Friday 13th today, and I started wondering how long this idea of an unlucky tradition had been around. It sounds ancient, and apparently does have medieval origins in that, at least, Fridays and the number 13 were individually seen as being unlucky. But in the UK, in popular culture, it seems to be much more recent that I imagined.
I found this 1899 article from the London Morning Post, informing its readers of the tradition, which they describe as a piece of Belgian folklore. The Belgian people, being “exceedingly superstitious“, apparently tried to ensure their undertakings were as minimal as possible on the day, “few letters and telegrams will be despatched, the takings of shopkeepers will be small, journeys will be avoided, cabs and trams will be looked at askance, boats will be shunned like the plague, and the theatres will be deserted.”
14th January 1899, London Morning Post
In 1899, as in 2017, the first Friday 13th of the year was in January. This, so the article says, means “an evil augury for the year, and the superstitious will inevitably say that we are destined to witness great disasters before twelve months have expired.” I’m not woo enough to be worried about Friday 13th as a rule, but with the Curious Orange being inaugurated (note the relationship with the word augury!) next week….well, that sounds about right.
17th January 1899, London Morning Post
I loved reading this, a letter sent to the paper a few days later, from a correspondent who is delighted to read of this superstition, having noted in their own lives the unluckiness of Friday and the number 13, and especially both together. “In short, as things stand, so great has my horror of the combination become that I fear ere Friday 13th October, I will have qualified for the coroner.”
I think about half of us are hoping for a better 2017 than 2016, and I personally have my fingers crossed that there’s a kind of yin/yang effect between 2016 and 2017, with a stream of the world’s baddies meeting the Grim Reaper this year instead. I’ve got a little list if he needs any help. Unfortunately the events of 2016 seem like merely the prelude for the full 2017 spectacle, but we’ll see.
Today’s post, in the spirit of hope, is a piece of ephemera, a Victorian New Year card, complete with song. These kind of cards were often pasted into scrapbooks at the time.
I do love an advert for a Victorian “cure-all”. Here we have Holloway’s Ointment in an advert from 1872.
It claims to cure (deep breath) – coughs, colds, bronchitis, asthma, irregular action of the heart, bad legs, bad breasts, ulcers, abscesses, wounds, sores of all kinds, “the depraved humours of the body will be quickly removed”, gout, rheumatism, neuralgic pains, “skin diseases, however desperate, radically cured”, scald heads, itch, blotches on the skin, scrofulous sores or king’s evil, dropsical swellings, paralysis, burns, bunions, chilblains, chapped hands, corns, contracted and stiff joints, fistula, gout, glandular swellings, lumbago, piles, sore nipples, sore throats, scurvy, sore heads, tumours and ulcers.
Bedfordshire Mercury, 2nd November 1872
It came in a lovely pot. Holloway’s Ointment
Thomas Holloway, the founder of Holloway’s Ointment, died in 1883 as one of the richest men in England. At that point Holloway’s were spending an incredible £50,000 a year on advertising the products, but unsurprisingly, contemporary analysis of the ointment showed that it contained little of medicinal value.
“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.
Here’s an advert from a Liverpool greengrocer publicising his recent present to Queen Victoria.
“Her Majesty the Queen has been graciously pleased to order the acknowledgement of the box of FORBIDDEN FRUIT, &e., forwarded by MR MIDDLEWOOD, of this town, which arrived in the most perfect state, and was very much approved of at the Royal table.”
Liverpool Mercury, 12th March 1841
Well, if it’s good enough for the Queen it’s good enough for you, Mr Middlewood is telling Liverpool here. But what was forbidden fruit?
The advert says they are “selected the best in Nassau”, and forbidden fruit was actually the first name given to the natural hybrid fruit of the Bahamas, the grapefruit, first discovered in the mid-18th century. Later on it was termed “grapefruit” after the way the fruits grew in clusters on the tree, a bit like grapes. Bit of a name downgrade though.
Mr Middlewood also sells “shaddocks”, which are the citrus fruits now more commonly termed pomelos – although confusingly, both “pomelo” and “shaddock” also used to be names for the grapefruit, and pomelos are one of the ingredients of the cocktail “Forbidden Fruit”.
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ddock really doesn’t sound like the right thing to call a fruit. It just reminds me of that strange creature, the “Shadmock”, in the horror film “The Monster Club”, but then again he’s a hybrid too….
“Vicarious Menstruation” – was there ever a headline that so should be the title of a Carcass song?
Here’s some Victorian cases of vicarious menstruation – that is, bleeding from other parts of the body instead of, or during, a period. I have heard of women getting nose bleeds just before their period starts so perhaps there’s something in it – the capillaries become more permeable around this time, which could explain it. There were more untreated infections around in the 19th century as well, so possibly weaker immune systems could make this more likely, however bizarre it sounds. All these cases are taken from the Dublin Medical Press.
A woman suffers bleeding on her shins during her period – it sounds like this could be leg ulcers affected by the more permeable capillaries. Dublin Medical Press, 2nd April, 1851
This is an odd one. The patient had never menstruated, but suffered many pains and strangely, discovered small, white, gelatinous balls coming from her bladder, uterus, stomach and rectum. Then “glairy matter” came up from her stomach, she vomited blood infested with roundworms, and also found roundworms in her vagina. Poor cow.
Incidentally, this is the definition of “glairy”: having a slimy viscid consistency suggestive of an egg white, “cough productive of glairy mucoid sputum” —Journal of the American Medical Association. Glairy mucoid sputum – we’re back to Carcass again. Dublin Medical Press, 4th February 1852
This woman bled from her toes. All very strange…. Dublin Medical Press, 1st October 1856
I can’t say I’ve ever experienced anything like this. Anyone?
The Grand National is coming up soon – living in Liverpool as I do, this is a big deal in the city, although I’ve never been myself.
I was reading up about the history of the event and the provenance of one of the most infamous jumps of the race – Becher’s Brook. It was named after Captain Martin Becher, who won the first Steeplechase at Aintree in 1836, on a horse called The Duke. However, this race and the following two are now disregarded as part of the history of the Grand National proper. The first “real” Grand National was officially in 1839, although it was then called The Grand Liverpool Steeplechase. Becher also entered the 1839 race, riding on Conrad, and fell at the first brook. He survived by lying in the brook until all the horses had passed and later remarked how the experience had made him realise that “water tastes disgusting without the benefits of whisky.”
Becher sounded like quite a character – his party trick consisted of leaping onto a mantelpiece from a standing jump. Now that I’d have liked to see. Maybe he would have done better on the Brook without the horse?
We all know the Grand National is held at Aintree, which is charmingly described below as “…in the winter season not fit for the dwelling-place of a snipe possessing a sense of what is due to snipe-hood.” London Daily News, 22nd March, 1872
But was it always at Aintree? This question throws up a surprising amount of confusion which I am going to try to unravel.
This little article from The Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser explains how the first three races didn’t count, although it doesn’t explain why. Here’s the first confused facts you’ll see in this post – the 1839 race was actually on 26th February, not 24th: The Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser, 17th April, 1908
The first Steeplechase was in 1836, and held annually every year after that, and apparently all of them were called The Grand Liverpool Steeplechase until 1847. At that point, the name was changed to The Grand National Handicap Steeplechase, which is still its official title today. According to those who know, the 1836, 1837 and 1838 races originally counted as official races, but their status as official Grand Nationals was revoked at some point between 1862 and 1873. The official Grand National site states that this is because the race was originally run at the Maghull racecourse and moved to Aintree in 1839 – hence being essentially the same race from that point on, run on the same ground. But where the races were actually run from 1836 to 1838 are the subject of some dispute – Wikipedia says:
“There is much debate regarding the first official Grand National; most leading published historians, including John Pinfold, now prefer the idea that the first running was in 1836 and was won by The Duke. This same horse won again in 1837, while Sir William was the winner in 1838. These races have long been disregarded because of the belief that they took place at Maghull and not Aintree. However, some historians have unearthed evidence in recent years that suggest those three races were run over the same course at Aintree and were regarded as having been Grand Nationals up until the mid-1860s. To date, though, calls for the Nationals of 1836–1838 to be restored to the record books have been unsuccessful.”
The “some historians” include Mike Mutlow, whose site is possibly the definitive one on the subject – here. It seems to be now agreed that the 1836 race was at Aintree, but Mike says that 1837 and 1838 must have also been there, as the Maghull course closed in 1835. Which ties in with this note I found in The Dublin Evening Packet and Correspondent from the start of 1835: The Dublin Evening Packet and Correspondent, 1st January, 1835
Mike writes:
“Why would so many mistakes creep into the records of the world’s greatest steeplechase? Basically because steeplechasing was not really recognised until the late 1860s, after the National Hunt Committee was formed in 1866. The records of the Grand National were then officially compiled, but from memory only, some thirty years after the event, which is when the mistakes first crept in. These errors were then duplicated….T.H.Bird’s book (One Hundred Grand Nationals) attempts to sidestep the issue by suggesting that the 1837 and 1838 races were run over a course that stretched from Aintree to Maghull, but this is geographically impossible.”
OK, my British Newspaper Archive finger is all atwitch. Let me add my findings to the debate. Looking at the newspapers, The Grand National was a sensation right from the start, and massively popular.
Firstly – it seems to be agreed now that it was in Aintree in 1836, and so it states in the Westmorland Gazette and Kendal Advertiser: Westmorland Gazette and Kendal Advertiser, 5th March, 1836
But it’s still written in various places, including in in the official annals, that the 1837 and 1838 races were at Maghull. Well, not according to the Leeds Intelligencer in 1837: Leeds Intelligencer, 4th March, 1837
Or the Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser, which also agrees it was at Aintree: Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser, 4th March, 1837
The Preston Chronicle says it was run on the Aintree course in 1838: Preston Chronicle, 10th March, 1838
The London Morning Post agrees and gives details about what the actual course was like, even stating “The line of country chosen was the same as that run over on former occasions of a similar nature at Aintree.” The London Morning Post, 8th March, 1838
The information I’ve read says that date and place confusion arose in the 1860s when histories of the event were written for the first time, from memory, and that the previously accepted races of 1836-38 were discounted at this point because of a belief that they had been run at Maghull racetrack. But discrepancies and disagreements arose earlier than that. Most of what I could see seems to class the 1839 race as the first one almost as soon as it had been run. But not because the previously ones had been run at Maghull – there is no mention of any of them being run anywhere but Aintree. It seems to me it was for a different reason.
Here’s Lloyd’s Weekly London Newspaper mentioning the 5th anniversary in 1843 – making the first one 1839, and ignoring the first three. Lloyd’s Weekly London Newspaper, 5th March, 1843
And so also says The Coventry Standard. Perhaps it was promoted as the 5th anniversary specifically by the organisers of the time as there were numerous newspapers describing it as such. Coventry Standard, 3rd March 1843
But just to confuse things further, here’s an article about the 17th anniversary in 1853, making the first one 1837: The Era, 6th March 1853
HOWEVER, in 1842 reporting was fairly widespread stating it was the 4th anniversary of the race since it gained the distinction of being called “national”, although the details in the different newspapers seem to come from the same report. So in 1839, the designation of “national” was bestowed for the first time, hence it being officially a “different race”: The Southern Reporter and Cork Commercial Courier, 8th March, 1842
And indeed, the name may have officially changed to “Grand National” in 1847, but it’s called “national” for the first time in 1839, at least in some newspapers: The Dublin Monitor, 1st January, 1839
Bell’s Life in London and Sporting Chronicle, 27th January, 1839Bell’s Life in London and Sporting Chronicle, 24th February, 1839
And in 1840, and beyond: The London Morning Chronicle, 7th March, 1840
So, if its title and designation changed in 1839, it is justifiable that the races before that were not part of the history of the “Grand National”. But there is no reference that I can see in contemporary accounts to the 1837 and 1838 races being run at Maghull at all, and indeed the racetrack seems to have closed in 1835. It wasn’t in the 1860s that the history of the event changed, as far as I can see – it was right from the start.
But why was Maghull raised as a possibility at all? Here’s a couple of clues. In 1937 The Grand National, rather controversially, designated that year the centenary. Obviously at some later point, it officially changed its mind about that date and reverted to 1839. Why 1837? Because the 1837 race was the first one written on an old raceboard hanging in the stands at Aintree (1836 somehow fell through the gaps). It also said the race was at Maghull, which is possibly where all the confusion first arose. I suspect this scoreboard wasn’t written at the actual time of the race, otherwise why do all the newspaper accounts mention Aintree instead? The Nottingham Evening Post, 17th March, 1937
And then this became a local urban legend, propagated by local farmers. Although in this case, perhaps it could be better called a “rural legend”. There was still dispute over this – many different farmers claimed the race was run over their fields, basically graffiti-ing “The Grand National woz ‘ere” over their walls: The Nottingham Evening Post, 17th March, 1937
Confusion reigns at the end of the day, but in matters of detail I tend to trust the contemporary accounts. Aintree was a newer course, and so I don’t think it would have just been assumed that the steeplechase would have been held there. Admittedly, the fact the two villages were not far from each other could have caused some kind of geographical confusion in the newspaper reports. But despite that, none I saw mentioned Maghull at all. That course had already closed down.
But despite the lack of “national” status (however that was bestowed), I feel the first three should count, they certainly are reported as being run over the same course after all. Give Captain Becher his due as the first Grand National winner! There’s such a poignant line from his obituary in The Lancashire Gazette – at his last public appearances “he was in his usual spirits but it was clear he had almost run his race.” Lancashire Gazette, 22nd March, 1864
Finally, there’s nothing new under the sun and all that. Here’s a complaint about the race’s cruelty, way back at the time of the first official race, in 1839: Blackburn Standard, 6th March 1839
Ah! I saw “Sit-upons” and thought it meant bottom (bottoms?), but that would be a bit too rude apparently. It’s another word for “trousers” which, in slang terms, were described so shyly that I’m imagining people were only able to silently mouth the word in polite conversation. Much like a certain type of person of the older generation who does the same for the word “lesbian” now.
Forty-foot, a derisive appellation for a very short person.
Forty-foot, well, that could used to describe me. There must be something especially amusing about the number forty.
There’s also another word for toilet on this page –
Forakers, the closet of decency or house of office.- Term used by the boys at Winchester School.
I was looking up the reason for this, and it turns out Forakers is an old word to refer to part of a field, so their original loo was the field behind the school.
J. T. Hensing discovered phosphorus in the brain in 1719, and opened the way to a later slew of phosphorus-based medical compounds claiming to be good for the brain. Of course, in the grand tradition of Victorian cure-all pharmaceuticals, they were also claimed to be good for a big long list of other ailments too. One of these was Freeman’s Syrup of Phosphorus as seen below in an advert from 1884. It’s from Hieroglyphic magazine – although it’s not really a magazine, it’s a promotional material for a company called Goodall’s, who sold this syrup, along with a lot of foodstuffs,like custard and baking ingredients. And it’s where I got my Victorian plum pudding recipe, here – https://skittishlibrary.co.uk/vintage-recipes-christmas-pudding-1884/
Hieroglyphic, 1884
A “syrup of phosphorus”, which could have been this one, was described in the British Pharmacopea in 1885 as being a compound of phosphoric acid, sodium phosphate and iron sulphate. Some phosphorus-based medicine caused more damage than good – I’m not sure if this was one of them. In any case, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the miracle worker it claims, which even by Victorian standards, strikes me as almost sarcastically outrageous. A brain and nerve tonic; supplier of new and fresh blood; curer of depression, indigestion, constipation and the previously considered incurable diseases of consumption and wasting disease; useful for those involved in brain-work; even fine for delicate women and babies; and, most incredibly, will add twenty years to your life – “None now need despair of life.”
Looking for a bit more information about this brought me to the always brilliant Old Bailey archives, whose Victorian transcripts often read like crime novels in themselves. Here, a case was brought against Sarah Ann Louis and Walter Stafford for “…feloniously having in their possession 41 threepenny stamps which had been mutilated.” It seems these two were responsible for distributing Freeman’s Syrup, as well as the more popular Jenner’s Syrup of Phosphorus too – maybe they were the same thing. What I love is the discussion around naming medications after fictional doctors –“…it is not unusual for a patent medicine to have a doctor’s name to it, like Dr Townsend’s Sarsparilla, Dr Buchan’s pills, and Dr Coffin’s.” Ah, Dr Coffin’s medicine, the obvious choice for a fictional, yet reassuring, name.
