An intriguing letter from The Lanarkshire Sunday Post in 1946.
So, the Second World War is not long over, and a Kirkcaldy housewife, Mrs A. G. Forsyth, receives a letter out of the blue from an ex-Italian soldier. (At this point I’m totally imagining Mrs Forsyth looking like Terry Jones as a Monty Python “pepperpot”, unfairly.)
Never mind how the Italian ex-soldier got her address, but it was a heart-rending plea.
“After five years of war I am remained without anything but the eyes to weep, and a maiming of more than 50 per cent. as certificated by the document lieing by. Not knowing how to carry on my life and support the expenses of my family, I apply to your noble, great, and generous heart, praying for a financial help limited to your possibilities.
Or better, if you could present me with a small ice cream machine with your name cut on it, as it is very seldom to get one in Italy, and also very dear, more than 150 thousand lires and I cannot afford to buy due to my poverty…”
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February 1946
Because ice cream machines were plenteous and cheap in 1946 Kirkcaldy, of course.
It’s got to be a scam, hasn’t it? But a bit of an odd one. Mrs Forsyth thought so. She “wonders if other readers had got similar letters”, and dismissed the whole thing with “I know the British are considered soft by foreigners, but we’re not as soft as all that!”
It reminds me a bit of the Nigerian 419 scams of today, although, to be fair, there’s nothing promised to the recipient of the letter apart from a feeling of goodwill. Still, there’s nothing new under the sun, as the con tricks of 100 years ago detailed by Harry Houdini show – here.
I am a fan of Richard Herrings. By which I mean all the people called Richard Herring throughout history. All of them.
Well, mainly I am a fan of the comedian Richard Herring, to be fair. But I was in the mood for a bit of history-surfing on The British Newspaper Archive. I like taking something small – an unknown fact, little antique item or newspaper clipping and using that as a jumping-off point to see where it takes you. I always find out a lot more than I imagine – there are so many resources and online archives out there that I’ve stumbled upon, which I would never have thought to look for specifically. So today’s post is a little skittish ramble through the outskirts of history.
The good thing about the BNA is that it’s pretty new – there’s new papers being made available nearly every week, and so the potential for discovering something interesting and potentially unknown (or long-forgotten) is quite high. Nothing gives me a buzz like history detective work. My two contributions to Wikipedia – on the “Half Man Half Woman” Josephine Joseph and the Grand National – were brilliantly thrilling rides.
Anyway, back to today’s post – searching for my own name on the BNA brings up nothing at all. If there’s been any Estelle Hargraves in the past, they kept quiet about it. My family’s names are all similarly sparsely represented. I suppose you’re generally only in the papers if you’re very good at something, very bad at something else, or the victim of something tragic. It’s pretty easy to slip under the radar of appearing in the local papers if your life is just a bit humdrum.
Looking for namesakes of people I knew, I was reminded of that Dave Gorman programme from a few years back, “Are you Dave Gorman?” , where he searched the world for people who shared his name. And so, on a whim, I thought I would have a search for people in history who also had the name of the aforementioned Mr Herring. I wasn’t hopeful to be honest – it sounds like a pretty unusual name to me. But no, “Richard Herring” turns out to be a crazily popular name in the world of people who’ve had local newspaper articles written about them. I found out some interesting stories along the way.
So let’s begin – and I think I’ll do this in chronological order.
The first one I found, way back in 1799, was Richard Herring the clockmaker, looking for an apprentice. Not much of a story here though.
Stamford Mercury, 12th July 1799
The criminal career of the Richard Herrings begins in 1815 with this one being capitally convicted for burglary – i.e. sentenced to death. He is very much not the only naughty Herring.
Leicester Chronicle, 1st April 1815
Then in 1825, there’s a livelier story of another young hoodlum. Young Dick and friends painted their faces black, and burgled “an old and respectable farmer” near Buckingham – quite interesting to me as Buckingham is where I grew up as a teenager. They were found guilty – in 1825, what would the punishment be? Potentially transportation to Australia, or even hanging. I don’t know.
Cambridge Chronicle, 11th March 1825
There’s another young Richard Herring living the thug life in 1833, which I am pretty sure is a different one to the 1825 one. This one has the benefit of being “a good looking young man” at least, even though he committed a serious fraud of collecting a vet’s accounts and keeping the money.
Coventry Herald, 26th April 1833
Another Richard Herring was the victim in 1833. This one is my favourite. It’s the inquest of poor Richard Herring, cow-keeper. After suffering “a giddiness in the head”, he milked the cows and was subsequently found dead in a well by his son, his feet sticking out of the top. This was all a bit mysterious – the opening of the well was very small, there was no bucket nearby and the deceased was not in the habit of drawing the well water anyway. His son was giving evidence to the inquest when a man ran into the pub where the inquest was being held, shouting for the son to come back and milk the cows. The coroner was not impressed. It became clear that Mrs Herring was outside and wanted the boy (her step-son) to get on with his work. The coroner had held back from requesting her evidence “from a feeling of delicacy” but changed his mind and called her before him, although she argued against it. She scandalised the inquest with her flippancy and by and large did quite a good impression of a fairytale-style wicked stepmother. The coroner “reprimanded her in severe terms” and was only sorry there was no evidence to convict her of murder.
Coventry Herald, 26th April 1833
Coventry Herald, 26th April 1833
Coventry Herald, 26th April 1833
Former farrier Richard Herring suddenly died in 1835, although he was aged 85 which was pretty good going at that time. A farrier is someone who looks after horses hooves, by the way. I do like the phrasing here – “he went into his house, and sat down, apparently in his normal state of health: very shortly afterwards, however, he was a corpse.”
Carlisle Journal, 16th May 1835
Such a sad story this one. A mother and daughter were charged in 1863 with killing the daughter’s newborn baby and throwing it down the well, where it stayed for at least ten days with the unwitting neighbours continuing to use the water. Richard Herring here was the neighbour who managed to get the baby’s body out.
Nottinghamshire Guardian, 9th October 1863
The brains of the Herrings here with a new invention for improved telegraph messages:
This one I particularly enjoy as the 1881 version of Richard Herring is “very angry with the post office”. Something not a million miles from the current regeneration. He’s a bit of a nutter constantly writing in to express his displeasure with the world in general. Writing to Queen Victoria to tell her that “she was not as well acquainted with her duties as he was,” takes some nerve though. In conclusion – “the general effect of Mr Herring’s assault on the powers that be is a little confusing.”
Sheffield Daily Telegraph, 16th September 1881
A Herring with an idea for a new invention for the House of Commons. It’s an electronic system for the MPs to vote – a bit like the audience vote in Stars in Their Eyes. I’m going to assume this was also the chap with the telegraph invention. He was ahead of his time.
Dundee Advertiser, 1st February 1882
More criminal activity in 1892 – this Richard Herring is one of “three of the most notorious vagabonds in London.” His fellow notorious vagabonds pushed the policeman arresting Herring into a “chest of eggs”, allowing him to escape. Although they caught him again quite quickly.
Exeter and Plymouth Gazette, 4th May 1892
A bankrupt Herring here is officially a “Leeds Failure” in 1907.
Yorkshire Post, 18th April 1907
This young Richard Herring fell into the wrong crowd and was hanging around gambling with his friends. The Mayor of Leamington Spa thought the lads “appeared to be earning too much money.” No problem though, his mum confirmed he had joined the Royal Engineers. The First World War will sort him out!
Leamington Spa Courier, 5th November 1915
The criminal activities and cow-keeping of the Richard Herrings continue with this one convicted of watering down milk in 1932, although it was the act of revenge of one of his employees.
Nottingham Evening Post, 6th October 1932
A tragic Herring in 1952 gave his mother a boiled sweet, which she choked on and died.
Leamington Spa Courier, 19th September 1952
Finally, the most recent Herring I found was this boy wonder in the mid 1950s, again from Buckingham. He was constantly in the local press with his fishing and table tennis achievements, but he was also a prize-winning leatherworker. He appears to have been attacked by a pike in the first article – probably for being annoyingly good at everything. He also managed to find what sounds like a dinosaur egg while fishing.
Buckingham Advertiser, 1953-4
Buckingham Advertiser, 1953-4
Buckingham Advertiser, 1953-4
Buckingham Advertiser, 1953-4
Buckingham Advertiser, 1953-4
Egg! Like a bird’s egg!
So that’s it. A lot of Herrings. I am going to make the conclusion that many Herrings are drawn towards the water – two tragic well incidents, one fisherman, and one involved in a milk-watering-down scheme. It’s a general mix of criminality and tragedy, but then again, that’s mostly going to be the case with those who stick their head over the parapet of local newsworthiness. Having said that, there’s still quite a surprising amount of criminals. What will time bring for the Richard Herrings of the future, I wonder?
Actually, this is the kind of thing that annoying hashtag #sorrynotsorry is for, I suppose. But sorry to those on my mailing list who may be looking at this at work, and also for those not keen on swearing. For you, I will leave a decency gap, and a little extract from Blackadder III’s “Ink and Incapability” that pretty much sums up my investigations for today. But it’s my birthday today so indulge me.
Samuel Johnson has just written his Dictionary and the Prince Regent has been looking up some words in it….
Samuel Johnson: So, ahem, tell me, sir, what words particularly interested you?
Prince Regent: Oh, er, nothing… Anything, really, you know…
Samuel Johnson: Ah, I see you’ve udnerlined a few (takes dictionary, reads): `bloomers’; `bottom’; `burp’; (turns a page) `fart’; `fiddle’; `fornicate’?
Prince Regent: Well…
Samuel Johnson: Sir! I hope you’re not using the first English dictionary to look up rude words!
Blackadder: I wouldn’t be too hopeful; that’s what all the other ones will be used for.
Yes, I’ve been looking up rude words in the British Newspaper Archive. Obviously, being newspapers, they aren’t chock-a-block with intentional swears. But there’s a few anachronistic words that appear in a non-sweary way, at the time. “Wanker” being one. Here’s a few clippings that made me giggle quite a lot.
Well, this is sad – an article about casualties from the First World War. But it’s livened up a bit by the fact that one of the casualties is called General Wanker von Dankenechweil.
Evening Despatch, 30th November 1914
Then there’s this proprietor of glasses in 1863 – “Wankers”. They are keen to help innkeepers provide the correct measures and avoid prosecution.
Wrexham Advertiser, 31st October 1863
But, my favourite – this 1924 account of the trial of a Frenchman called Vaquier. He was accused of murdering a pub landlord by poison. Hopefully not because of his short measures.
Yorkshire Evening Post, 24th July 1924
He was unsuccessfully appealing his death sentence. His response – “I protest because I am French”.
Yorkshire Evening Post, 24th July 1924
It was revealed that the alias he used while buying the poison was “Wanker”. Whether this was because “Vaquier” isn’t a million miles away, or the fact that the landlord’s pub was called “The Blue Anchor”, or that he really just was openly proud to be a wanker, we’ll never know.
Ha ha! There’s something really quite satisfying about rubbish criminals. Here’s an article about some terrible burglars in 1908 – they missed the painting worth £500 and “ceramic curios” and only made off with the magnificent haul of a stamp and a pen nib.
Nottingham Evening Post, 31st August 1908
Fair enough, who would know about the value of the ceramic curios, but what on earth was the painting? £500 is an eye-watering amount in 1908 – one currency converter states that the equivalent amount in today’s money is over £53,000!
My favourite part is what happened when they were discovered by the cleaning lady.
“She was met at the door by one of the intruders, who, putting on a mysterious air, said “Sh! There are burglars in the place. Don’t make a noise. We’re detectives and we’ve got one of them.”
They then locked her in the basement but, to be fair, they were nice enough to let her go before they went.
One thing though. Surely printing this in the paper, with the address of the premises and details of the valuable items – isn’t this just asking for less rubbish burglars to swoop in instead? I mean, you even know what time the charwoman is likely to turn up – get out by 4.45am and you’re fine.
It was a bit startling to see this in a newspaper from 1918. I had to check the date first as a swastika seems strangely out of place in Western history outside of Nazi Germany. And then there’s the fact that it was used officially by the UK Government to promote war savings certifcates – with the word “war” right in the middle to look extra-sinister.
The National Savings Movement, as it was called, actually ran until 1978 and was of particular value in World War Two to support the war effort. Although unsurprisingly the logo had been changed by then to one showing St George slaying a dragon.
Sunday Pictorial, 24th November 1918Sunday Mirror, 11th August 1918
The adverts themselves are interesting though – with tips on how to save money. Your newspapers can be sold, your bottles can be reused and your tincans can be recycled into munitions.
I like this advert from The Liverpool Echo, which informs you in detail exactly how many armaments could be funded from your war bond contribution. £5 could buy two 20lb bombs, £100 could buy a machine gun and 3000 rounds of ammunition, and £5000 could pay for two aeroplanes for “our splendid airmen.”
If you will insist on drinking acid lemonade when you’re thirsty and farting yourself silly, why not try the “safe” drink Glucolem instead? It’s safe because it’s mainly made of glucose, not lemon juice like the “unsafe” lemonades you like. Your friends are probably already drinking it and scorning your flatulent ways.
Gloucester Citizen, 29th August 1932Gloucester Citizen, 26th August 1935
The vitriol is really flowing in this opinion piece about the GI brides taking their leave of the UK for pastures new with their American husbands. I would be amazed if there wasn’t a dash of personal indignation over a potential sweetheart here, although the American GIs based in the UK were famously resented as being “over-fed, over-paid, over-sexed and over here,” wooing British women with their ready supply of nylons and cigarettes.
The writer, a serviceman recently returned from overseas, is “fizzing” about the luxuries bestowed on the travelling wives – the ships laid on for their trip containing beds, food, clothes and toys galore. Or at least “galore” from the perspective of those having suffered the deprivations of 6 years of total war. He points out that the ships also contain “Thousands of soluble nappies (whatever they may be)” – and yes, whatever were they? I can’t find any more details about them but presume they were an early form of disposable nappy.
Their food is a particular bugbear:
“Notice their breakfast the day they sailed? Tomato juice, porridge, scrambled eggs, bread, marmalade and coffee. Now, I hope America provided that for them. Because if it came off our rations, then I take more than [a] somewhat dim view of it. Particularly when I think of the mess of dried egg I went to work on this morning.”
Well, he’s got a point. But between the delights of young love and the joy of the war ending, it must have been a giddy time.
“Well, isn’t that just too, too thrilling?”
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 3rd February, 1946
And here’s the article that has got our brilliantly sarcastic author all worked up – bananas, soluble nappies and all. It’s from the same newspaper, a week earlier. It shows that an amazing 12,000 brides were due to sail to the U.S. in February 1946.
Lanarkshire Sunday Post, 27th January 1946
Interestingly, I found out that “over-fed, over-paid, over-sexed, and over here” is a phrase that doesn’t seem to have featured in print during the war, despite it being extremely well-known at the time as it was popularised by comic Tommy Trinder. The earliest reference to it in print found by Phrases.org.uk is from 1958, but I’ve found this, an ex-GI mentioning the phrase, from 1948:
Jean Harlow, tragic blonde bombshell, died only 2 years after this article was printed. In 1937, kidney failure took her at the ridiculously young age of 26. “Jean” was actually her mother’s name, she was born with the very original name of “Harlean”.
Jean Harlow, 1930
This woman knew a strong look when she saw one, and here she is discussing something close to my heart, the joy of wearing black, which looked exceptionally striking against her platinum blonde hair. The intricately-described outfits sound like the most dizzyingly perfect of 1930s creations. This is from The Gloucester Citizen, which also published Katharine Hepburn’s Beauty Tips.
The Gloucester Citizen, 7th May, 1935
“Newer and more original colours may come and go, as fashion predicts, but black, in so far as I am concerned, is always first favourite. There was a time, of course, when blonde-haired girls carefully avoided black for summer and springtime wear. But clever draperies, cool accessories, and diaphanous materials have succeeded in making black look as cool, if not cooler, than its pastel and white competitors.
In fact, cooler – because nothing looks more ungainly to the eye on a hot day or evening than a rumpled, soiled gown that started to a social function or on a shopping jaunt, as fresh as a flower, and will inevitably return “dashed” looking, and with its owner in a “dashed” temper because she knows she is not looking her best.
Here are descriptions of three of my favourite additions to a Springtime wardrobe. The first is that enviable possession – an evening gown. Of sleek, heavyweight crepe de chine, the long, slim skirt flares out at the hem, which is only half an inch from the ground, and ends in a tiny train. The “top” or jacket, which is waist-length and is attached to a stitched belt of its own material, is covered with gleaming paillettes, which look like jet “bugles”, but are actually manufactured from cellophane and are much more durable than bead trimming.
Sleeves are elbow-length and again trimmed with the paillettes. A long, turn-back collar has a daringly low V-shaped décolletage. This creation can be worn with an evening hat, a toque of dull crepe with a design of the paillettes sewn on at one side and decorated with tiny wisps of paradise.
Then for the “little occasion”, there is long, sleek gown on crepe romaine or heavy georgette, over a white satin slip. A bloused effect, rather high-waisted, and with plenty of fullness, has tiny pleats each side. The sleeves are composed of sets of minute pleats drawn into a tight cuff at the elbow, finished with a turn-back fold of white silk pique. A high-cowl collar, with a fold of the white silk pique next to the face (for a youthful look), dwindles away into nothing at the back but a set of crossed-over “braces” of the silk pique. The skirt is long and narrow and affects no fullness until it gets to below the knees, when it frivolously flares out round the feet.
For afternoon wear or a game of bridge comes a gown as austere as a man’s. Fashioned from very fine wool crepe de chine, the whole garment is simply a series of cartridge pleats. A long finely pleated gown from shoulder to bottom hem line, drawn in at the neck line with a silver cord, and at the waist line by a beaten silver belt of Russian design. Voluminous sleeves, cut high on the shoulder line and drawn in at the wrists with tiny silver cords. No jewellery or embellishments but one thin strand of seed pearls around the neck.
Three black thoughts, but elegant ones, I can assure you.”
Right, so this is the new Keep Calm and Carry On, as far as I’m concerned.
For the good of your health, have a biscuit! Well, so said the “Cake and Biscuits Manufacturers War Time Alliance Ltd” in 1948. I love the way the fact that a pound of sweet biscuits is proudly presented as containing (a strangely specific) 2,204 calories, which would be cause for shame now.
Western Daily Press, 5th July 1948
This also happened to be the first day the National Health Service came into being.
I don’t know about you, but this is an extremely apt motto for my office at around 3pm. In fact, I’m off to print a copy of this to place over the special “biscuit desk” we have (and which is just one reason I love my new job).
“Disgusting charge against a lady” runs one of the headlines regarding “The Black Beetle Pie case” of 1863, and that just about sums it up.
Whilst fruitlessly looking for more information about the real Dr Frankenstein of 1863, I came across this riotous story. Dashingly-dressed Mrs Elizabeth Wilton of Brixton was charged with making a pie filled with black beetles and then giving it to her servant to feed to next-door’s coachman, for some reason. The unfortunate recipient of the pie, Edward Gardiner, “swallowed six or seven mouthfuls, but finding the taste exceedingly unpleasant, he looked and saw that the pie was filled with black beetles.” A mere six or seven mouthfuls to find that out?
Mrs Wilton said she’d made it “for a lark” but was charged with “intent to aggrieve and annoy” Mr Gardiner. She claimed she never thought he’d actually eat the thing and he would realise immediately it was a joke – but hang on, she’d not only filled the pie with beetles, she also put 30 grains of gamboge in it too. Gamboge being a yellow tree sap used as a laxative, the addition of which would seem to be unnecessary if it wasn’t intended to be eaten. Mr Gardiner said “…it was nasty stuff resembling mustard, but it was not mustard.” He took the uneaten pie to the police station, where the sergeant on duty said “…anything more filthy and disgusting he had never seen. The stench was so intolerable that he had to open all the Station-house windows to get rid of it.”
Her pie-madness didn’t stop there however. The article goes on to say that she voluntarily brought a new pie to the police station, “intended for sale at a bazaar, but which she wished to leave for approval.” I think we can guess what was in it, but it was even stranger than the first one. Inspector Smith decided to investigate and found inside “a painted toy pear quite full of black beetles.” Where was she getting all these beetles from?
Newcastle Daily Journal, 22nd June 1863
The case was briefly notorious, with crowds outside the court shouting “Who made the black beetle pie?” and inside “the court was crowded to suffocation”.
Somerset Western Gazette, 4th July 1863
The court heard that Mrs Wilton had had a dispute with this neighbour, on account of the bands she engaged to play loud music at her house two or three times a week until the early hours. She had also been spotted throwing bricks at the neighbour’s windows. One of the articles mentions that she also baked a pie for one of these bands, but this time instead of beetles it contained ladies knickers, which the performer put on and then proceeded to dance in front of her door for a bit.
Somehow she got off the charge, her practical joke defence having worked.
Cheshire Observer, 11th July, 1863
However, “the crowd in front of the court was so immense, and the feeling against her so strong, that it was not considered safe for her to leave. She in consequence felt it prudent to send home her carriage and take her station in the gaoler’s room, where she remained with her friends, and having been supplied with some creature comforts, departed in an hour in a street-cab, accompanied by a stylish young man, and thus ended the black beetle pie case.”
Exeter and Plymouth Gazette, 10th July 1863
Exeter and Plymouth Gazette, 10th July 1863
Exeter and Plymouth Gazette, 10th July 1863
And yet it wasn’t the end, quite. She got into trouble again a month later, for getting drunk and knocking off a policeman’s hat. Which ranked extremely highly on the shocking crime scale in 1863. Asbo-material, she was.
Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper, 23rd August, 1863
One thing continually mentioned in the reports is that she was Mrs Elizabeth Wilton, “alias Hyde”. Well, if you’re going to have an alias, isn’t Hyde the best one to have? However, this was 20 years before “The Curious Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” was written. In my imagination, a 13-year-old Robert Louis Stephenson read the widely circulated reports of this case, and the alias of a madwoman stuck in his subconscious mind.
I was delighted to find out after reading all this that there was a folk song written about Elizabeth Wilton. Of course there was. And even more delighted that a version of it, Black Beetle Pies, was recorded very recently by Bellowhead – see below. It reminds me of brilliantly strange circus music, and that’s just about one of my favourite things.
Bellowhead’s John Spiers said of the song “It’s about this woman who set herself up as an altruistic helper of the poor. So she started her own soup kitchen and boarding house, but despite appearances to the contrary she had complete contempt for the people she was purporting to help and would put all sorts of horrible things like black beetles into their food to see how hungry they were.” I’m guessing this was a fictionalised version of the truth, or at least I can find no mention of this particular angle on The British Newspaper Archive. But then again, I wouldn’t put it past her, quite frankly.
