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Yesterday’s In our Time was very disappointing, the more so since I had been looking forward to it all week. The subject was Tycho Brahe, the last great naked-eye astronomer. He was a Danish nobleman with a false nose (he lost the original in a duel) who built a magic castle on the island of Hven where he established a number of the most accurate instruments for making naked-eye observations; telescopes had not yet been invented. His observations of the position of the planet Mars over a period of twenty years were so accurate that Kepler was able to use them to show that the orbit was elliptical rather than circular. The difference between the two orbits was only 20 minutes of arc—a third of a degree—but Kepler knew that Tycho’s measurements were reliable, and was able to deduce his planetary laws. These enabled the positions of the planets to be calculated with a high degree of accuracy, and the true scale of the solar system to be determined for the first time.
Hardly any of this was mentioned in the programme. The three academics assembled to discuss Tycho produced a positive masterclass of how to make a truly fascinating subject as dull as ditch water. There was loads of tedious detail about the political and religious background—not unimportant, but background material nevertheless, and the wonderful uniqueness of Tycho’s magic castle of Uraniborg was demoted to that of an ‘observatory’. No mention of his observations of Mars. Most disappointing.
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Quotation of the month today on In our Time today. They were discussing the Great Thames Stink of 1858, which resulted from the untreated sewage of millions of Londoners being dumped into the river. Stephen Halliday was describing how Joseph Bazalgette, who finally solved the problem by building the great system of sewers, got his job as chief engineer. Apparently he gave as his two referees Robert Stephenson and Isambard Kingdom Brunel which, Halliday commented, “Was rather like applying for a job as a clergyman, and giving as your referees Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John...”
When historians disagree, it is usually about the interpretation of facts rather than the facts themselves. The philosopher Nietzsche said: ‘There are no facts, only interpretations’, which is true, but only up to a point. No-one is going to argue with the fact that ‘Queen Elizabeth II died in 2022’. But they might argue with the ‘fact’ that the Duke of Wellington won the Battle of Waterloo; without Blücher’s Prussian army, the outcome may well have been different. Wellington himself commented that it was ‘the nearest-run thing you ever saw in your life’.
Nevertheless I think that if a historian commits a narrative to print as a true record of events, it is essential that the facts are checked and not just hearsay. Otherwise history, historical fiction, and pure fantasy become confused and intertwined. A sloppy historian is worse than useless; if alleged ‘facts’ can be shown to be spurious, their work can never be viewed seriously. I have come across several instances of this in my own researches, but two stand out. Lady Celia Noble was the granddaughter of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. She wrote a biography of Isambard and his father Marc, mentioning briefly Isambard’s sister, Emma Joan Brunel. My interest in Emma is explained in the article Isambard’s Gift which can be found elsewhere on this website. Celia Nobel wrote that Emma had married a curate, Frank Harrison, from ‘Longdon near Tewkesbury’, and had died young. This account was copied and repeated in at least two subsequent publications about the Brunels by different authors. In fact a fairly simple investigation showed that Emma had married George Harrison, a curate of Langdon Hills near Basildon, and she lived to be eighty years old. Lucy Worsley is a quirky popular historian, who frequently does TV shows on historical events, and likes dressing up as her characters. The book accompanying her BBC TV series ‘A Very British Murder’ garnered unqualified praise from the broadsheet newspapers as well as that doyenne of experts of the genre Antonia Fraser. Worsley wrote a chapter on the Red Barn murder, and in the TV series she dressed up as the victim Maria ‘Marten’ (her name was actually Maria Martin). Maria was the victim of William Corder, her boyfriend and the father of her third illegitimate child. It is difficult not to conclude that this chapter in Worsley’s book was just an excuse to show some gruesome colour pictures of relics of the murder on show at the Moyse’s Hall Museum at Bury St Edmunds. These included a copy of an account of the murder bound in Corder’s skin, his scalp complete with an attached ear and a death mask. Worsley’s skimpy account of the affair seems to have been based purely on a conversation she had with the museum curator and is full of factual errors. The old canard about the barn seeming to be a ‘bloody and ominous red’ in the setting sun comes from a thoroughly discredited account of the affair by Donald McCormick. The barn was quite probably painted red as a preservative for the wood. Maria was ‘said’ to have gone to meet Corder disguised in a man’s clothing. She was dressed as a man, and this is clear from the trial transcript. Worsley tells us that Corder found a wife after advertising in The Times. Not true; he found his wife, Mary Moore, after advertising in the Morning Herald. A second advertisement did appear in the Sunday Times, but Corder never picked up the responses because he had already met Mary Moore and married her two days after the second advertisement was published. According to Worsley, Corder claimed in his confession that he just threatened Maria with the gun and only fired because of ‘trembling fingers’. Yet the confession, dictated to John Orridge, governor of Bury Gaol, just twelve hours before Corder was hanged there states quite clearly: ‘... a scuffle ensued, and during the scuffle, and at the time I think she had hold of me, I took the pistol from the side-pocket of my velveteen jacket and fired.’ “So what?” You might say, “These are minor details. What does it matter how the Red Barn got its name; one newspaper is as good as another, and whether Corder killed Maria accidentally or on purpose, he still killed her.” I would counter, “Yes, but with the exception of the way the barn got its name, these are not the actual facts, which are clear, well documented, and in the public domain.” This so-called ‘history’ is, therefore, a piece of cynical merchandising; a coffee-table potboiler. Furthermore, if the ‘facts’ in the chapter on the Red Barn affair are so sloppily assembled, what credence can be given to the accounts of the other murders described in the same book. History it isn’t. For a while in the 19th Century, British prisons operated an extraordinary and radical system of prison discipline known as the Separate System. Inmates were kept effectively in solitary confinement, although the cells in the new prison at Wandsworth were provided with heating, lighting, and en-suite facilities...
I first came across the separate system when I was researching material for my first book, Henry’s Trials, nearly twenty years ago. I have now produced a short article for Genealogists’ Magazine, which can be downloaded here. Modern technology provides us with portable ‘HiFi’ units capable of substantial quality and decibel capability. A downside of this, is that some of our wonderful quiet spaces can be polluted with the wailing cacophony and/or boom boom noise that seems to be popular among certain sections of the (younger) population.
I was nonplussed therefore while cycling through the park a few days ago, to hear very loud sounds coming from some distance ahead. My heart sank, but as I rounded a corner, the source came into view. It was a very senior citizen, parked up on a mobility scooter by the pathway, enjoying early 60s heavy metal rock music emanating from a bag secreted on his vehicle. From the look on his face he did not appear to be enjoying it very much. I wondered whether he was just very hard of hearing, or from his central position by the path, near some benches and a café, his grim visage indicated instead some sort of revenge against the perpetrators of what passes for modern tastes in ‘music’. Rock on granddad! The events in British politics of the last few months have been so extraordinary, that even with the evidence of my own eyes and ears I find myself wondering whether I have really dreamed it all. But now, following the resignation of the latest Prime Minister after just forty-four days in office, the same people who elected her are seriously suggesting the return of Boris Johnson to the top job.
Truss resigned following the most astonishingly inept actions—the disastrous effects of which were entirely predicted by her election opponent. Johnson resigned following the loss of support of his ministers and MPs just a few months ago, and faces an investigation into misleading the House of Commons. If found guilty, it would be effectively impossible for him to continue as an MP. But now it has been suggested that up to 140 Tory MPs would nominate Johnson as new party leader, claiming that he still has a mandate from the 2019 election, and ‘the public’ want him. Seriously? His lies, his partying, and his casual disregard for truth and parliamentary probity all, apparently, forgotten after just a few months. I can’t believe that the majority of the British People will put up with this. Update 4 November Sir Graham Brady, he of the 1922 committee of Tory backbenchers, assures the BBC that Johnson really did have over 100 Tory MP backers, but decided not to put his name forward. I do not know what astonishes me more, the fact that Johnson appears to have demonstrated some humility, denying himself further glory that would undoubtedly have placed the country in extreme turmoil, or that more than 100 Tory MPs really thought that it would be a good idea to have back after just a couple of months the leader that they effectively turfed out in disgrace. It was with a sinking heart in the summer that I realized that Truss, the MPs' third choice for leader, was the darling of the Tory membership and almost certain to be elected. I will admit prejudice. I defy anyone watching her toe-curling performance at that Tory party conference on the imports of apples, pears, and cheese, not to shut their eyes, put their hands over their ears, and wish for early oblivion. But the total lack of any sort of personal presence does not mean that someone with an Oxford PPE degree under their belt who has risen to the rank of cabinet minister, is not without talent and ability. However, the first ‘P’ in PPE stands for ‘Philosophy’, and philosophy is the love of wisdom. That attribute has been totally and entirely absent from any of the actions of this new government. Many commentators have already observed that it is difficult to remember any government ever, that has made such a catastrophic start.
It is so bad that Jeremy Hunt, the new chancellor, he who disgracefully stone-walled the junior doctors on their campaign for a living wage, actually sounded like a welcome and calming ‘grown-up’ on the Today programme this morning. He admitted the government’s mistakes, and conceded that tax rises and cuts in public expenditure—which anyone with an IQ in double figures realizes is inevitable—would be unavoidable in the current climate. Listening to him I had to pinch myself; I felt like Winston Smith in the two minute hate when everyone has worked themselves up into a histrionic frenzy, and Big Brother’s picture and voice come on and calms everyone down... And then God smiled, and the universe made sense again. Miriam Margolyes was the next item, and gave a very touching tribute to Robbie Coltrane who has just died. Apparently she bumped into Hunt in the studio, and was chatting on air to Justin Webb about it. “I said to him you’ve got a hell of a job... the best of luck! What I really wanted to say: fuck you...” There are occasionally times when one person does or says something that speaks for the nation. This was such a time. Today’s headline... Truss: ‘Only my plan for growth will reverse the UK’s slow decline...’ But hidden away in the puzzle section, edited I’m guessing by an anarchist fifth columnist, a quotation from Albert Einstein:
‘Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former.’ A mate of mine, an ex-patriot Scot living in Paris, complains that the French seem to be incapable of distinguishing between the concepts of ‘English’ and ‘British’. Of all aspects of the French that we ‘Brits’ find most infuriating (and there is, no doubt, an equally if not longer reciprocal list), their apparent confusion between England, Britain, Great Britain, and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, is entirely forgivable, not the least reason for which is that many people in this country would be equally confused if called upon to explain.
The present loose and shouty association between England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland is, surprisingly, only just over 100 years old—just three years older than the late lamented Queen—having been established in 1921 on the partition of Ireland. The ‘Union’ first dates from the time of Henry VIII, when Wales was made part of the Kingdom of England; the Act of Union of 1707 united the Scottish and English parliaments to become Great Britain—even though the first Scottish King on the English throne was as early as 1603 (a measure of the difficulty of getting the Scots and the English to agree about anything, which situation continues to the present day). The Act of Union of 1801 united the parliaments of Great Britain (England, Wales, and Scotland) and (the whole of) Ireland. So ‘English’ implies England and Wales—good luck with that definition in Wales... ‘British’ is England, Wales, and Scotland, and ‘Citizen of the United Kingdom’ is the best I can think of for the four nations; many people in Northern Ireland call themselves ‘Irish’, which of course, they are. ‘Britain’ as opposed to ‘Great Britain’, seems to be a geographical term that refers to the main island. It is interesting to reflect that the late Queen presided as monarch over this current version of the United Kingdom for seventy years—more than two-thirds of the time it has existed. Will the new King be able to hold it together against moves for Scottish Separation, republicanism in Northern Ireland, and bitter, divisive, and rancorous anger everywhere over the European question? I really do hope so, although I fear that the concept of ‘inclusiveness’ does not appear to exist in the new Prime Minister’s dictionary, or if it does, she does not understand it. It was said that Johnson was the best recruiting sergeant the Scottish Nationalists had; the new PM, with her arrogant dismissal of the Scottish First Minister as an irrelevance, just added fuel to a fire that was already well alight. Charles I is famous for losing his head, Charles II was forced to hide in a tree to avoid arrest by the soldiers of Parliament. He also fathered—and acknowledged—at least twelve illegitimate children; he was not known as the Merry Monarch for nothing... King Charles III is well known for his climate-change advocacy and being a fan of the Goon Shows, in both of which I share his enthusiasm. I wish him well, although I do not envy him the task ahead. The Queen is dead, and to quote my daughter who is far more republican than I am, I shall miss her.
The Queen has always been there. Early memories are of the Coronation—being taken on the back of my mother’s bicycle to see the celebratory decorations on the factories along the Great West Road in west London, a special colour souvenir we were given at school with pictures of the royals and the crown jewels, and my model of the Golden Coronation Coach. In 1952 when Queen Elizabeth acceded to the throne, the country was bankrupt and facing a very uncertain future. King Charles finds himself in a similar position, and monarch not of a fading empire, but a decidedly Disunited Kingdom. Whatever else it will be, the new Carolingian Age is unlikely to be boring. |
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December 2022
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