Valentine’s Special – Vinegar, Vitriol, and Vehemence – The violent vanity of Victorian Valentines
Your hosts for the day are Daniel Shepherd and Gemma Minter.
Our loved ones may be nailed in a coffin but their epitaph is nailed in our hearts.
Vincent Okay Nwachukwu
For time immemorial, love, crime and imprisonment have been as linked as the ankle chains on a shuffling prisoner. One of the very first stories attributed to Saint Valentine, was that of his love for his jailor’s daughter. He had supposedly cured her of blindness, fallen in love with her and had sent a note to, closing with the oft repeated nom de guerre – “From your Valentine”.
The oldest recorded Valentine was written in 1415 by another prisoner. This time Charles, the twenty-one-year-old Duke of Orléans, to his beloved wife Bonne of Armagnac. Charles had been imprisoned in the tower of London following his part in the battle of Agincourt and wrote to her saying:
“My gentle Valentine,
Since for me you born too soon,
And I for you was born too late,
God forgives him who has estranged
Me from you for the whole year
I am already sick of love
My very gentle Valentine.”
Bonne’s date of death isn’t precisely known, but what is known was that she was feted never to lay eyes on her spouse again. Charles was released between five and ten years after her death, his very ‘gentle Valentine’ gone long before him.
The Victorian era, whilst perhaps not as full of the notion of chivalry as the middle ages, was well known for its depictions of love, lust, and jealousy.
The birth of the Valentine’s Day Card
You may be wondering how we coped before the advent of moonpig, vista print and Clintons cards. Indeed, how were our ancestors able to express their undying devotion, their unfaltering ardour, without the mass printed soulless platitudes on offer these days, for our special…ish, loved ones? Did they paint words of love on the sides of sheep, perhaps they scythed love letters in the meadows? Perhaps, they even spoke? Fear not intrepid listener, we will tell all.
The sending of notes and flowers to loved, and wronged, ones has existed since at least the 1700s. These homemade missives would be chock-a-block with effusive words, declarations and allusions, but alas, with no actual chocolate blocks; that wasn’t until 1868 with Cadbury’s heart-shaped ‘fancy boxes’. By 1797, you could even buy pre-written verse, to copy out in your very own handwriting, and send your plagiarized, ahem, prized verse to the apple of your eye.
The arrival of the commercially available valentine’s card, however, was heralded by an oh so romantic boon in technological printing advances and postal reform. In the Victorian era, printing presses became more widespread, affordable and efficient, and revolutionized the creation of newspapers, books and, most importantly for our prospective procreators, cards. In 1835 alone, around 60,000 Valentine’s Day cards were sent via post in Britain and, after the instigation of the penny post some five years later, this number shot up to over 400,000: that’s a whole lot of love.
At Woking Post Office, in 1847 upwards of 500 ‘sweet missives’ were posted one Friday to be sent to recipients in the area. These cards would depict everything from Halley’s comet to leap years, from lobsters to having genuine dead birds attached; each competing with one and other to send the most unique card and expression of love.
These cards could also be beautiful constructions, replete with frills, lace and hidden compartments; indeed, to say they were pants, would have been quite the compliment. They were, on the whole, utterly beautiful and, by the time of mass printing, these tokens of affection were available to the masses. And then there was vinegar verse…
A Scolding Woman’s Tongue is a Scorpion
‘If you should ever be a wife
Oh dear imagine what a life,
You’ll lead your husband, for I’m sure.
Your tongue not many would endure’.
And so begins a romantic tale from man to woman, sort of. The aforementioned verse, far from being a declaration of warmth, was the utter inverse and epitomises a rise in vinegar verse, also known as mock or satirical valentines, which were scathing and oftentimes insulting epistles characteristic of the mid to late Victorian period.
These postcards were designed to chide or insult and could be sent to jilted lovers or prospective beaus alike. They were cheap, flimsy bits of paper with grotesque caricatures on their front accompanied by mean spirited poems. Each card had an ‘archetype’ it ascribed to; there was the ‘male drunkard’, the ‘female snob’ and even ‘the ass’ as this next example will attest.
Write You Down An Ass, Tis Done Sir.
‘Oh what a pretty Valentine,
And so like you, friend of mine
For every one says you’re an ass,
And other donkeys quite surpass.’
The vinegar verse really took off in Britain and estimates are that by the 1870s, around 750,000 were being sent each year. It is hard to correctly guess how many were sent, as they were made of cheap degradable materials and the recipients would have most likely tossed them in the bin or fire, after having been insulted, but the insults sometimes went more than skin deep.
On the 24th July 1909, the Hull Daily Mail related a story of a fifty-year-old mason in Stowford, near Yeovil, slitting his own throat on receipt of one of these ‘vulgar’ postcards. Nor was this an isolated incident. In 1885, as reported by the Pall Mall Gazette, a husband shot his estranged wife in the neck after receiving a vinegar valentine that he knew was from her. A quick flick through Victorian newspapers elucidates a spate of card caused deaths.
Puzzled by Love
Much like the folded fortune teller games played in British playgrounds nowadays, where you you pick a number between 1 and 5 and paper will be manipulated to show your future, the Victorians also employed exquisite origami to achieve bafflement and allure in equal measure.
These cards would have on each square a number, for the order in which to be read, protestations or poems of love with a final message in the middle. This message would also often be accompanied by a ring or lock of hair…more on that later. Once folded, these papers would conceal from the casual observer, the gushing from an ardent admirer. Moreover, not only would these paper constructions demonstrate a strong ardour, they would also demonstrate the handicraft and domestic skill of the creator, which were, in their own right, were much-prized assets.
Smelly bushes and horns
Two things you never want to see hammered to your door, but that’s exactly what happened in one Surrey village in the 1700s. In Blackheath village, Woking, couples who were found to have flagrantly flouted ‘village rules’, such as conducting extra-marital affairs, nagging, or being cuckolded, would be tried by their neighbours for their perceived social crimes. The offenders, if they failed to repent, would find symbols of their crimes nailed to their door, horns for cuckolded men and smelly bushes for, ahem, unchaste women.
These village courts would sit only at certain points in the year; New Year’s Eve, Shrove Tuesday, Guy Fawkes Night and, bizarrely, Valentine’s day.
Hairy rings and lovelocks
To a modern man or woman, having a hairy ring on your finger would be considered incongruous, if not a little creepy, but for the Victorian, it was seen as haute couture: by why? The giving and keeping of hair was a sign of utmost sentimentality and affection, from babes to mothers, friends to lovers, hair signified a lasting bond, a keepsake and, often in cases of death, mortuary remembrance and a salve for grief. Aside from the intangible relief it provided, human hair is a lasting material, can retain scent and, importantly for a jeweller, is easily worked into elaborate designs.
Whilst the giving of hair was a chiefly feminine affair the recipients could be of either gender; men could have it made into watch fobs or braids and women as rings, necklaces and even hair bows.
Just like the cult of the saints from former days, these very human relics would be cherished, venerated and prove a sign of utter and undying devotion, beyond the mortality of the beloved.
THE PITMAN OF DESPAIR
Joseph Ellis married twenty-year-old Isabella Steel in his parish, St John’s Gateshead Fell, when he was thirty-one years old. As a pitman or collier, who were relatively well paid at that time, he would have expected to be able to provide a comfortable living for his wife and any children they might have: but within a year disaster struck.
An accident befell Ellis. He was crippled by it and would find it impossible to move unaided without crutches for the rest of his life. Even so Isabella remained with him, maimed though he was, and life carried on Over the next twelve years they had four children, named after various older family members, and the expanding family continued to live in coal mining communities, with Joseph evidently managing to maintain his title of Pitman, even with severely curtailed mobility.
The children grew, aged, married, and moved, though not very far in some cases as one daughter rented the property next door! But Joseph began to struggle. Perhaps due to his infirmity, or the decade difference between him and his younger wife, whichever it was, the 61-year-old became increasingly jealous of a neighbor that his wife had been speaking to…
October of 1856, Isabella was washing the windows of their house in Washington, Durham when Joseph became irate. His jealously could no longer be controlled. He struck Isabella, first with a fist and then with a poker. Her cries, loud enough to be heard next door, brought her daughter running. She dragged her mother away to have her wounds tended and Joseph, was arrested.
He faced the courts of Durham in December of that year. This crime, whilst violent and vicious, was his first and as a 61-year-old cripple, the courts recommended mercy. He was sentenced to a lowly 6 years of penal service. He served at Durham Prison for half a year, likely held in strict seclusion as was the norm, before being moved on to Millbank Prison, It must’ve been hard at Millbank, the only entertainment being the distant chimes of big Ben, as it slowly demarcated each passing hour. For Joseph, deemed too weak to endure the mental rigors of silence and separation, this was rejected, and he was housed in communication cells instead. The medical officer considering it too taxing for someone of his constitution.
During his time in these two prisons Joseph picked Oakam, as his contracted limb did not allow him to work outside; although it’s doubtful if the view of the Millbank Burial ground near the outdoor works, would have added much levity to the sentence. He was then transferred to Lewes Prison to lodge with the other infirm inmates, whilst awaiting the completion of Woking Prison. Then in March of 1860 he made the journey with dozens of others to the brand-new invalid establishment.
Two years later he was released on license due to his ill-health with the Medical Officer of Woking Prison designating him “A weak old man”.
Yet, not so weak that he couldn’t make it back to Durham and locate his wife. Isabella had taken a job as a housekeeper on a farm, where she was comfortably well off, had gained a few pounds and was contentedly “doing for herself”.
The spectral appearance of her estranged spouse could only be looked upon with disfavor. He stumped into the kitchen of the farmhouse, in the morning of the 23rd of April, 7 weeks after his release from Woking Prison. Reconciliation with his younger wife was clearly on his mind and, after making some admittedly foolish comment on her weight gain (which thankfully she cheerfully admitted to), he requested a kiss; the forerunner to a resurgence in marital obligation. But Isabella was less than enamored with the previously violent man with a criminal record.
She declined and told him she was happily looking after herself, as she had been the last four and half years, and pointedly encouraged him to do the same. Joseph was less than impressed. Perhaps it was the damage to his ego, perhaps it was a loss of hope, but Joseph acted, withdrew a knife and attempted to slit her throat. Thankfully his decrepit frame allowed Isabella to fend him off, receiving cuts to the face and hands, before her employer threw the convict into the garden.
Joseph was arrested and brought before the county assizes. His crime, the second against his poor battered wife, was looked upon with great disdain. In his sixties, and crippled, he was 20 years above the average life expectancy for 1862, and this, this great age, was the only thing that reduced his sentence from twenty years to ten. His first seven months of imprisonment took place in strict separation at Durham County Gaol. There was to be no communication between him and any other inmate; this second time through the system, he was not granted an escape from the silence of his own mind. The only distraction again was oakum picking, yet again his daily task. In 1863 he was returned to Woking Prison, his abode for the next seven years.
Once again he was released early, heaven only knows why with his penchant for pursuing his poor partner, but, in 1870, Ellis would die within the year.
VALENTINE IN WOKING
Valentines is well known for socially acceptable displays of affection. Sometimes also for the socially unacceptable too, as in the case of Colonel Valentine Baker. Colonel Baker was well regarded in his sphere, he had been medaled at Kaffir Africa, and served at both Crimea and the fall of Sebastopol. Then, during peacetime, he served as assistant General Quartermaster at Aldershot and was a member of the tenth Hussars. His reputation preceded him as a man of integrity and chivalrous honesty, that is until the façade came crashing down.
In 1875, Colonel Baker was called to the bar. The court was overwhelmed with attendees, both male and female. People even swarmed through the cells under the building, to gain entrance through the dock! The judge had to halt proceedings almost immediately to order the road outside cleared, purely so he could hear the proceedings.
Colonel Valentine was accused of attempted assault, sexual assault and attempted rape on an unaccompanied twenty-two-year-old woman, whilst on a train passing through Woking. The woman, Miss Rebecca Kate Dickinson[1], was an upper middle-class unmarried girl of good looks and of a “modest and innocent” disposition. What was his response to this vile and indecorous crime, you ask? “I solemnly declare upon my honour, that the lady, under the influence of alarm, exaggerated the case.” No protestations of guilt from this military man, oh no, but it was an exaggeration, a confusion, on the part of the female.
Miss Dickinson was travelling alone for the first time on the 17th of June, no doubt armed with knowledge of the terrible crime’s humanity can commit, but not expecting it from so well placed a man as the middle aged Colonel who joined her in the carriage. Initially the journey was quiet, a few mild questions, but just after the Woking stop, with the next stop a good half an hour away, Baker started to interrogate the increasingly disturbed damsel. Having tried to talk to her about mesmerism, saying he had friends who could cause a woman to follow them with no idea at all, he moved on to simpler conversation.
“I suppose you don’t often travel alone”
“Never”
“Could you fix a time when you will be on the line again”
“No”
“Will you give me your name”
“I shan’t”
“Give me your name, that I may know when I hear.”
“I shan’t”
“Why not?”
“Because, I don’t choose; I don’t see any reason why I should”
Rebecca was firm in her refusals. Valentine stood and closed the window to the carriage.
“Give me your Christian name.”
She said nothing, and Valentine crossed the carriage to sit beside her, pulling her hand into his.
“Get Away! I won’t have you so near!” She pushed him away.
“You’re cross, don’t be cross”
He put his arm about her waist and she immediately stood and attempted to pull the chord to summon a guard. It was evidently faulty.
“Don’t ring! Don’t alarm the guard” he exclaimed and forced her back into the corner. He stood before her, blocking any exit and keeping her against the cushion, he kissed her. He continued to kiss her, holding her in place, and at the nearest moment when she could speak or breathe, she attempted to reason with him.
“If I tell you my name, will you get off?”
He said nothing and continued. He then slid his hand onto her ankle, just above her boot. She stood up like a rocket and attempted to break the glass of the window with her elbow. It would not budge! She wrenched down the sash on the door, thrust her head out of the window and screamed. Valentine wrangled her back into the carriage, almost suffocating her in the process.
She screamed again, fearing that this may be the last sound she would utter, and heaved open the door to the still moving train and stepped out onto the tiny footboard, clinging to the door handle and facing possible death.
The Colonel, evidently terrified that she might die, grabbed at her arm and said “Get in, dear, get in, you get in, and I’ll get out of the other door.”
Rebecca knew he would not. The door had been locked at Guildford, but they were close to the next station. As soon as they arrived at Esher, people began to rush to their carriage, no doubt having been frightened by the screams and slamming of doors. Baker, now fully aware of his culpability, hurriedly pleaded with the young woman.
“Don’t say anything – You don’t know what trouble you’ll get me into. Say you were frightened. I’ll give you my name and anything.”
Rebecca, exhausted, terrified beyond belief, and still in shock, said nothing. She was helped down from the carriage, Valentine legging it almost as soon as the train drew to a stop and removed to another carriage.
Rebecca, still traumatized, stated “I could not go on alone” and a helpful Minister, Reverend Brown, accompanied her to Waterloo where, after giving her name and address to the guards, she left.
The next day the Reverend visited her, no doubt concerned for her welfare, and she shared the full import of the terrifying travel. The Reverend was appalled and took her to the police to share her tale of woe.
So the court heard and acted on it. The defense, in a disturbing show of acceptance, agreed that an event took place. Absolutely Baker had molested her, but their argument was that he had not intended to “Ravish” her: ravish, in the old sense of the word, meaning non-consensual sex. They did not justify his actions but made a point that a man such as he, with a long history of serving his country, earning medals and not a stain on his character, surely he would never ravish.
The defense went on to state, that had he actually wanted to ravish the girl, he would have succeeded! So, clearly his lack of success was evidence of his lack of intent.
Baker’s counsel closed by offering Rebecca financial restitution and confirmation of her modesty. Had she actually been ravished, and admitted it, her reputation would have been in tatters.
After 15 minutes the jury came back. Guilty of indecent assault, but not guilty of intent to ravish.
The sentence passed was equally laughable. One year’s imprisonment with no hard labour, as a man of his social sphere would find confinement punishment enough. The public outcry was immediate and voracious. In August, the monarch herself decided that a man such as this should not be linked to her in any way and he was removed from the army, it being stated that “Her Majesty having no further occasion for his services”. The country reveled in this “proof of that firm good sense and clear perception of duty…which all her subjects gladly believe[d] her to possess[2]”.
Baker was released and within two years, was working for the government overseas arranging the Turkish Police Force[3][4]. For this role he was paid £2000 per year[5], the equivalent of over £100,000 in today’s money.
In 1884 he died, likely due to complications from a bout of typhus several years before.
As for Rebecca Kate Dickinson, she remained unmarried. Perhaps the Baker incident had terrified her too much, perhaps it was by choice as with three upper middle class brothers, financially marriage would not be a requirement for her. Either way, when she finally died in 1915, aged 62, she did so still living in Midhurst and alone.
One, twice, thirteen time’s a lady
Marriage is considered a conspicuous declaration of love before friends, family and state. It symbolises and codifies an everlasting bond between two people for, it is hoped, the rest of their lives. But sometimes, some are so enamoured with the idea of love that they can’t seem to get enough of it: Gale Gloucester was one such man.
Our cheesy antagonist was born on the 22nd of March 1823 to Charles Gloucester, a furnishing undertaker living at ‘the corner of the Broadway’ in London, and his wife, the aptly named Honour: a trait, which our dear Gloucester sadly did not inherit.
Things should’ve started well when, in 1849, Gloucester married the lovely Eliza Cecilia Gee in a ceremony witnessed by both their fathers at Christchurch in London. He was listed as a ‘professional gentleman’, an old-fashioned term for ‘living off his own means’, and in the 1851 census, we find this occupation repeated when he is living with her in Soho. Things, at least ostensibly on the surface, were going well. True Gloucester would be out for indeterminate periods of time, but the nature of his unspecified ‘work’ necessitated this. In her own words, ‘[she] certainly never had the most remote suspicion of his marrying anyone else’. But that’s precisely what he did.
Perhaps Gale Gloucester was a proto-Buddhist, the multiple vows our cheesy romantic made were for all the lives he had hoped to live in future. But either way he became one of the most prolific profligate husbands going, and he certainly had the means to do so. A man of property, if not propriety, where all over London he owned houses and wedded women, consummated it and then, after a very short period of conjugal bliss, did a runner. In Islington he married Cecilia Mary Wye, under the name of George Gordon, in Chelsea under the guise of George Thomas to Lydia March, in Hanover square to Sarah Drewitt and in Langham Place to Fanny Farell: that’s just the start.
When the news came out, a decade after marrying his first wife, the media had a field day. Comparisons to Don Juan, Henry VIII and Brigham Young, famed polygamist and founder of Mormonism, abounded in the media and they were none too kind about his indiscretions. Described in various papers as ‘aged 35, but looks older’, ‘an insignificant man’, ‘carroty haired’, ‘slight [with a] a somewhat sinister cast’ and an ‘ugly Don Juan’, the media were out for blood. Nor were their attacks solely focused on the serial bigamist.
The North British Daily Mail, a scots newspaper, attacked the stupidity of English woman with this case in point. It lambasted these women for marrying a clearly ugly man, supposing the reason for their amor to be his money and that his ‘talk about money matters’, was the sole reason why they were so easily duped.
‘Not merely English serving maids, but their mistresses, are continually being cheated by wizards, witches, and fortune-tellers. But it is, of course, matrimony which brings out most [of] the gullibility of the fair-haired and blue eyed daughters of England.’
It further went on to reprove the English for their stereotypes of the ‘canny’ scots and replied ‘it is a reproach which Scots cannot retort, for certainly caution is not an English trait’.
When the case finally came to court, Gloucester Gale admitted that he was guilty and asked for mitigation on account of a spinal injury. This was not granted and he was sentenced to 4 years penal servitude; the court had the last laugh as when Gloucester asked if he might give some personal effects to his wife, the chairman jokingly asked which one.
But this was not the end of the tale, not by a long mile. It later transpired that, far from the 7 he had initially been charged for, he had in fact married a further six, promising one that his absences were due to getting a ‘very special’ monkey for Queen Victoria herself. Another he had got pregnant and was left destitute.
Gloucester served his time but, no stranger to the law, was brought again before the courts under the pseudonym William Gloucester Bryant, declared bankrupt after being sued. It turns out The Beetles were right, money can’t buy you love.
Shotgun Wedding/ Guns and Roses
Shot in the face,
And gout’s to blame,
You give love,
A bad name.
You may be wondering what that was about I do too if I’m truthful, note to self: lay off gin. But within that poorly amended song therein lies the heart of this tale of love and loss.
Emery Scruggs, far from being a west country curse, is the name of our next incumbent inmate. A publican, born and bred in the picturesque village of Westbourne East Sussex, was a much-liked local man. His wife, Rebecca Scruggs, too was equally well liked and respected, despite a few hang-ups and hangovers. Which makes this case all the stranger for the events that transpired one terrible September morning in 1854.
Emery had been under a great deal of pressure. The application for an alcohol licence for his pub The Cricketers, was opposed and denied by the Reverend Newland and Churchwardens of Westbourne. His gout, likely caused by a ready access and excess of alcohol, had begun to flair to such an extent that he started to have ‘delirium’: a medically attested state characterised by confusion, hallucination and aggression. Add to this his wife’s severe alcoholism and we have a cocktail for disaster.
The night started well. A ball was thrown for the members of a benefit society, the ancient order of Foresters, and drink ‘flowed freely’ until a late hour. Emery in particular, was very gay and ‘exhibited much hilarity and activity’ according to the North Devon Journal. His wife also was in good spirits and later reports state that she fell over a number of times due to intoxication, had ‘said a few words to him’ and taunted him about having a ‘fancy woman’. As the party wound down and only those two remained, a final, bloody act took place.
No-one knows for sure what triggered Emery to kill his wife, whether it was because of, as his defence testified, gout delirium or due to his wife’s antics, but what is certain that just before 5am, Emery fired his gun at his wife. The bullet went straight through her skull, spattering the wall with gore, killing her instantly as she fell in the passageway beside the front door of the pub.
Emery, far from hiding his crime, roused his neighbour, Mrs Pyles, from the adjoining cottage and said to her “Get up, Mrs. Pyles, there is a dead woman in the house”. She immediately came and saw the grisly spectacle before her. Spriggs called two further women and asking them to sort out his ‘dear wife, and [do] their duty by her”: their duty in this instance meant removing her from the passageway and tidying up the scene. But before they could complete this task, he collapsed on the body and exclaimed words of such pity, that they would save him from the noose.
‘Oh, Becky, Becky, I always loved ye, and I love ye now!”
As the body was removed upstairs, Emery sought out his friend Goddard and told him of the crime.
“I had a scuffle with mv wife, but I gained the victory. I shot her with the right-hand barrel, and that’s the finger”, he said pointing with the forefinger of the right hand, “that did it”.
Goddard sent for a Constable, who sent for a surgeon and Scruggs was taken into custody at Petworth Jail. The witness descriptions and coroner’s reports are harrowing, going into great detail about the extent of the wounds and the state of the crime scene; the only saving grace being that she died instantly with ‘barely a gasp’.
During the trial, Goddard spoke about the night in question, fainting in intervals, saying he ‘had known the prisoner and the deceased for 20 years. That formerly they lived very happily together, but of late the deceased had become addicted to drinking, and this had caused differences between them. The prisoner suffered a good deal from gout. During the evening he had requested him particularly to keep his wife from getting at the spirits, but she had done so without his knowledge. The hands of the deceased were very dirty, and her nose appeared to be cut, as though she bad been falling about. They were very good friends when he left them. The prisoner was suffering from gout at the time this occurrence took place, and he had his gouty slippers on.’
The gout defence was accepted and the crime itself only slightly mitigated by his tender actions post having killed her; even so he was sentenced to serve life in prison: but the story didn’t end there.
Spriggs only served 17 years for the unlawful murder of his wife. Due to his failing health and repeated petitions for his release from friends and family, he was released in 1867 to return to the village of his birth, where the true punishment was enacted. From the day of his release to the day of his death in 1875, Emery lodging with friends and latterly the workhouse, overlooking the pub he had once owned and memories of a love and life he cut short and once knew.
So there we have it, our lowdown on loved up and banged up Victorian paramours and prisoners.
We hope you have enjoyed this podcast.
Thank you for listening to The Institutional History Society’s Valentine’s special! We couldn’t have got this far without the London Archives, the British library, and the Woking Lightbox!
Special thanks to Kevin MacLeod for the use of his music in our podcast. Any comments, requests, or feedback please send the through to our email Institutionalhistory@gmail.com.
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[1] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0002659/18750701/069/0006
[2] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000415/18750821/082/0007
[3] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0002683/18770312/026/0002
[4] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000453/18770427/059/0003
[5] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0001648/18770810/064/0003
Mad, Bad, & Bizarre – Episode 4
Christmas Conviction
Crime and the 25th of December have gone hand in hand since before it even had anything to do with the birth of a saviour. The Roman feast of Saturnalia, an ancient forerunner to Christmas, harboured just as many foul deeds. Indeed, a plot to put the entire city to the sword one Saturnalia was uncovered by the great orator, Cicero, himself. Even in later years, Christmas was a strange time: under the puritans, even the very celebration of Christmas was a crime!
Today we’re going to share with you some festive winter traditions, followed by the workings of institutions at yuletide and a selection of the crimes and intrigues that took place amidst the merriment and revelry.
The Workhouse –
If you spent thirty years in a workhouse, from between 1828 to 1858, your head would have been spinning trying to keep up with the changing rules on how to keep Christmas. At the start of this period, there was a history of sharing food with the unfortunate; in St Martin-in-the-fields the inmates were even given roast beef and alcohol… which isn’t all that different from a modern Christmas!
By 1834, with the implementation of the Poor Law Commission, things changed dramatically. It stated: “No Pauper shall be allowed to have or use any wine, beer, or spirituous or fermented liquors, unless by the direction in writing of the medical officer”. They also instructed that no extra ration was to be given on ANY feast day. Later this was softened to allow for gifts from members of the public, provided they did not negatively affect the union’s coffers.
It was around this time, that certain dark and disturbing workhouse Christmas songs appeared. One of them, Workhouse Boy, was a song about a child being used as a main ingredient for the Christmas soup provided to the inmates!
As the era progressed and the marriage of Queen Victoria
brought Albert and his German traditions to the fore, Christmas became more
than a simple religious holiday. It became a time for generosity; this was
cemented in 1843 by Charles Dickens’ preeminent work “A Christmas Carol”. By
1847, the new Poor Law Board decided that extra rations should be given as part
of the standard procedure at Christmas. Many benefactors dressed in their
finest, would descend on the miserable workhouses to spread “good cheer” with
their “Condescension”; this continued until the end of the Victorian Era.
The Prisons –
Prison was an entirely different beast altogether. The men, and women in some instances, were here due to their own wrongdoing and not as members of the industrious poor. T they were there to be punished and, as such, the only extra provision at Christmas for many of the prisoners was that of a second religious service. Religion being one of the cornerstones of the planned rehabilitation of all miscreants, this was to feed the soul if not the body.
This religious service, rather than bringing hope to inmates, left them bereft and despairing. Dr MCook Weir, Author of Prison Despotism, found the Christmas service so harrowing in his silent cell, that he was struck by the urge to end his life; fortunately he survived to tell the tale.
For some inmates Christmas made no difference. As a religious holiday, the often secular labouring poor cared little for it, and a time of excess, for those with nothing, was worse than a smack in the face. When a chaplain reviewed 25 of his inmates at a local prison, he found that not a single one knew the month in which Christmas fell. With that level of sad ignorance, what could a religious holiday mean to them, aside from possibly a day of less labour and hopefully more food.
Speaking of food, whilst those in Newgate could purchase their fare from local inns and thus experience the meagre imitation of Christmas Joy, for most, the standard fare of the prison system was nowhere near as exciting. Those on a number one diet, bread and pints of gruel, would eat the same fare all year world: those punished would stay punished. The only difference in daily routine, was a reprieve from the standard hard labour; only those carrying out necessary duties (cooking, laundry, and the prisoner nursemaids) would be expected to fulfil them. The soul destroying treadmills were quietened for one day a year and the oakum left unpicked. In the eyes of the general public, that was more than enough! But the philanthropy of the Victorian age was constant, and some people felt that every person, no matter how destitute or low, deserved some form of Christmas cheer.
The wife of Governor Avery, in the late Victorian era, was so concerned by the plight of the inmates in the yule season, under her husband’s charge, that she concocted a plan. After a day of baking, she dressed her ten-year-old son in a large coat with dozens of pockets, each stuffed to the seams with cake, then the pair descended on one of the working gangs. With a most becoming condescension, Mrs Avery distracted the guard with flattering conversation, allowing the nimble boy time to deposit small parcels of sweet Christmas cake all around their workspaces, whilst eagerly watched by the inmates.
The architect of Woking Prison, Joshua Jebb, was publically lambasted for caring for the wellbeing of his “pet lambs”, how the paper designated the prisoners, and in a punch cartoon depicted them eating roast fowl and toasting the health of the “governor”, wherever he may be.
Occasionally the gifts from the guards were infinitely less… pleasant. In 1876 in Portland, the tradition of prisoners ending their Christmas nights in song was well established. However this year the tunes were less than holy and, according to other prisoners, “the prison reverberated with obscene and disgusting language”. Many men spent their boxing day enjoying the punishment diet of bread and water.
Upping the ante somewhat the following year, block F North, the catholic block, supposedly sang epithets that were “beyond all description Horrible and Hellish”. The governor was called away from his family Christmas to witness their vile vocalisations. A bread and water diet would certainly not do for these miscreants and so the punishment doled out was infinitely higher. Two dozen strokes of the cat ‘o nine tales. Only ten years after the invention of the antiseptic carbolic acid, and many years before it was in common circulation, any breach of the skin was a potential death sentence. This most certainly was not our idea of going ‘on the lash’ at Christmas.
The Ghost of Christmas Thieve
With mistletoe beautifying every branch, awe adorning each wistful eye and the season of goodwill and cheer thick in the air, what better time is there to go a-courting. But the date our prospective beau had, was not with a beautiful ruddy cheeked girl, but with the law.
On the 25th of December 1873, our wayward darling Peter Brown was convicted of a most peculiar crime and sentenced to 5 years penal servitude at Woking Prison. Living in Long Wynd Glasgow and working for Messrs Hunter, Barr, & Co, headwear manufacturers extraordinaire, life was pretty good for Peter Brown, William Heenan and their accomplice John Lawrence Crossley: that is, until they committed a most cap-tivating crime.
Between august and October 1873, our troublesome threesome pulled off a most extraordinary hat-trick: that is, the theft of over 1,290 felt hats from their employers. Not content with being a lowly grunt, Peter had sought a way to make more money, owing his employer no fealty…not even a felty hat. The crime was eventually discovered, and the thieves were swiftly found and cap-tured: all except Heenan who managed to get away, being declared an outlaw in the process.
The two-remaining fez-filchers were taken to court and, despite stolen goods found in their possession, plead not guilty. The court disagreed and with cool heads, despite unsnatched hats, sentenced John Crossley to 7 years in prison and our Peter to 5 years. Peter ended up in Woking Prison, served his time, and was released 5 years later, on license. This story has a happy ending at least, as Peter from thenceforth was a free man and, to cap it all off, never stole another hat again in his life.
Lout and About
‘tis the season to be jolly….well drunk. There’s something about Christmas which really brings out the rambunctiousness in even the staidest of adults. Call it Christmas cheer or being in high spirits, it is the perfect time to let loose, over-indulge and express to excess…even so, some immoderates take this to the nth degree.
Woking, twinned with Benidorm, witnessed an epidemic of disorderly behaviour over the festive period. Between Christmas eve and Day, the town saw a spate of 6 acts of public indecency which, rightly or wrongly, outraged the local people and magistrates. Such behaviour might not be considered particularly unruly now, but for 19th century Woking, it was most unseemly.
On the 14th January 1899, the Guildford county Justices passed sentences on the above. The first case concerns that of Henry Matthews, a penitent hawker who was fined 5 shillings for creating a disturbance and using ‘obscene language’ on Commercial way. The man affirmed the court’s version of events, ‘What the constable says is perfectly right and I am perfectly guilty’, and even thanked them for ‘letting him off at such a price’. Good guy Matthews: the next case was less clear-cut…and more half cut. At 9.15pm on Christmas day, Thomas Sexton, Benjamin Ingram, John Ingram and James Muslin, designated as ‘lads’ in the newspaper article, were caught using obscene language and ‘shouting at the top of their voices’ despite previous warnings. One of the ‘lads’ was also drunk. The men denied the charge but in sentencing the men to various fines, from 5 shillings to 10, the Chairman stated ‘it was abominable that the public should be subjected to such ruffianism in the streets’. In another case, bearing all the hallmarks of the inebriated itinerant, Arthur Sexton and another group of ‘lads’ were found to be drunk, shouting and swearing at ungodly hours in Woking. The officer who first witnessed it, tried to send them home but Arthur demurred, and in the end, he had to forcibly take him home. Arthur was known to be from a ‘bad’ lot and was given the choice of either a fine of £1or 14 days’ imprisonment: he went to prison, where he’d now have his choice of bars. Charles Davis and James Woodall were fined £1 and 5 shillings respectively, also for disorderly conduct.
If we’ve noticed a pervasive theme here, it is that drunkenness and groups of men do not mix very well. However, the fairer sex too can be prone to bouts of bawdiness also…
Goodall year round (except for Christmas)
Charlotte Goodall was a woman who enjoyed a drink and a dance…a bit too much. At 8.20pm on Christmas Day, Goodall and a man called Higley were visibly drunk and carousing on Church street. Their behaviour was raucous, inappropriate and inebriated and was deeply offensive to sensible Victorian society. Moreover, only two hours earlier, she was seen in the street banging a tray and screaming her head off: clearly, she’d had a little too much Christmas spirit. For these two acts she was hauled before the court, having missed her first requested appearance, and flat out denied banging a tray or even leaving the house on Christmas Day…despite being seen by two police officers. Charlotte stood with ‘solemn appearance’ as the charges were read out, exclaiming ‘Let me lay myself upon your mercy. l am truly sorry. What shall I do?’ before bursting into tears. For her night of excess, she was sentenced to one month’s hard labour and was taken from the court weeping.
The Fall of Giants
Christmas 1899 was an important date, aside from being 8 days shy of the fin de siècle and a century unlike anything experience before. It heralded in the birth of Humphrey Bogart, famed actor, the emperor of Ethiopia granted mining rights to the Swiss engineer Alfred Ilg, and, much nearer to home, old Woking bore witness to the cremation of a late, great politician.
Hugh Grosvenor, 1st Duke of Westminster, was aristocracy through and through. Son of a wealthy Marquis and keen on gentrified pursuits such as hunting and racing, he was a true-blue blood through and through. Like all wealthy men of the era, he was educated at Eton and reached Cambridge: he left before completing his degree however to pursue a career in politics. Hugh served for a time as MP of Chester but upon the death of his father in 1869,Hugh was thrust from a largely private life to that of a supremely political: he was given his father’s title and entered the House of Lords. Whilst feted never to reach the dizzying heights of supreme office, he nonetheless proved to be a thorn in the side of Gladstone, opposing his reform bill and proving instrumental in his first resignation.
Undeterred, Gladstone remained his friend and proved instrumental in his elevation to the dukedom. But Hugh’s real passion was that of temperate, stable man. He raised horseflesh in the country, winning a number of derbies, was a keen philanthropist, chairman of The Queen’s Jubilee Fund, which provided nurses for the sick poor, and was a member of the Council of Cremation whose aim, as the name would suggest, endorsed immolation over burial. In addition, he was teetotal and on his estate alone, commissioned four churches and chapels, eight large houses, about 15 schools and institutions, about 50 farms (in whole or part), about 300 cottages, lodges, smithies and the like, two cheese factories, two inns, and about 12 commercial buildings.
His legacy, aside from the tangible buildings and endowments to various charities, was that of a moderate man who, whilst purported to be the wealthiest person England, abhorred snobbery and even seeing his own name in print. Hugh breathed his last at his granddaughter’s house in Cranborne Dorset and died at the age of 74 from bronchitis. Hugh’s body was removed from the house and taken to Brookwood to be cremated on Christmas Day.
Poached Eggheads
Christmas dinner for us, is the crowning moment of this great festive day: particularly if you buy turkey. Surrounded by tottering trays of roast potatoes, beds of pigs in blankets, steaming vegetables and vats of gravy, this noble bird sits proud above its gastronomic kingdom. But there was a time when poultry was the preserve of all but the wealthy and the poor would have to make-do with what they could rustle up: typically rabbit. For those unwilling, or wanting to save a penny or two, meat could be found elsewhere in abundance…if you were willing to break the law.
Early Christmas morning 1877, Alfred Head, a deserter from the British army, and his son had one such idea. They would sneak into Sutton Park near Woking and bag themselves a free meal. Armed with guns, they snuck into the estate at 3am and began to shoot game. The gamekeeper, George Taylor, and his son William heard the retort of a gun and headed over the copse to see what was happening.
The Heads, seeing the Taylors, levelled their guns at them and told them to ‘stand’ but out of duty they refused to do so, closing in on the poaching duo. Alfred Head, known to be a ‘man of violence’, took umbrage and set about the elder Taylor with his gun stock. He beat him about the body and face till the man was insensible and the base of his gun had broken off. His sun too had broken his gunstock upon the prone form of George Taylor. With no hope of apprehending, William Taylor called for quarter and the two poachers escaped.
George Taylor survived, just, but it was noted at trial that the beating had placed his life in mortal danger. For their crimes, Alfred and his son were sentenced to five years’ penal servitude and six months hard labour respectively: all because of a free meal.
Thank you for listening to the institutional History Society’s festive podcast: Christmas Conviction. We couldn’t have got this far without the London Archives, the British library, and the Woking Lightbox!
Special thanks to Kevin MacLeod for the use of his music in our podcast. Any comments, requests, or feedback please send the through to our email Institutionalhistory@gmail.com.
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Halloween Special
Not all myths are make-believe, nor all beasts invented , some monsters were real living, breathing men. And women. For every story of spectral figures, of bloody encounters in the night, there can found scraps of truth amidst the bare bones of an inflated, bloated tale.
Monsters have coexisted with humanity since first we set foot on this earth. Living at the periphery of our minds, at the edges of the unknown, there reality and imagination blends and gives birth to aberrations of the unexplained.
40 thousand years is a long time to live in fear, but that is the date of the oldest depiction of a monster in pre-history. The Löwenmensch figurine, or Lion-man of the Hohlenstein-Stadel, is the oldest known zoomorphic figure, animal human hybrid, dating to between 35 to 40 thousand years old. Standing bolt upright, this figure carved from mammoth ivory stares sightlessly from sunken eyes: implacable, unspeaking. Was it an offering to a god, a deterrent to other, scarier monsters or a depiction of an evil deity?
We will never know its exact purpose but what is true, is that for millennia humanity has been consumed by a fascination with the other, from man-flesh eating cyclopes, to glowing eyed Chupacabra and even to Cropsey, humans have always fought a battle with the dark, with themselves, and not always won.
Even in suburbia, evil rears its ugly head.
Woking, a commuter town nestled deep in Surrey’s green hills, is a pleasant place to spend an afternoon, with abundant opportunities to eat, shop and while away the time on a beautiful autumn’s day: it is foremost known as the birthplace of H.G. Wells.
In this podcast, we will be delving into unbelievable instances of myths, monsters and murder.
Drowntown
The watercourses around Woking have long been instrumental in its growth, from fishing to canal boats, they have been the lifeblood of mercantilism for hundreds of years. But nature cannot be easily suborned and sometimes, it demands a sacrifice.
In the summer of 1865 three young children below the age of 12 lost their lives in Woking’s waterways. One death is unfortunate, indeed even in modern times people still drown, but three in the space of a fortnight is suspicious. The first was almost certainly death by misadventure, a child falling into the lake at Goldsworth whilst picking flowers on the bank. A loss that was keenly felt and, whilst utterly avoidable, the pain is no less sharp by being confronted with blunt reality. The second, Mary Anne Norridge, overbalanced by the canal whilst with a group of friends. There are no reports of these friends diving in or attempting to help in any way. She was dragged out with a rake, still breathing, by a man named Howard whilst another, Mr. Donald, rode for the prison surgeon. On his return with the surgeon, Mary Norridge was found to no longer draw breathe. Did Howard kill her? Was Mary pushed? We sadly will never know. [MG(C2]
The last
and weirdest case,
and certainly the most inexplicable
involves a vivacious six-year-old, William Collyer. On the day in question, his
father was mowing the lawn and William, trying to be helpful, brought his
father lunch. Task complete, William played for a while and then disappeared
from sight: it was the last time he would be seen alive. Little William, was
found drowned near Hoebridge and an inquest into his death found that it was
impossible for him to have got into the water on his own. The case was closed
and no killer was caught.
Losing your head over love
No one knows when it will strike, its symptoms are sweaty palms, impulse decisions, mood swings and heart palpitations. It can be transmitted by physical contact with other humans and, if left untreated, can lead to death. Do you have it?
You might be forgiven for thinking that we are describing toxoplamosis, a parasitic infection caught from cats, or tuberculosis but the symptoms above describe an altogether different ailment: that of lovesickness.
On the 3rd of December 1881, at 7am the decapitated body of a deceased male was found beside Woking railway and in its hands was clutched a photograph. Whebble, the man who discovered the body, immediately raised the hue and cry and an investigation was conducted whilst questions were asked. Upon further examination, a slip of paper was found in his pocket with the words ‘This is the girl I die for’ written on the front and the deceased’s name and address written on the back. G.E. Moore, a 19-year-old soldier absent from his regiment without [MG(C3] permission, had absconded to his father’s residence in Chichester. The father, wanting to help his son, took him back as far as Woking where they stayed at the Albion Hotel, ready to finish the journey the next day to Aldershot. That night, the son said he was leaving ‘temporarily’ but never returned. It is likely that he jumped in front of the last train to Guildford, severing his head, but retaining the photograph in hand: the disconsolate father later recalled his son writing on the slip of paper but had no idea it would be ‘a message of death’.
Low spirits
Woking’s Convict Invalid prison had long since been a source of discomfort for locals. Up until its destruction in the 1970s, it’s austere walls and towers kept silent sentinel over the town of Knaphill. For a time, it held some of Britain’s most notorious inmates from zealous Fenians to cutthroat murderers; Woking was in every way a real slice of rotten Victorian society.
But burial or release were not a barrier for some of the more stubborn inmates. Indeed, there are several instances where the prisoners have remained even beyond death. The White Woman is the most famous apparition. Paddy Nolan, having worked at the Prison for 40 years, related tales from soldiers who were once barracked there and who saw this female spectre in the clock tower. Allegedly she was hung, however we have found no instances of execution at this prison. Paddy also related an instance of a prisoner in 1924 being locked in a silent cell, a padded prison within a prison, and after a fortnight was ‘begging to be released’: the inference was he had seen something terrifying and otherworldly. There is an image also of an alleged execution area which shows what paranormal fanatics refer to as an ‘orb’, that is to say, some floating remnant of the unhappily deceased.
Nor were the hauntings confined to the prison during active service as Corinne Garstang, inhabitant of the officer’s quarters which become housing, relates 3 tales of haunting. The first instance is innocent enough, Corinne alone in her bedroom heard a distant man’s voice say ‘hello’. The second involved her father who was washing dishes when he heard a woman’s voice also say ‘hello’; he states that this was close at hand and almost as if the person were in the room with him…he too was alone in the house. The last and, perhaps strangest, involves her then boyfriend. He was in the garden pottering about when he saw a shadowy figure at the window of the bedroom, the bedroom where Corinne had heard the man’s voice. Upon entering the room, he saw nothing: he too was alone. Or was he?
Starved of attention
The final tale of Woking’s terrible past concern beings not of a ghostly disposition nor indeed of phantasmagorical proportions but are monsters too terrifying for being all too real.
This tale of twisted depravity, of a mother wilfully starved by her son, truly plumbs the depths of immorality.
Elizabeth Pitcher was an eighty-five-year-old woman possessed of three cottages in Swaffham Norfolk, with tenants, and an annuity from her grandson for ‘certain fixtures’. By all accounts she should have been living comfortably off of the proceeds of rents and, indeed, she was for a time. 6 weeks prior to the events, she was described as being of ‘tolerably hale appearance: 6 weeks after, ‘a bag of bones’ with a ‘plague of lice and vermin’.
For a time, her son John Pitcher a 45-year-old small farmer, had been ill-using her, taking her money, punching her and denying the means of subsistence. On one occasion, such was her hunger that she left her house to beg for meat from her tenant only to be told that he had ‘already paid the rent’: rent money she never saw. On another occasion, her son saw her enter the tenants house and, overhearing her begging, threatened the tenant and his wife, before dragging his mother outside, cursed her and hit her so hard in the mouth that she fell to the ground.
The monies due to her from her grandson were taken by John also or his family, cowed, coerced they did his bidding to avoid his wrath. Elizabeth told her grandson to stop paying as she was not receiving the money, we can’t even imagine how John reacted to that. But undeterred, the grandson visited her, fed her and arranged for her to be removed to the care of her illegitimate son who would have gladly taken her in. John would not allow it, claiming that he was the ‘master’ of the house: no rescue would take place. By now, John had sole charge of his mother and so reduced, so pained and alone was she, that she was overheard to remark “Well, John, may as well murder me at once.”.
The neighbours, despite threats to their own personal safety, conveyed their concerns to the police who duly sent an officer over. He saw the mother, alone, unfed, unclothed and cold and yet could not intervene as she, in fear of her life or to protect her son even then, exclaimed “Oh, no; John has always been kind to me. Haven’t you, John!”. The policeman gave John a warning and left: he was not even gone before the woman was threatened and mistreated once more.
By now, Elizabeth did not leave the house and was a prisoner in her own home. Time passed without the neighbours seeing her and alarmed, they sent for the police once more. When he entered, his first thought was that she was dead. Laying emaciated on a filthy mattress, her dignity covered by only 2 pieces of dirty linen, the officer noticed the pillow stuffed in her mouth as if she had tried to eat it. On closer inspection, this poor creature seemed to be breathing and, in a voice, scare above a whisper said “Give me food”. A surgeon was sent for and declaimed that she must immediately be taken to the infirmary at the local workhouse.
Lice removed and now clean, they fed her cheese and bread and brandy and butter and water, but nothing could sate her hunger: she had passed the point of no return. Eight days later, she died.
When John found out that the policeman had removed his mother, he threatened his own children for not stopping him, and vowed to end the officer’s life. He did not.
For his crime’s, John was sentenced to life in prison and, during sentencing, the Judge knowing full well it would not affect his indifference or elicit feelings of remorse, did so as a warning to all who would shirk their ‘sacred duties’ to their elderly parents.
John ending up in Woking Convict Invalid Prison and died behind bars.
So there we have it, the myths, miseries and mysteries of Woking and its surrounds. Where behind every suburb, each hedgerow and manicured lawn, there hides in plain sight instances of the incongruous and inexplicable. We hope you have enjoyed this podcast and hope you don’t have nightmares.
Episode 3
Your hosts for the day are Daniel Shepherd & Gemma Minter.
“I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.” Oscar Wilde – The Portrait of Dorian Grey
In today’s podcast we’re looking at the next set of convicts – Those from the invalid class, moved from the temporary invalid prison at Lewes. They had different crimes, convictions and incredibly different lengths of sentences… But what binds them is that they were all somewhat vicious.
September 1842. George Mobbs, a respectable, quite educated farmer had just received some money. Not a large amount, but enough to warrant a little treat for himself. Mobbs decided to do what any right minded 19th century gent would do: he travelled the three miles from his farmhouse, Dean Hill, to Steeple Aston to attend an exciting astronomy lecture.
He met with a friend, Mr Goodman, and the pair watched, listened, and presumably learned all about the Victorian view of the cosmos. The talk itself is lost to history, but one hopes, that it was a positive experience… The following few hours wouldn’t be.
After the closing remarks, they travelled on to a public house, The Fox (Which you can still visit today!) and wound down the Saturday evening with a few drinks and congenial conversation. At around 11pm, Mobbs, fortified with a beverage or two, headed home on his horse. There were no consequences then for drunk riding! That’s the last time Goodman saw him.
He was found on a pile of stone the next morning just off the route to his home.
A local coroner named Doctor Turner performed an autopsy a few days later. He said “I found the upper part of his spine forced into a hole at the base of his skull… There was a laceration of the brain[1]”. It was further reported that he had fractures to bones around his eye and collar bone.
Aside from the physical injuries, the movements of Mobbs’ last hours and the causes of such damage went undisclosed for nearly 4 years. Indeed, when the autopsy report came back the description was ‘Found Dead’. The assumption, of death by misadventure, was an easy one to make; a few drinks and a fall from a horse, it happened frequently enough and there was little suspicious evidence to go on.
The case rested. Until 1846[2].
In Banbury, some 11 miles from Steeple Aston, a man named Jacob Skerry was arrested for the theft of livestock – It was definitely not his first conviction and so he was looking at a very long prison sentence. He demanded to see a magistrate claiming he had news of a murder… It’s curious why he chose this time to reveal all, perhaps guilt was consuming his soul or, perhaps more likely, he had hoped for a lighter sentence.
The greatest likely driving force was to avert the ire of the judge and jury when prosecuting him for his many and brutal crimes (including attempting to stab a Mr Tims, and to brain Mr Morgan with a hammer, back in 1844)[3]. A man with so many convictions and little hope of redemption would no doubt be fearing the hang man’s noose.
But whatever the reason Skerry made a full disclosure and Mobbs’ death was no longer considered accidental. Warrants for the arrest of two men were released and the newspapers went wild with stories of black deeds and dark nights! That fateful evening, after leaving Mr Goodman at The Fox, Mobbs made his way home – passing through the gate at the entrance to his farm and traveling alongside some kilns. Here he espied 3 men preparing stolen eggs: the men were later identified as Isaac Sheriff, a Tinker, James Biddle and Jacob Skerry.
The men ran and Mobbs, imbued with Dutch courage, pursued them down into Dunstan Lane. There he was pulled from his horse, beaten over the head, and robbed: the men taking and sharing 5 shillings but left his watch, which would have been missed[4] and could be traced. Skerry claims to have been utterly appalled by the actions of his comrades but threatened with death if he spoke out, he kept shtum. For a while. Sheriff and Biddle however, claimed that Skerry struck the first blow.
Biddle and Sheriff were both charged with wilful Murder and sentenced to death, but this was later commuted to transportation[5]. For lucky Sheriff at least, that meant life in English prisons and even then, in the end, not a full life. He was released on Licence in 1863 having served 17 years. Sheriff’s last 4 years of service were at Woking, as prisoner number 208, and he was the first “lifer” to enter Woking’s hallowed gates. He died finally in 1874[6], 34 years after the murder of the innocent, amateur astronomer, George Mobbs.
Prisoner number 219 – The striking shoemaker.
Abraham Heath was a shoemaker who loved a double. An irredeemable drunk and on his second wife, Elizabeth Heath, here was a man for whom ‘just one’ was never enough.
Elizabeth was 40 years old, homely, ailing and lived in Exeter. She was known to the local workhouse as needing poor assistance and medical support and money was always a struggle, having borne Abraham two daughters, Mary & Elizabeth aged 18 months and 6 years old respectively[7]. Add to this a drunkard for a husband and this would be a recipe for murder.
He had drunk his earnings yet again, Elizabeth wasn’t pleased. On the evening of the 7th of June 1852, the pair fought. At first it was cutting words and damning slurs then Abraham, a decade her senior, took hold of a fire poker and smote her with it soundly. He rained blows upon her upper body and only stopped when, having struck her soundly round the head, she screamed ‘murder!’.
A neighbour, Dinah Goss, witnessed him holding the poker and watched the drunkard deliberately berate his wife whilst she held his sobbing daughter in her arms. Incensed and infuriated, Dinah reprimanded him with strong words, a strange thing for a woman to do, and made it abundantly clear that it was shameful for him to “Carry on at his wife so”. Heath left and returned to his second home, a local public house called The Sun.
Throughout the day, Elizabeth’s concussion would have been increasing and her condition worsened. Abraham returned frequently to continue their sporadic spat. A witness, Mrs Darke, reported that an hour after the initial blows Heath had stood by her, sworn, and stated “I’ll be your butcher” to his wife. By 11pm, Elizabeth and her children were in the street, begging to be allowed to enter the house as they had been barred from it by the crocked cobbler.
Heath’s response was to douse his wife in hot water from kettles and saucepans and to leave her scolded, dripping in the street. The newspapers of the time reported that this vile conduct continued throughout the next couple of days, with Elizabeth during this time being struck with bellows, pokers and at one point threatened with a knife.[8]
She continued to decline. An abscess formed on her temple from the poker blows and unbeknownst to all “an effusion of water [was] forming on her brain”. By Thursday she was noticeably unwell, collapsing on the stairs, and Elizabeth herself did not think she would live through the night.
The local Beadle (a type of church official who dispensed aid and kept records) called Mr Shears visited Elizabeth to ascertain her health and after seeing how poorly she was and hearing her husband’s threats, including “I shouldn’t mind going to the scaffold for her”, had the man locked up by the local constabulary before sending for a nurse inmate from the workhouse. Elizabeth’s children, with no local relatives to take them in, were also sent to the workhouse.
This nurse, Eliza Frost, stayed with Mrs Heath throughout the course of several days. Frost reported that her mental state deteriorated considerably and that Elizabeth had begun wandering in her mind. The doctor, whilst initially concerned by the abscess and resultant fever, had thought that she may recover but by Sunday – 6 days after the beating – it was evident that Mrs Elizabeth Heath was not long for the mortal realm.
On Monday the 14th of June 1852 Elizabeth Heath died.
Abraham Heath was held in bond until the particulars could be ascertained. It did not look good for him. He had been repeatedly arrested for his treatment of his wife and multiple assaults littered his record: his temper was also known to be cruel. He was not a jolly drunk but a spiteful scathing one. The threats made towards Elizabeth had been heard by many and multiple neighbours were happy to speak up for the poor, deceased, good natured woman.
A coroner was called, and the case began in earnest.
Examinations of Elizabeth’s body showed that the abscess descended in through the skull and that a pea sized section of her skull, had been hewn away from the rest and was embedded in her brain. This caused serious trauma, internal haemorrhage, and eventually, after what must have been a painful 7 days, death.
During the court case Heath attempted to wheedle his neighbours into speaking for defence but their response was damning and documented a vicious, systematic and brutal attack on a woman who had the misfortune to be his bride.
The jury considering all of this returned a verdict of manslaughter because, whilst he had admitted in front of witnesses that he had caused her injuries, no one could ascertain if the fatal blow had been witnessed. He was thus sentenced to transportation for life[9].
Abraham, following the normal pattern for prisoners at that time, was not transported but shipped around to various prisons and then, after his health began failing in 1860, he was moved to Woking Prison. He petitioned for his own release, but none was forthcoming. Surprisingly, unlike so many other prisoners, he had a visitor during his time there[DS2] . Perhaps he could command the affections of some.
In the April of 1861 Abraham Heath died. Petitions ignored, liberty denied, a death no less ignominious than his wife’s. He is likely buried with the rest of the Woking inmates, in a pauper’s grave at Brookwood.
But what of his children… Mary & Elizabeth, taken into the workhouse on his arrest; indeed, the two very girls he kissed so lovingly during the trial for their mother’s death.
There is certainly a mention of one of his girls in a letter received during 1858 from an old employer. The man states “Your Daughter looks up very well, she is got a fine girl.” Although it does not precisely does not mention which. This does indicate that at least one of the children was kept in the area for several years. It’s likely to be the eldest, as the mortality rate for those below five was significant, and there is a possibility that a child under two may have been privately adopted out.
It’s also possible, that a record from the 1861 census listing Mary Heath as a servant to a family of millers and labourers, is that same missing eldest daughter[10]. If we find anything more, we’ll be sure to keep you updated!
From vile to zoophile and the next prisoner in our list – Number 220 – George French.[11]
George was a widowed labourer, aged 73 when he entered Woking Prison in 1860. By this point he’d been in various other prisons for twenty four years and would, unfortunately, only leave Woking 3 years later…in a coffin. His crime is not a pleasant one but offers a certain light relief…which is apt given his crime.
George French was convicted, and sentenced to life, for an unnatural act with a female Ass. Note the gender of the ass because, of course, it would be so much worse if it were a male one. Nor is he the only zoophile moved into the prison on the 22rd of March 1860 – just 6 prisoners later Christopher Wilson, a farrier from Nottingham, was also convicted for relations with a female ass. No doubt the donkeys were quite annoyed by these men, we daresay they got the hump.
The last of our prisoners in this podcast is a somewhat darker affair.
The attempted murder of Charlotte Carter. Prisoner 230.
Charlotte Carter, stood in the court at the old bailey. She was heavily scarred, the wounds on her neck and hands only having had two months to knit closed. The Prisoner, her ex common law husband, was Thomas Rolls who was also scarred about the neck.
The court opened on the 9th of May 1853. The prosecution slowly lead the judge through the events of that previous March.
“I am Charlotte Carter” – she announced to the room – “A single lady[12]”. We don’t know how much bravery it took for her to stand there, in front of her attacker, and declaim his guilt. Imagine for a moment what it took, wounds still healing, a courtroom full of men, imagine what it cost her. As we listen to her story we hope that we can all learn from such bravery.
On the 28th of March 1853 Charlotte, single for about a fortnight, went to a local house to buy some ribbon to decorate a cap, so started a normal day. But Thomas had something else in store and was there before her.
Thomas Rolls, aged 45, had been her common law husband for four years and supposedly not those were not all happy. Charlotte had been the one to end their liaison and she had been living with another man since. When she entered the room, Thomas stood, and asked her to accompany him to the kitchen to look at a letter from her uncle. She agreed, and followed him.
After he handed her the missive he asked, “Are you unhappy?”. Charlotte, newly besotted, responded with a simple “No.”
“Well I am.”[13] came the reply. He wrapped his arms around her neck and attempted to slit her throat with a cutthroat razor. Charlotte screamed murder and fought him off but was grievously wounded. The owner of the house ran in and chased Thomas off, who promptly ran into the garden, whilst the police and a surgeon were summoned.
The descriptions of the damage she suffered were heinous. The Morning chronical reported the surgeon’s words “On entering the apartment the female was found weltering in her blood, her throat having been cut from centre to left ear, exposing the windpipe. The other wounds indicated the violent struggles she had made to save her life – The thumb of her left hand was nearly cut off, and the nail of the forefinger of her right hand was completely cut off, and the ligatures of the thumb divided[DS3] .”
Whilst the surgeon tended to her the police attempted to get to him. He had barred the door but eventually, by sheer brute force, they broke through. What they saw was another scene of gore as Thomas had attempted to slit his own throat.
The razor was wrested from his grasp and the two were taken to the London Hospital. For two weeks it was unsure whether Charlotte would survive.
But survive she did. And so, she stood that day and faced her ex-lover and brutal assailant. And when he asked, “Why did you leave me?” in front of the judge and the jury, she responded clearly and evenly and, not without reason, “Through your ill usage”.
The court returned a verdict of Guilty – Both of the attempted murder and the attempted suicide (also a criminal offence). Mr Baron Alderson recorded a judgment of Death. Stating that, whilst the court would decide a fitting punishment in due course, he should expect to be “removed from the country for a very long period”. Eventually he did spend time on hulks but was soon returned to England where in 1860 – just three months after arriving at Woking prison – he expired[14]. And Charlotte lived those years free. Despite the medical care we nowadays would think of as barbaric, she defied the odds and defied her ex-paramour.
She lived.
Thank you for listening to The Institutional History Society’s third podcast! We couldn’t have got this far without the London Archives, the British library, and the Woking Lightbox!
Special thanks to Kevin MacLeod for the use of his music in our podcast. Any comments, requests, or feedback please send the through to our email Institutionalhistory@gmail.com.
To find out more, sign up to our monthly newsletter on our
website institutionalhistory.com
[1] Britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk. (1846). Northern Star & Leeds General Advertiser – Trial for Murder.
Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].Register | British Newspaper Archive
Register to get involved in the biggest newspaper digitisation project that’s ever taken place in the UK!
[2] Britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk. (1846). Sussex Advertiser. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].Register | British Newspaper Archive
Register to get involved in the biggest newspaper digitisation project that’s ever taken place in the UK!
[3]Britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk. (1846). Reading Mercury – 25th April. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].Register | British Newspaper Archive
Register to get involved in the biggest newspaper digitisation project that’s ever taken place in the UK!
[4] Britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk. (1846). Berkshire Chronicle – 18th April. [online] Available at: https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000358/18460418/029/0003 [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].
[5] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (1846). Register of Prisoners – Oxford Gaol [online] Available at: https://search.findmypast.co.uk/record?id=TNA%2FCCC%2FPCOM2%2F350%2F00016&parentid=TNA%2FCCC%2F2B%2FPCOM2%2F01226775 [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].
[6] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (1874). Register of deaths [online] Available at: https://search.findmypast.co.uk/record?id=BMD%2FD%2F1874%2F1%2FAZ%2F000330&parentid=BMD%2FD%2F1874%2F1%2FAZ%2F000330%2F237 [Accessed 2 Sep. 2019].
[7] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (1851). 1851 Census.
Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].Create an account today
Create an account for free with Findmypast to discover your family history and build a family tree. Search birth records, census data, death records and more.
[8] Britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk. (1852). Western Times – The Drunken Husband – Death by violence 19th June 1852. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].Register | British Newspaper Archive
Register to get involved in the biggest newspaper digitisation project that’s ever taken place in the UK!
[9] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (1852). Record of prisoners – Exeter July 1852. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].Create an account today
Create an account for free with Findmypast to discover your family history and build a family tree. Search birth records, census data, death records and more.
[10] Ancestry.co.uk. (1861). 1861 Census – Devon. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].No Title
No Description
[11] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (1860). Woking Convict Invalid Prison Log 1. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].Create an account today
Create an account for free with Findmypast to discover your family history and build a family tree. Search birth records, census data, death records and more.
[12] Oldbaileyonline.org. (1853). Browse – Central Criminal Court. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].The Proceedings of the Old Bailey
A searchable online edition of the Proceedings of the Old Bailey, 1674-1913.
[13] Britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk. (1853). The Morning Chronicle – Attempted Murder & Suicide 11 April 1853. [online] Available at: https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000082/18530411/033/0008 [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].
[14] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (1860). Woking Convict Invalid Prison Log 1. [online] Available at: https://search.findmypast.co.uk/record/browse?id=tna%2fccc%2fpcom2%2f142%2f00063 [Accessed 8 Sep. 2019].
Episode 2
Crime is as much a problem today as ever, but in the latter half of the 19th Century the large-scale increase in urban populations lead to public outcry and a fear that the newly migrated rural populace would bring with them theft, assault, and murder…
Looking at these next convicts, you’ll see that their concerns may have been well founded.
— Intro music—
When we think of Victorian Crime, there is an image that comes to mind. Almost everyone has seen Oliver Twist, a charming tale about a band of children who have “Got to pick a pocket or two…” for their daily bread. Whilst the privations in reality were the same, the nature of the large scale pickpocketing industry were very, very different.
One of the most commonly reported crimes is “Theft from the person”, also known as pickpocketing. William Fisher (Prisoner number 96) was one such convict and, far from working in silo, was reported as being a member of the Swell Mob.
The Swell mob was a group of very specialised criminals, who worked on the understanding that stealing from the poor would only give you so much. Their targets, therefore, were the wealthy. And they were good at working those high-flyers. Looking at the history of the Swell Mob, it is clear that whilst they may have existed as a formal unit back in the 1820s and 30s, by the 1850’s and the time of William’s conviction, the term “Swell Mob” was appended to any well-dressed thieving youth[1].
The Mob were voracious, they attended church fetes, markets, prize fights, theatres and racecourses. There are many accounts of these spectres of pecuniary deception… The Dundee Courier, in 1850, wrote this about the group of well-dressed hoodlums:
‘“Their travelling expenses are large, for their harvests are great public occasions” There are reports of a four day binge at a Liverpool Cattle Show that allowed the mob to return in first class carriages, and when they were caught, at Euston Station, offer[ed] the police a bribe of £50!’
Which is over £4,000 in today’s money!
William Fisher was very much in line with this modus operandi, being well dressed and well spoken, and was caught with his co-conspirator, Henry Clark. The crime he was convicted of was comparatively small, divesting half-crown from Mrs Jane Jordan or the equivalent of £10 today. He was caught less than a street away from the scene of the crime and, for that robbery, our fair faced 19 year old was confined to the penal system for 4 years. Fisher remained in Woking prison for 5 months, before being transferred on to a prison hulk , at Chatham to serve his remaining sentence.
In late 1859 Fisher was joined many other thieves, cutthroats, and generally disreputable members of the “Criminal Class”. For most of these men, the crime was simple, but unfortunately the punishment proved to be just as swift.
The Protestant Proletariat – Thomas Needham – Prisoner number 106.
Thomas was convicted in 1856 for “Placing gunpowder in a building with intent to destroy it[2]”, and like his Catholic Forerunner, Guy Fawkes, appears to have done so at the request of mysterious other.
On the 4th of January 1856 George Ward, the co-owner of a spindle Manufactory, was roused from his slumber and called to his offices to discover that half of a room and part of the chimney had exploded! Mr Ward examined the room thoroughly and eventually found a section of a watering can, dangling from a rope in what was left of the chimney. Ward, realising that this was clearly the start of the detonation, sent for the constabulary.
There was little evidence. The owners of the business had received no threat. In fact, had the following events below not transpired, it’s likely that, in an age before forensics, Mr Needham may have walked away scot free.
A few days after the event, Ward received a poorly spelt letter[3] –
“Mr Ward, Get shut of Etchels and spoonner or you’ll rue the day. I know where you live in the day time. I can find it in the night, & I shall doo. If you don’t quit Etchels and Spooner I shall storm Sebastopol, you can watch until your eyes come out, you will never catch us we are Invisible”
The letter, signed Old Nicholas, didn’t make much sense and the author’s identity at this point was still shrouded in mystery. And then, on the 31st of January a letter was given to the police. It detailed information, later recanted, that Thomas Needham had plotted with his brother-in-law Henry Bradley, to blow up the factory.
The pair were arrested and Needham, showing a serious lack of intelligence, believed the officer would pay him the sum of £50 for a true confession. Immediately he confirmed that he had been the planter of the bomb on the request of a shadowy someone unknown. This shadowy collaborator promised to pay Needham enough money to help him start a new life in America with his mistress. He stated that he wrote the letters and his innocent Brother-in-Law was only implicated because of a personal argument about Needham’s unsavoury relationship with the mistress, Mrs Chapman.
Thomas was sentenced to 4 years imprisonment, leaving his wife and their four children to fend for themselves. Unusually Needham served his full sentence and did not enjoy a day of leave on licence for public works, presumably having been deemed too unsafe.
Lovers and mistresses are a frequent motive for our criminal class and our next criminal takes this somewhat to the extreme.
The Romantic Sailor… George Lamb, Prisoner 114.
On the 11th of August 1845 George Lamb was married to Bridget McDonnell in St John’s Church in Liverpool. They were very much in love, and reports say that the next three years of their lives were happy by anyone’s standards. Lamb lived up to his family’s historical felicity in marriage and the pair were envied for their love. [4] According to family friends they bore a child and were together, content, until as happens to those in Lamb’s profession, the sea beckoned.
Lamb sailed on the ship Empire, plying his trade as a sailor does, and appears to have been struck by the beauty of one of the passengers, Miss Margaret Fee. He courted her and on the 19th of August 1848, 3 years and 6 days after he married Bridget, he married Margaret in New York at a Roman Catholic church. Their union appears to have been equally felicitous, and continued together until December of 1854. Lamb during this period would still be roaming the high seas, even as his eyes and hands roamed further afield.
Word reached Margaret that her husband of 6 years had been previously married in England, and so she came to England, presumably to find out if the rumours were true.
Jane Harris, a beautiful 22-year-old barmaid, had first met Lamb in the summer of 1855 and by February 1855 had quit her position and married the now trigamist. They appeared content, despite (or because of) his frequent absences. In January 1856 Lamb returned from a 3-month stint in Boston and on his return to his youngest wife, was promptly arrested.
The court case that followed was highly publicised and public indignation reached fever pitch over how three such fine and hard-working women could be so easily duped. The defendant claimed ,through his representative, that his last wife married him whilst he was drunk, a charge she denied. He was convicted on the 5th of March 1856 of the crime of Bigamy and sentenced to four years of Penal Servitude, the full balance of which he paid.
As a side not, his recorded next of kin was his first wife Bridget Lamb[5]: we can’t be sure if that was his preference, that of legality or quite simply because none of his other wives would own him after such an embarrassing and public debacle.
In a world without background checks, tracking, CCTV, and other security measures, trust was the only currency which one could rely on. A working-class man who sounded middle class would probably have been thought to be just down on his luck but no doubt a trustworthy fellow on account of his previous standing. Whereas a rough or unseemly looking gent could be considered a member of the “criminal class” irrespective of his intentions or goodness.
These easy to blur lines can cause serious confusion for all involved. One pawn broker, Mr. England, was soundly berated by a judge presiding over our next convict’s trial, for falling for the erudite behaviour of Mr. Robert Marsh – Prisoner number 134.
Marsh was a militiaman, a soldier charged with protecting the country but in the end only protected himself. He was indicted for larceny and not simply the theft of property belonging to a person, no, but property of the church. This was a sacrilegious act that received significant censure. Marsh, who was 18 at the time, with his 20-year-old friend Jonathan Reed stole communion cups to the value of 12l,$962 in today’s money, from the house of a trustee of the church, a Mr Timothy Edward Bean. After absconding with their booty, they attempted to sell the property but the first broker, not easily deceived, declined to buy being under the impression that it was not acquired legally.
Mr. England, on the other hand, was easier to persuade. The mired pair, Marsh and Reed, hit upon damaging the cups so that they would be unrecognisable and thus make their task easier by selling them as scrap. England bought and, when questioned, said that he was incredibly sorry for being fooled but that he was “thrown off guard by the apparent respectability and manners of the young man”[6] .
The judge was less than impressed.
Marsh was imprisoned for four years, as it was not his first offence, and his companion Reed, as a first-time convict, served just the one year of hard labour. Most of Marsh’ sentence was spent in the normal prison system, but at the tail end of his service he was transferred to Woking with our previously mentioned inmates.
So on to our last convict of this podcast…
William Smith, Prisoner 192. Whilst his crime was a common one, his imprisonment is still interesting. On the 23rd of September 1856 William was convicted of theft aggravated by habit & repute. He was a common hawker and was transferred to Woking prison after stints in Wakefield and Portland, to complete his sentence. He was assigned to the Association Cell.
An association cell is formed to hold multiple prisoners and was very different to the separation cell in vogue in the 1850s across the country: which were aimed at giving convicts ample time to think about their past mistakes, and hopefully to encourage them to repent. William and his association cell are a rare record in Woking Prison as he is the first prisoner to be listed as being in one: curiously no other prisoners are listed…
He arrived in September 1860 and was immediately inducted into the world of Woking prison life. Summer days started early, 5:15 am and winter was only half an hour later than that. Personal hygiene and cleaning of the cells took the first half an hour of any day, followed by Breakfast which was the longest meal time allotted. It would last 1 hour and 5 minutes, which included serving, sitting, eating, and returning to cells before the real work began. At 7:15 in summer and 7:45 in winter, the working day began.
Whilst Woking was aimed at the disabled, that absolutely did not mean that theses prisoners got away with not working! In summer they worked for nine and half hours, this was astutely reduced to seven and a half in winter to take into consideration the lack of light and, even more astutely, to reduce the cost of heating extra rooms late into the day.
The infirm men knitted, picked apart oakum (which was tarred rope used in ship building, and plumbing to seal gaps). They bound books, and re-picked coir (made from Coconut husk), this was sourced from the prison mattresses, and eventually turned into matting, pillows, and other mattresses, the more able laid bricks, engaged in carpentry, swept chimneys, cleaned the building, and cared for the bed bound. No one who was deemed fit to work managed to avoid doing doing it, such were the punishments for malingering that most just got on with it. We will explore malingering and it’s punishments at a later date.
The regime sounded punishing, but it worked on Mr Smith. He was under the supervision of the Woking wardens for 8 months before he was released back into society: apparently a reformed figure. Woking was beginning to get results. Tune in to next months podcast to find out more twists and tales in the lives of Woking’s inmates.
Thank you for listening to The Institutional History Society’s second podcast! We couldn’t have got this far without the London Archives, the British library, and the Woking Lightbox!
Special thanks to Kevin MacLeod for the use of his music in our podcast. Any comments, requests, or feedback please send the through to our email Institutionalhistory@gmail.com.
To find out more, sign up to our monthly newsletter on our
website institutionalhistory.com
[1] Victorianlondon.org. (2019). Victorian London – Crime – Thieves – ‘the swell mob’.
Available at: https://www.victorianlondon.org/crime/swellmob.htm [Accessed 19 Jul. 2019].
[2] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (n.d.). Woking Convict Invalid Prison Records – 1. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 18 Jul. 2019].Create an account today
Create an account for free with Findmypast to discover your family history and build a family tree. Search birth records, census data, death records and more.
[3] Sheffield Independent (1856). Attempt to blow up a manufactory with gunpowder. [online] p.5. Available at: https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000181/18560209/006/0005 [Accessed 18 Jul. 2019].
[4] Liverpool Mercury (1856). Police Intelligence. [online] p.7. Available at:
[Accessed 18 Jul. 2019].Register | British Newspaper Archive
Register to get involved in the biggest newspaper digitisation project that’s ever taken place in the UK!
[5] Search.findmypast.co.uk. (n.d.). Woking Convict Invalid Prison Records – 1. [online] Available at:
[Accessed 18 Jul. 2019].Create an account today
Create an account for free with Findmypast to discover your family history and build a family tree. Search birth records, census data, death records and more.
[6] Reynolds Newspaper, ‘Middlesex Sessions’ (1856) <https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000101/18560413/036/0013> accessed 19 July 2019
Episode 1
Your hosts for today are Daniel Shepherd and Gemma Minter
“Do we lock up a man to make him better, or prevent his getting worse – to keep him from doing more mischief, or solely as a retribution for the mischief he has done? On these points there would be no securing any unanimity of purpose. ” The Times, 14th August 1850
The Times, both in terms of newspaper and centuries, have changed but the question remains the same: what should a society do to and with its malcontents?
Woking Invalid Convict Prison is a prime example of a penal scheme wrangling with the above at a time when great change and reform was sweeping through the country. By no means the most infamous or, indeed, well known prison, it is the perfect starting point for this podcast. But before we start talking about the convicts at this prison, first we must understand the prison itself, its purpose and conditions. We hope you enjoy.
Music again maybe?-
Imprisonment, in various forms, has been in place in England for centuries but the idea of mass incarceration being a viable long-term solution, was not. Imprisoning an offender was simply a means of detention until a fitting punishment could be found and not considered a punishment in itself and certainly not for groups of unrelated offenders. The first conceptualisation of a ‘true’ mass prison wasn’t until the 18th century, when Philsopher Jeremy Bentham proposed his panopticon prison – more on that in later podcast. But by the time we get to the years preceding Woking Prison, the death penalty, hard labour or transportation to the colonies were typical punishments meted out to serious and not so serious lawbreakers. This would change as around 1830, Australia, our main transportation location, was refusing to be a criminal “dump” and this initiated a large-scale reform in England and her penal system.
Penal reform was an iterative process, ongoing for the previous hundred years, but changes were slow to take effect. One staunch critic, Thomas Fowell Buxton, after an inquiry into the state of british prisons in 1818 referred to them as “an instructive warning of principles to be rejected, and practices to be avoided, in the management of prisons”. Within 35 years, from 1842 to 1874, 90 prisons were built or enlarged to house those given prison sentences.
We’ll explore each of these prison phases at a later date, but for now we’ll start our discussion in Victorian England -circa 1850. Picture this. Prison overcrowding is rife. The sick, the consumptive, malodorous, and those smote with typhoid were housed pell-mell: a smorgasbord of infected and infirm in cramped cells no thought for comfort or prevention. Or worse, housed in decommissioned ships where they were free to walk around and spread infection. Inmates, people, would suffer, would contract new illnesses and, sadly, die.
This wasn’t unusual and, alas, the risks were known. Some 75 years before at Newgate Prison, a 6th of the prison population (nearly 100 inmates) died from Typhus in their custody. If the average mortality rates for our Victorian era of prosperity is 10 in 1000, then prisons were experiencing at least double that.
Several parliamentary and social health reforms were passed, notably in 1835 when we have the first prison inspectors – which is shocking,-, and these eventually resulted in the creation of a temporary invalid convict prison at Lewes: after the previous prisons and hulks were considered too dangerous. The prison at Lewes was deemed a success and plans to build a permanent structure, away from the miasmas that were still believed to be causing disease, were made for the ‘healthy’ town of Woking.
The plot for the Woking Invalid Convict Prison was purchased from the London Necropolis company in 1858, and work immediately began in earnest. The North-eastern wing, housing the most robust prisoners, was the first part to be completed and Woking Prison officially accepted its first inmate on the 28th of April 1859: one William Strahan, a bent banker who scandalised Victorian England – if you’re interested in his life and crime, have a look at his profile on the convicts section on our site. William was the first inmate from Lewes prison, but was joined within the fortnight by another 94 inmates who would help him finish the building of Woking Prison, ready for the formal reception of the invalid prisoners from October.
But how did these men end up here and why were they chosen to build the prison? What horrible, terrible things were committed in order for them to toil in hard labour, in the sun, in the snow, in the wind? On the whole, theft of personal property. Shocking right? But it makes sense. An ordinary crime of opportunity, not too malicious, and generally not dangerous. Most of these inmates were only on a 3 or 4 year sentence and therefore unlikely to escape. In addition, they were generally young, seemingly healthy, with mostly useful trades, such as labourers, agricultural workers and stone masons. Thus it would appear they were chosen to be the perfect docile packhorses, to build and then bugger off.
That’s the theory anyway but as the old proverb goes, there are exceptions to every rule.
For us the most horrific inmate in this initial tranche of convicts is John Monks. We first come across him in the 1859 prisoner logs for Woking (prisoner number 41). He is listed as being 22, 5’3, fair skinned with auburn hair, blue eyes, and sandy whiskers. He has a wife, Elizabeth, who awaits for him in St Helens and his character record throughout his penal servitude is listed as “very good”.
His crime was Rape. Gangrape. By far the most violent of all the 94 convicts sent to finish the building of Woking’s Prison but surprisingly, not so shocking to those who sentenced him. John was sentenced to four years, the same as a Richard Turvey, another of our 94, who stole a shawl. Initially we thought there must have been a mistake, clerical or otherse, but no. The newspaper article of the time, The Liverpool Mercury, documented a vicious gang rape on a woman walking home at 10pm on a Monday evening, and worse, with her blind friend.
Ellen Oakley, the victim, was 45. John Monks, who would’ve been 18 or 19 at the time, and two young friends, beat her so badly that part of her lip was “bitten clear away”. Clearly this was not some prank gone awry, a misunderstanding: this was premeditated sexual violence. So why did the criminal get so low a sentence? There are other instances of rape where the perpetrator gets a far higher sence, why then was he different? Was it due somehow to the nature of the circumstances of the woman? Or the fact that the man was a gainfully employed collier who paid his taxes.
Realistically, it’s likely to be a combination of the two. Ellen Oakley was listed as “co-habiting” with a man who was not her husband. That would definitely count against her, even as a victim, and the biggest tragedy is that as a female, and a working class one, she was worth very little to the judge, jury, and general public in 1855. That there was a conviction at all seems laudable in an age in where it was considered almost “impossible” to rape a spouse or a lady of easy virtue.
Terrible.
From the most violent to the youngest.
Henry Tasker is our youngest inmate, aged 15 in 1859, and at the end of a four year sentence for receiving stolen property: he had also a previous conviction. A bricklayer by trade, it’s very likely that this is a skill gained in prison rather than one he entered into as prison service often included training in useful, profitable trades, like labouring, shoemaking and carpentry. This, his age and skills, were likely one of the reasons why he was included in the 94 inmates.
As mentioned before, the majority of the first batch of inmates were there for theft, or non-violent crimes with small impacts on society.
A large proportion of the larcenies were foodstuffs, pigs, sheep, barley, potatoes, and whilst some of these thefts were clearly made with the intent to sell (Like John Marsh’s [prisoner no. 14] pig theft, and John Hargreaves theft of 16 geese(Prisoner number 91)[as an aside one does wonder how easy it was to steal 16 geese, because 1 live goose is a crowd on its own!]). We however don’t know, if the victim of Enoch Hall’s (prisoner 30) duck theft, relied on that bird for their daily eggs with no other means of support. Some of these will be crimes of luxury, a means to enrich lives to make a quick buck, others of necessity like Benjamin Freeman (no. 57): a thirty-two year old agricultural labourer with a wife and 3 children to support.
Benjamin was convicted for stealing Barley. As a farm labourer he wouldn’t have owned a farm himself, but would be reliant on local farms for casual labour: one can easily imagine how one bad season, one failed crop and drought of work would drive this man to theft for fear of starvation and the threat of the workhouse never far behind.
From theft to the receiving of stolen property and James Wood (no. 69), convicted of “receiving a horse, well knowing the same to have been stolen”. James was a twenty eight year old Higgler (a peddler of small items) and a horse would conceivably have been beyond his means, so perhaps this was an opportunity he just couldn’t let slip by, an easy receipt and sell: as the saying goes, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He was caught and sentenced to 4 years of penal service.
Another interesting group of convicts from this initial set is that of the military criminals. Deserters, drunks, strikers of officers…
One Andrew McMullen a soldier in Quebec was court martialled for striking a superior officer with an open hand – note the attention to detail here, would a closed had have been better or worse? All in good time. That officer in question was Doctor Griffin, supposedly just doing his duty… One wonders what medical procedure could have engendered such a response, especially considering another soldier, Michael Devitt, struck him with a fist less than a year later (He received a life sentence, in comparison to Andrew’s paltry four years: what a difference a clench makes)! Clearly the good doctor had a less than impressive bedside manner.
Neither of these men are noted to have been drunk at the time, though understandably in terrible conditions and the looming threat of death in front and overhead, one might be tempted to over-indulge in tipples now and then.
Like Edward Maker, an American from South Carolina, who was assumed to be drunk when he attempted to stab his captain and desert from Quebec… He got four years, thank god he didn’t punch him! William Clarke, another deserter from Quebec, in 1855, attempted to abscond with regimental articles, perhaps to pawn for his travel back to UK.
Pawning was a bustling underworld industry at this time and was fed by the fruits of clothing theft. Clothes in the early Victorian era were expensive to make and most people had one or two sets at most. Sewing was still done by hand until 1856 at the earliest, and so the used clothes market made a tremendous trade. Indeed it was normal for clothes from a wealthy family to be passed down to maidservants, and then sold on multiple times; they were used for many years before they finally ended up in the rag bag of a housewife.
Places like Paddies Market in Liverpool and Peticoat Lane in London, would have been very good places to pass off the stolen property. Unless that is, you’re Stephen Godfrey from Spitalfields, who was convicted for the theft of FIVE dresses and other articles: one can only assume that he meant to sell them on before they were wore out.
And also for the Rag gatherer James Brown, charged with ‘stealing’, in inverted quotes, a chemise from a hedge… he was sentenced to 4 years of penal servitude for his first conviction. This, curiously, was a dying crime as by 1870 the ready to wear market was booming, selling mass-produced machine-made clothing for most price ranges: now only the very desperate would need to resort to rags, remnants, and shonky shop.
From violent acts to acts of god and chemise theft, from fighting starvation to fleeing conflict, our first 94 inmates were a real mix of Victorian life. Of these prisoners who built the prison, only 3 remained at Woking until 1860, where they were all released in January of 1860: surprisingly there were no deaths, a rare occurrence at Woking Prison as we shall soon see.
So plug in for the next episode, where we will be exploring the first true inhabitants of this prison, their lives, their crimes and calamities.
We’ll meet them soon.
Thank you for listening to The Institutional History Society’s first podcast! We couldn’t have got this far without the wonderful London Archives, and the Woking Lightbox!
Special thanks to Kevin MacLeod for the use of his music in our podcast. Any comments, requests, or feedback please send the through to Institutionalhistory@gmail.com,
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