared from London society not long after the trial, got married and moved to the Isle of Wight. He apparently had become the guardian of Florence and James’ two children.
Yorkshire Evening Post 27th August 1913
He became Mayor of Ryde on the Isle of Wight four times. I love the story above Maybrick’s news in this article. Count Zeppelin was about to make a trial trip on his new airship.
Aberdeen Journal 20th October 1908
Florence died on 23rd October 1941 at the age of 80. 74 years ago exactly today.
She had been living in America since her release from prison. A further mystery was that 30 years after her trial (so around 1919) she was left the enormous sum of £150,000 – “the legacy came from a near relative of a man whose name was frequently mentioned in the trial and that at first Mrs Maybrick refused to touch the money because of its source. Subsequently she was said to have withdrawn her opposition after reading a sealed letter from the testator in which he explained the reasons for the legacy.” She partly used the money to try to clear her name, but she refused to live in the Cheshire mansion that was also left to her in the will, as the area held too many bad memories for her. The man whose name was mentioned in the trial – well, that’s most probably Alfred Brierley, I suppose.
Derby Evening Telegraph 24th October 1941
Wikipedia says that after she was sent to prison, she never saw her children again. But this obituary says that she had been reconciled with them – although I suppose this doesn’t mean she actually saw them. I hope that she did though. I can’t imagine a sadder phrase than “never seeing your children again”. Although her son James had a tragic end himself. While working as a mining engineer at a Canadian goldmine, he apparently died after drinking cyanide, thinking it was water.
An advert from 1898 for “Dr Tibbles Maltated Bread” that sounds like it should be announced by the town crier, or else the Beatles should have written it into a song, Mr Kite-style.
“Be it known unto all men that the celebrated DR TIBBLES of VI-COCOA FAME is now introducing MALTATED BREAD, MALTATED BANANA BISCUITS, MALTATED BANANA FOOD and numerous Household Remedies, including Brain Feeder, Cough Balsam, Child’s Restorer, &c”
Biggleswade Advertiser, 10th June 1898
“Dr Tibbles” – he was probably one of those made-up doctor names used to add some weight to branded products. But this is what I’m imagining….
This August the most zeitgeisty thing you could be doing was voting in the Labour Party leadership election. Specifically, voting for Jeremy Corbyn in the Labour Party leadership election, if the “Jez We Can” polls are to be believed.
That his campaign has steadily grown in strength while press coverage for him has been relentlessly negative is fascinating – even The Guardian of all papers ran article after article warning of the disaster to come if he was elected. But who knows what will happen? We learned how unreliable polls could be a few months ago on the day of the General Election. And if Corbyn does win, maybe it will be a disaster, maybe it will be the start of a new era, or maybe it will be less interesting than anyone currently thinks. As far as I’m concerned though, this is an exciting time for grass-roots Labour supporters right now.
As we’ve seen though, the press is overwhelmingly against Corbyn. And I can’t see that changing if he is elected leader. The furore of the last few days over the idea of reinstating women-only train carriages reminds me of the 1980s, where “looney left” was thrown around as a conversation-ending, ridicule-inducing tactic for left wing policy ideas. Notice how there wasn’t this furore when Tory Transport Minister Claire Perry mooted the idea herself not too long ago?
“Some women have raised with me that a solution to the rise in assault and harassment on public transport could be to introduce women only carriages. My intention would be to make public transport safer for everyone from the train platform, to the bus stop to on the mode of transport itself. However, I would consult with women and open it up to hear their views on whether women-only carriages would be welcome – and also if piloting this at times and modes of transport where harassment is reported most frequently would be of interest.”
It wasn’t his idea, and it’s not even something he’s definitely proposing. He’s simply listened to women giving their opinions and offered a consultation process on their brainstormed ideas to solve a problem.
It might well be decided to be an ineffective idea, in the end, but shouting down the debate before it even starts, well, it’s doesn’t feel very helpful – a sign of a media that is encouraged to be full of fully-formed, strongly-held opinions on everything, immediately. If we don’t have the space to consider new ideas without ridicule, then nothing much will change.
Well, I say “new ideas”, but this isn’t new, as has been repeatedly stated by opponent of the concept, worried that the way forward wouldn’t involve such a retrograde move. Railway carriages marked “Ladies Only” were finally withdrawn in 1977, when the old type of corridor-less train became obsolete. The old-style train was made up of a series of compartments with no access between them, and so was potentially a dangerous trap for a woman alone with a predatory man. Because of this style of carriage, and an increasing number of assaults suffered by female travellers on the trains, the concept of the women-only carriage was discussed from the middle of the nineteenth century onwards.
This article from 1874 shows that the Metropolitan railways had already introduced ladies’ carriages – but there was some debate as to whether this was legal. This was the first mention I found of women eschewing the ladies’ carriages in favour of sitting in the smoking compartments instead – an issue that men complained about for the next half century at least. I don’t know why women intuitively flocked to the smoking carriages for fifty years or more, but I would guess that it was because they were popular and so routinely full of travellers. Perhaps there may have been both less chance of being left alone with an unknown man, and a higher likelihood of other women travellers there as well. If not all train companies designated separate carriages for women, then it may have been easier to adopt this method instead.
Staffordshire Sentinel, 16th November 1874
There were a lot of reports of assaults on women on the railways in the nineteenth century, and the debate on ladies’ only carriages became a hot topic of the day. Here’s a letter from 1876 referring to recent attacks and calling for ladies’ carriages to be introduced in all trains.
Dundee Evening Telegraph, 5th September 1887
And another, where Ellen Johnson was saved from attempting to jump from the train to escape her attacker, by another passenger walking along the outside footboard to reach her carriage.
Huddersfield Chronicle, 6th June 1891
This is a fantastic piece, quoted from the Queen – this wasn’t Queen Victoria wading into the debate, that wouldn’t have been quite her style. It’s Queen magazine – which is still around, although these days it’s called Harper’s Bazaar. It points out that the cases of assault on women that the public hears about are the dramatic ones – where the woman has fought off her assailant, or else felt forced to take the dramatic step of jumping from the train to escape. But “We hear nothing of the cases, probably far more numerous, where the woman, whether successful or not in keeping off her assailant, has afterwards from dread of publicity kept silent….The risk that a woman travelling by herself runs is not one whit less to-day than it was yesterday; indeed it is rather greater, for the opportunities for attack are greater.”
This piece describes how the Victorian communication cord used to work – it consisted of a cord on the outside of the train linked to the guard’s van. So a woman, mid-attack, would need to open the window, and attempt to reach the cord far above her head on the outside of the train, then pull it hard enough to attract the attention of the guard. The article calls for other means of instantaneous communication to be introduced, which could now be electrically-powered, and that this should be enforced by Parliament if the train companies did not agree of their own volition.
Dorking and Leatherhead Advertiser, 16th April 1892
This article in The Morning Post from 1896 says that ladies didn’t tend to make use of specially-designated carriages very often, when they were available. Although there was apparently a litle known, and therefore little-used, policy of the railway staff being obliged to provide any women who asked with a suitable carriage to sit in which would then become a carriage where only women would be allowed to be admitted.
Morning Post, 5th August 1896
Morning Post, 5th August 1896
An MP, Mr Ritchie, confirms to a correspondent that The Board of Trade has written to all railway companies to encourage the introduction of women-only carriages on all their trains, in 1897.
Edinburgh Evening News, 26th March 1897
Commercial travellers complain about the long-standing “problem” of women sitting in the smoking compartments. This was evidently the Victorian and Edwardian equivalent of the person having a loud conversation on their phone in the “quiet carriage” today. Here, the problem is that “Travellers could walk up and down a train, and find every compartment labelled “smoking” packed with women and children, who gleefully looked out of the windows and smiled at those who wanted to smoke.” Smiling and gleefully looking out of the window – the cheek of it! Mr R. Mitchell, making the complaint, says that “he knew women often preferred to travel in smoking compartments because they said they felt safer; but he thought railway companies should prohibit women or children travelling in smoking compartments unless they were accompanied by a male adult.” Priorities, there.
Nottingham Evening Post, 28th October 1912
In 1924, the introduction of women-only carriages on all trains is still being discussed in the House of Commons – showing that it was still a far from widespread practice. Again, the issue of women in smoking compartments is raised, but this time it’s stated that this is quite likely to be on account of the lack of aforementioned ladies’ carriages. Mr “Not All Men” Becker was standing up for men’s rights here with his “May I ask whether carriages could be provided for men only?”
Gloucester Journal, 26th July 1924
As the old-style trains were replaced with the new designs, so the debate lessened. The issue has raised its head again now, because of the increased number of attacks on women on the railways – the number of sex offences on UK railways rose by a quarter last year. The idea of women-only carriages is still a current one in some countries – Japan, Brazil and India still have them, after all. My twopenn’orth is that this could only really be enforced, particularly on night trains, by guards on the train, and if there’s guards on the train, then why do you need the separate carriage? But I’m open to the discussion.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this blog (well, there’s a ton of things I’ve learned, in fact, everyday is a school day here) it’s that there’s an awful lot of people still interested in Owbridge’s Lung Tonic. My last post on the subject here is one of my most popular pages. It’s really a rare day that there’s no hits on that post, which I wasn’t anticipating at all. As far as I was concerned, it was one of those pharmaceuticals lodged firmly in the past, like the mercury-containing Blue Pills of another post.
But Owbridge’s was a medicine that people obviously remember taking and are googling nostalgically for. And so I checked when it last was available, and I was surprised that production only ended in 1971 – no wonder so many people know of it still.
One thing I have to say – the British Medical Association’s “Secret Remedies” book of 1909 that I linked to in my previous post states that an analysis of Owbridge’s shows the medicine to contain ipecacuanha wine, honey and, alarmingly, a quantity of chloroform. But the formula did change again over the years and so the version that people had in the 1960s was (presumably) not the same as that analysed in 1909. Having said that, I haven’t found anything to state what exactly the last incarnation consisted of.
Still, for those Owbridge’s fans still out there (although it is apparently a love-hate kind of memory, I gather), here’s some more vintage adverts I’ve found.
It sounds like there was some dispute going on here between The Pharmaceutical Society and patent medicines. “No one has the right to attach poison labels” to Owbridge’s, it says. That wouldn’t have helped business. The Aberdeen Journal, 14th January 1893
A double page advert celebrating the “thirty-third season” of Owbridge’s. The Yorkshire Post, 1908
“Please remember we can produce originals of all these letters”: The Yorkshire Evening Post, 1910
This 1914 typeface reminds me of the opening credits of a black and white “Carry On” film. Daily Mirror, 2nd November 1914
Emphasizing the honey in this advert (rather than the chloroform): Yorkshire Evening Post, 19th January 1926
Finally, a celebration of the 80th anniversary in 1954. It was around for nearly 100 years, just missing the centenary in 1974. The Luton News, 1954
