The last Post Office Bellman—The “Corn Law” Act—Sir Walter Scott’s monument—The Irish famine—The Duke of Wellington’s statue—Gun cotton—Introduction of ether—Model dwelling houses—Baths and Wash-houses—Smithfield Cattle market—“The Bull Fight of Smithfield”—The first submarine telegraph.

The Illustrated London News, of 27 June, gives us “The Letter Carrier’s Last Knell.—We have just lost another of what poor Thomas Hood called, ‘Those evening bells.’ The Postmaster General having issued his fiat for the abolition of ‘ringing bells’ by the Letter Carriers, the last knell was rung out on the evening of Wednesday last; and, as a memorial of the departure of what appeared to most persons, a very useful practice, our artist has sketched a Letter Carrier, on his last evening call at our office; and another hand has appended the following lament:

The Dustman was first to forego his brass clapper,
The Muffinboy speedily followed his shade;
And, now, ’tis the Postman—that double-tongued rapper—
Must give up his Bell for the eve’s promenade.
“TantÆ Animis?’ sage Legislators!
Why rage against trifles like these? Prithee tell,
Why leave the solution to rude commentators,
Who say, that at home, you’ve enough in one Belle?”

On 26 June the Royal Assent was given to an Act (9–10 Vic., c. 22), called “An Act to amend the Laws relating to the Importation of Corn.” This regulated the duty on corn by a sliding scale of prices, which was to be in force until 1 Feb., 1849, when it was fixed at 1s. per quarter. The passing of this Act caused general rejoicing throughout the country, and put an end to a great deal of political rancour.

The last Post Office Bellman. Ill. Lon. News, 27 June, 1846

The inauguration of Sir Walter Scott’s Monument, at Edinburgh, took place on 15 Aug., the anniversary of his birth. It was erected in 1840–44, after designs by Mr. George M. Kemp, at a cost of £15,650. It is cruciform, with a Gothic spire, chiefly modelled on the details of Melrose Abbey; and includes, beneath its basement arches, a Carrara marble sitting statue of Scott, with his dog Maida, by his side, which is the work of Mr. Steel, and cost £2,000.

The potato crop utterly failed again in Ireland, and the outlook there was indeed black. In the Times of 2 Sep., its correspondent, writing from Dublin, on 31 Aug., says: “As it is now an admitted fact, on all sides, that the destruction of the early potato crop is complete, there can be no earthly use in loading your columns with repetitions of the sad details, as furnished day after day in the accounts published by the Irish newspapers. It will, therefore, nearly suffice to say that, according to the reports from all quarters, the crisis of deep and general distress cannot be much longer averted, and that it will require all the energies of both Government and Landlords to mitigate the inevitable consequences of a calamity, of which both parties have been duly forewarned. In the meantime, the following statement in a Limerick paper of Saturday, is another curious illustration of the Irish ‘difficulty’.

“‘In the Corn Market, this day, there appeared about 4,000 bushels of oats, and about an equal quantity of wheat. All this grain was purchased up, principally for exportation, whilst the food of the people, as exhibited this day in the Potato Market, was a mass of disease and rottenness. This is an anomaly which no intricacies of political economy—no legal quibbles, or crochets—no Government arrangements can reconcile. In an agricultural country which produces the finest corn for the food of man, we have to record that the corn is sold and sent out of the country, whilst the individuals that raised it by their toil and labour, are threatened with all the horrors of starvation.’

“From a multiplicity of concurrent statements respecting the pestilence, I shall merely subjoin one, which appears in the last Tralee paper: ‘A man would hardly dig in a day, as much sound potatoes as himself would consume. But that is not the worst of it. Common cholera has set in among the people of the town, owing to the use of potatoes, which contain a large quantity of poisonous matter. A professional gentleman in this town, of considerable experience and unquestioned integrity, assures me, that he has attended, within the last fortnight, in this town and neighbourhood, more than 12 cases of common cholera, and that he would think a person as safe in consuming a certain quantity of arsenic, as in using the potatoes now exposed for sale.’”

This is how the Famine of 1846–7 began, and what followed is a matter of history, which everyone ought to know, and ponder well over, but it can hardly come under the name of Gossip. There were, naturally, a few food riots in different parts of the country, but everyone tried to do their best, even in a blundering way, to alleviate the distress. The Archbishop of Canterbury composed a Special Form of Prayer, to be used on Sunday, 11 Oct.

On 29 Sep. the gigantic equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington, which used to crown the arch opposite Apsley House, and which was taken down 24 Jan., 1883, and then set up at Aldershot, was moved from the artist’s (Wyatt) studio, in Harrow Road, to Hyde Park. It was 27 feet high, and weighed about 40 tons, being made of brass guns taken by the Duke in various victories. Being of so great a weight, the appliances to remove it were on an equally massive scale, the carriage and framework in which it was placed weighing about 20 tons. It took 100 soldiers to haul the statue out of the studio; and, when mounted on its carriage, it took 29 huge dray horses, lent by Mr. Goding, of the Lion Brewery, Waterloo, to drag it to its destination. It was escorted by soldiers and military bands, and did the distance in about an hour a half. The next day was spent in preparing to hoist it; the day after, it was lifted some 50 feet, and there remained all night—and the next day was safely landed and put in position. From that time, until it was taken down, it was the butt of scoffs and jeers, and no one regretted its departure.

Gun cotton was brought into public notice by some experiments by its inventor, Professor SchÖnbein, of Basel, before the chairman of the East India Company, and a number of scientists. Professor Brande had previously lectured upon it, at the Royal Institution, on 15 Jan., when he stated that, about fifteen years before, Braconnot had ascertained that sawdust, wood shavings, starch, linen and cotton fabrics, when treated with concentrated nitric acid, produced a gelatinous substance, which coagulated into a white mass, on the addition of water; this substance, which he called “xyloidine,” was highly inflammable. SchÖnbein, however, made his explosive from purified cotton, steeped in a mixture of equal parts of nitric and sulphuric acids, which when carefully washed, and dried, kept its appearance of cotton wool. In the Times of 4 Nov., is a notice of Gun sawdust (a powder now much used), made by Mr. George Turner of Leeds.

Whilst on the subject of Chemicals, I may as well mention, what was much talked of at the time—the discovery of sulphuric ether, when inhaled, being an anÆsthetic. Previous to this, Nitrous Oxide, or, as it was called, “Laughing Gas,” somewhat inadequately performed the same function. This latter was discovered by Dr. Priestley, in 1776, and its use, as an anÆsthetic, recommended by Sir H. Davey in 1880, was put into practice by Mr. Wells, in America, to lessen the pain in extracting teeth in 1844.

The first notice of the inhalation of sulphuric ether that I know of, is in No. XLV. of the British and Foreign Medical Review, which says: “Just as our last proof was passing through our hands, we received from our medical friends in Boston, the account of a matter so interesting to surgeons, and, indeed to everyone, that we take the opportunity of introducing it here. We know nothing more of this new method of eschewing pain than what is contained in the following extracts from two private letters, kindly written to us by our excellent friends Dr. Ware and Dr. Warren, of Boston—both men of the highest eminence in their profession in America—and, we may truly say, in Europe also. It is impossible, however, not to regard the discovery as one of the very highest importance, not in the practice of operative surgery only, but, also, as Dr. Ware suggests, in practical medicine. We trust our friends will forgive us for putting into print their private communications. The importance of the subject, and the necessity of authenticating the statements, are our excuses. The authors of the discovery are Dr. C. T. Jackson and Dr. Morton.

Dr. Warren writes, under date of 24 Nov., that “In six cases, I have had it applied with satisfactory success, and no unpleasant sequel.” And Dr. Ware (29 Nov.) says: “It was brought into use by a dentist, and is, now, chiefly employed by that class of practitioners. He has taken out a patent for the discovery, and has despatched persons to Europe to secure one there also; so you will soon hear of it, and, probably, have an opportunity of witnessing its effects.”

Then follows a long list of operations performed in America—wound up with this postscript: “Dec. 22. Yesterday, we had, ourselves, this new mode of cheating pain put in practice by a master of chirurgery, on our own side of the Atlantic. In the theatre of University College Hospital, Mr. Liston amputated the thigh of a man, previously narcotized by the inhalation of ether vapour. Shortly after being placed on the operating table, the patient began to inhale, and became apparently insensible in the course of two or three minutes. The operation was then commenced, and the limb was removed in, what seemed to us, a marvellously short time—certainly less than a minute; the patient remaining during the incisions and the tying of the arteries, perfectly still and motionless. While the vessels were being secured, on being spoken to, he roused up partially (still showing no signs of pain), and answered questions put to him, in a slow, drowsy manner. He declared to us that at no part of the operation had he felt pain, though he seemed to be partially conscious; he had heard some words, and felt that something was being done to his limb. He was not aware, till told, that the limb was off; and, when he knew it, expressed great gratification at having been saved from pain. The man seemed quite awake when removed from the operating room, and continued so. Everything has since proceeded as usual, and very favourably.

“Mr. Liston afterwards performed one of the minor—but most painful operations of surgery—the partial removal of the nail, in onychia, on a man similarly narcotised, and with precisely the same result. The patient seemed to feel no pain; and, upon rousing up, after the operation, declared that he had felt none.”

Punch found another and more domestic use for this anÆsthetic.

Patient: “This is really most delightful—a most beautiful dream.”

Wonderful effects of Ether in a case of a scolding wife

Not only was there advance in medicine, but, also, in social science—people began to think that the condition of the working classes might be ameliorated by giving them better dwellings. As yet, little or nothing had been done, in this way, in London, but a grand opportunity occurred at Liverpool, in the building of Birkenhead, and an extensive range of model dwellings were erected, four-storied, with ornate exterior, the rents varying from 3s. to 5s. per set of rooms, according to position; but this included a constant supply of water, and the use of one gas burner in each set of rooms, and all rates and taxes; with, moreover, two iron bedsteads, a grate with an oven, and convenient fixtures; and they were found to answer financially.

The Queen’s consent was given on 26 Aug. to an “Act to Encourage the Establishment of Public Baths and Wash-houses” (9–10 Vic., c. 74). How it was appreciated by the animals called “Vestrymen” may be seen by the fact that at a Vestry meeting of the inhabitants of St. Leonard’s, Shoreditch, held 26 Oct., the subject was brought forward, when an amendment was moved “that it be taken into consideration that day six months.” For the amendment, 28; against 20!

The dangers of Smithfield Market were becoming too apparent, as we see by a letter in the Times of 26 Nov.:

The Bull Fight of Smithfield

“Sir,—Your paper of this morning again gives an account of more accidents arising in consequence of cattle being driven along our crowded streets, and we may expect to hear of numerous, probably some fatal, injuries being sustained during the short, and, often, very dark days, which are common for some months in the winter. Everyone, whose avocations call him into the city, has to complain of the delay arising from the over-crowded state of the leading thoroughfares; and, on Smithfield Market days, the obstruction is greatly increased by the droves of cattle and sheep which, in a bewildered, and frequently infuriated state, are being forced by crowds of men, boys, and dogs, along the streets, to the great annoyance, and, often, danger, of the passengers. I do not here dwell on the revolting scenes of cruelty to the animals, which everyone has to witness and deplore; but, on the ground of danger to human life, and, also, because of the seriously increased obstruction to the general traffic, which is caused by having the cattle market in the heart of the metropolis, I would urge the removal of Smithfield Market to some more appropriate place. When this has been effected—when abattoirs have been constructed, where, alone, all the larger animals are permitted to be slaughtered, and when cattle are allowed to be driven through the streets only at hours before the business of the day has commenced—then, and not before, will London be, in reference to its cattle market and slaughter houses, what is required in the middle of the nineteenth century.”

Punch gives us the following lyric on the subject:

The Bull Fight of Smithfield.

There’s trampling feet in Goswell Street, there’s row on Holborn Hill,
There’s crush and crowd, and swearing loud, from bass to treble shrill;
From grazier cad, and drover lad, and butcher shining greasy,
And slaughter men, and knacker’s men, and policemen free and easy.

’Tis Monday morn, and onward borne to Smithfield’s mart repair
The pigs and sheep, and, lowing deep, the oxen fine and fair;
They’re trooping on from Islington, and down Whitechapel road,
To wild halloo of a shouting crew, and yelp, and bite, and goad.

From combs of distant Devonshire, from sunny Sussex wold,
From where their Durham pastures the stately short-horns hold;
From Herefordshire marches, from fenny Cambridge flat,
For London’s maw they gather—those oxen fair and fat.

The stunted stocks of Cambria’s rocks uneasily are lowing,
With redder blaze of wild amaze their eyes around them throwing;
And the unkempt stot of Galloway, and the Kyloe of the Mearns,
Whose hoof, that crush’d the heather tuft, the mild Macadam spurns.

They may talk of plaza mayors, of torero’s nimble feat,
Of Montez, the famed matador of picadors so fleet;
But what is Spanish Bull fight to deeds which we can show,
When through the street, at all they meet, the Smithfield oxen go?

See there, see there, where, high in air, the nurse and nurseling fly!
Into a first-floor window, see, where that old gent, they shy!
Now they’re bolting into parlours, now they’re tumbling into cellars,
To the great disgust and terror of the peaceable indwellers.

Who rides so neat down Chiswell Street? A City Knight, I ween;
By girth and span an alderman, nor less by port and mien.
Look out, look out! that sudden shout! the Smithfield herd is nigh!
Now turn, Sir Knight, and boldly fight, or, more discreetly, fly.

He hath eased round on his saddle, all fidgetty and fast;
There’s another herd behind him, and the time for flight is past.
Full in his front glares a rabid runt, thro’ tears of pain that blind him,
For the drover’s almost twisted off the tail that hangs behind him.

All lightly armed for such a shock was stout Sir Calipee,
But he couched his new umbrella, and “Police” aloud cried he!
Crash—smash—slap-dash! The whalebone snaps, the saddle seat is bare,
And the Knight, in mazy circles, is flying thro’ the air!

The runt tears on, the rout is gone, the street is calm once more,
And to Bartlemy’s they bear him, extended on a door;
Now, gramercy, good Sir Calipee, to the turtle and the haunch,
That padded out thy civic ribs, and lined thy stately paunch.

No ribs are broke, but a shattering stroke thy system has sustain’d;
Any other than an alderman had certainly been brained.
And, soon as he had breath to swear, the Knight right roundly swore
That, straight, he’d put down Smithfield, and set up an abattoir.

In this year there were sold at Smithfield 226,132 beasts, 1,593,270 sheep and lambs, 26,356 calves, and 33,531 pigs—to deal with which there were about 160 salesmen. Things went on very much in the same style as described in Punch until 1851, when the contracted space of the market, the slaughtering places adjoining, and many other nuisances, gave grounds for general dissatisfaction, and after an investigation, an Act (14–15 Vic., c. 61) was passed on 1 Aug. “For providing a Metropolitan Market, and conveniences therewith, in lieu of the Cattle Market at Smithfield.” A suitable site was found in Copenhagen Fields, Islington; the last market at Smithfield was held on 11 June, and the first at the new one on 13 June, 1855.

The Hampshire Guardian, copied into the Times of 12 Dec., gives us the story of the first submarine Telegraph: “We are enabled to supply the following additional particulars respecting the submarine Telegraph laid down across our harbour. It is now about three years since the telegraph from the Nine Elms terminus to the terminus at Gosport was first established. Subsequently, from the inconvenience experienced at the Admiralty Office here, because of the distance to the telegraph station, the wires were continued from that place to the Royal Clarence Yard. With this addition, although the inconvenience was lessened, it was far from being removed, the harbour intervening, leaving a distance of upwards of a mile, to the Admiral’s house, unconnected; and, notwithstanding the wish of the authorities, both here and in London, that the telegraph should be carried to the Dockyard, no attempt has, hitherto, been made to do so, because it has been considered almost impossible to convey it under water. An offer, indeed, was made to the Admiralty, to lay down a telegraph enclosed in metallic pipes, which were to be fixed under the water by the aid of diving bells. This scheme, having been found to be impracticable, has been very prudently abandoned. Whatever difficulties may have hitherto interfered to prevent the establishment of submarine telegraphs, appear, now, to have been entirely overcome, for the time occupied from the commencement of carrying the telegraph from shore to shore, and transmitting signals, did not occupy a quarter of an hour. The telegraph, which has the appearance of an ordinary rope, was coiled into one of the dockyard boats, one end of it being made fast on shore, and, as the boat was pulled across, the telegraphic rope was gradually paid out over the stern, its superior gravity causing it to sink to the bottom immediately. . . . Independently of the simplicity of this submarine telegraph, it has an advantage which even the telegraphs on land do not possess—in the event of an accident, it can be replaced in ten minutes. The success of the trial here has, we understand, determined the inventors to lay down their contemplated line across the Channel, from England to France, under the sanction of the respective Governments.”

Such was the germ of the multitudinous cables which now span every ocean.