The Royal Botanic Garden, Sydney, is 200 years old!

It’s today! Sydney’s Royal Botanic Garden is 200 years old on June 13, 2016. Happy birthday!

We’ve seen why this day is the bicentenary – it’s because this is when Nicholas Delaney and his convict road gang finished building Mrs Macquarie’s Road and delighted her husband, New South Wales Governor Lachlan Macquarie.

A small part of Nicholas’s original road can still be seen, two centuries later, at the Macquarie Culvert in the Botanic Garden.

Macquarie Culvert in Sydney's Royal Botanic Garden, showing both bridges. © Jeff Farrar, 2013

Macquarie Culvert, part of Mrs Macquarie’s Road. Photo © Jeff Farrar, 2013

Nicholas Delaney was the overseer of a gang of labourers working on building roads for Lachlan Macquarie. The Governor’s mission in his early years was to impose order and morals on a colony which had only just experienced its first and only successful military coup, the Rum Rebellion. Part of this involved tidying up Sydney.

He set out to claim back the Domain, the Government House land which included the present Domain and all the area up to Bennelong Point and Mrs Macquarie’s Point.

Photo of the Domain, Sydney, from the air

The Domain, Sydney, from the air

Macquarie, a religious man, had orders from London to reform public morals. Over the years the remoter areas of the Domain had become useful territory for thieves and prostitutes. The seclusion suited hiding stolen goods and meetings of, well, various kinds. The Domain needed a good clean-up.

He enclosed the area with a stone wall and wooden fences. In 1815 he posted constables to lurk inside and arrest anyone who broke in. Three men who were caught there that April – one of them was suspected of dealing in stolen goods and keeping a ‘disorderly house’ – were flogged.

And he decided to reclaim it as a place of beauty and a delight for his beloved wife, Elizabeth.

Photo of Mrs Macquarie's chair, early 20th century, from State Library of New South Wales

Mrs Macquarie’s chair, early 20th century

She was the one who planned a new route around the eastern part of the Domain, which was to be named after her – Mrs Macquarie’s Road. At the northern tip of the new road a large rock was carved into a seat for her – called, of course, Mrs Macquarie’s Chair – and it’s said she loved to go there by foot or carriage and watch the ships sailing in from the other side of the world.

I wonder if she saw the convict transports arriving which carried two more of my ancestors, Sarah Marshall on the Friendship and John Simpson on Ocean II, in January 1818?

It’s likely that Mrs Macquarie’s Chair was carved by Nicholas’s road gang, but I haven’t found any proof of that. On one side a stone carver has inscribed the date when Nicholas and his gang finished the road, and that, together with Lachlan Macquarie’s journal, is where the date of 13 June, 2016, the Botanic Garden’s 200th birthday, comes from.

Photo of inscription on Mrs Macquarie's Chair in Sydney's Royal Botanic Garden

Inscription on Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, CC via Wikimedia

It’s still a popular place for sightseeing, and it’s where Delaneys are gathering today to celebrate Nicholas’s achievement. A cannon will be fired to mark the historic moment at one o’clock when the men downed tools and Nicholas gave the Governor the good news.

Botanic Gardens redevelopment ‘on hold’

There’s some more happy news just in time for the 200th birthday party – a controversial $130 million plan to redevelop the Royal Botanic Garden and Domain has been put on hold, the Sydney Morning Herald reports.

I mentioned how canny Nicholas had been to finish Mrs Macquarie’s Road on Mrs Macquarie’s birthday (getting five gallons of spirits as a reward). It seems his announcement of the road’s completion was pretty canny, too.

I found this story in the Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser of Saturday, 15 June, 1816:

Governor Lachlan Macquarie launches a ship named after his wife on her birthday - old newspaper cutting

Lachlan Macquarie launches the Elizabeth Henrietta

Governor Macquarie had launched a ‘fine brig’ named after his wife, Elizabeth Henrietta, at noon that day – another birthday present for her. Exactly an hour later, overseer Delaney added his good news about the road gang’s birthday gift. Isn’t that good timing? I have to admire my 3x great grandfather for his forward planning.

I’ve got a little something to mark the ‘auspicious Day’, too – an offer of 25% off the price of Nicholas Delaney’s biography, A Rebel Hand, until the end of June.

Get Nicholas Delaney’s biography, A Rebel Hand, here.

So here’s wishing the Botanic Garden another 200 years, and here’s to Nicholas and his descendants celebrating his achievement today!

Picture credits:
Macquarie Culvert photo © Jeff Farrar, 2013
Photograph of the Domain via Wikimedia
Old photo of Mrs Macquarie’s Chair NLNSW via Wikimedia
Inscription photo by Graeme Churchard, CC via Flickr
Newspaper article via Trove

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Delaneys return to the Royal Botanic Garden

Today’s post about Nicholas Delaney and the 200th anniversary of Sydney’s Royal Botanic Garden is more of a news item.

The Delaneys are coming back!

There’s going to be a gathering of Nicholas’s descendants on 13 June, 2016, at the Royal Botanic Gardens, exactly 200 years to the hour after our ancestor told a delighted Governor Lachlan Macquarie that he and his road gang had finished building Mrs Macquarie’s Road.

Old handwritten document - Lachlan Macquarie's journal for 13 June, 1816 part 2

Lachlan Macquarie’s journal for 13 June, 1816

One of my Delaney cousins tells me that the family will reunite at Mrs Macquarie’s Chair at 1pm ‘to re-enact the dedication of Mrs Macquarie’s Road by Governor Macquarie’. Isn’t that a brilliant idea?

Here’s a link to what else is going on to celebrate the garden’s 200th birthday.

I’ll pass on the details as soon as I know more. I’ll probably tweet them, so if you’re on Twitter, please check my moniker, @ARebelHand.

Photo of inscription on Mrs Macquarie's Chair in Sydney's Royal Botanic Garden

Inscription on Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, CC via Wikimedia

I can’t be there, so the least I can do is join in the spirit of the occasion and celebrate by announcing this:

Special offer on A Rebel Hand

From today until the end of June, I’m offering 25% off the price of a copy of A Rebel Hand, the biography of Nicholas Delaney, Irish rebel, transported convict, roadbuilder and farmer – a man who left his mark on the early colony and whose work can be seen in Sydney to this day.

I hope you’ll come back soon for the next Botanic Garden bicentenary celebration post.

Get your special offer of A Rebel Hand for £5.99 here.

Update: Delaney descendant Denis O’Brien, who’s organising the reunion, will be interviewed on 702 ABC Sydney, a local radio station. You can listen live at around 0620 Sydney time. It’s a little early in the morning, but I’m sure it’ll be worth it.

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Nicholas Delaney and the Royal Botanic Garden, Sydney

The Royal Botanic Garden in Sydney is 200 years old on June 13, 2016. Happy Birthday!

And the bicentenary’s on that day because of another birthday and the crafty planning of an Irish ex-convict – Nicholas Delaney, my great-great-great grandfather.

Lachlan Macquarie, Governor of New South Wales

Lachlan Macquarie

In 1810, Lachlan Macquarie became Governor of New South Wales. An experienced soldier, he’d been sent to Australia to clean up after the Rum Rebellion of 1808-9, when the colony’s army regiment, the New South Wales or Rum Corps, overthrew Governor William Bligh. Yes, the same Bligh as in the Mutiny on the Bounty, 19 years earlier. Leadership skills didn’t seem to be his strong point.

Governor Macquarie didn’t just want to restore order to the population of News South Wales. He also imposed order on its streets. Under Macquarie, Sydney’s rambling streets were tamed and a grid plan imposed on the city. He needed trusted, experienced road gang overseers. Like Nicholas Delaney.

One of Lachlan Macquarie’s projects was to claim back the Domain, the land surrounding and to the east of his official residence, Government House. It swept from Circular Quay around Farm Cove to Woolloomooloo and included places we now know as the Sydney Opera House, Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, the Royal Botanic Gardens and the (much smaller) Domain.

Aerial view of the old Domain area of Sydney showing Mrs Macquarie's Road, via Google Earth

View of the (old) Domain area with Nicholas’s road on the right

Lachlan Macquarie and his wife Elizabeth seem to have been deeply fond of each other. She was certainly a great support in his efforts to move New South Wales on from a penal settlement to a self-sufficient colony.

As she was keen on gardening – a very civilised pursuit, and a way of taming the wild – no doubt he encouraged her to take on planning a new garden for the Domain and a road around the eastern part up to the place on the tip of the peninsula now known as Mrs Macquarie’s Point.

And it was Nicholas Delaney who Lachlan Macquarie appointed to work, with his convict gang, on building what was first called Mrs Macquarie’s New Road, later just Mrs Macquarie’s Road.

I haven’t found any record of when Nicholas and his men started work on the road, but it would’ve been back-breaking work. We do know when they finally laid down their tools and Nicholas hurried to tell the Governor the good news.

Old map of Sydney Cove and Farm Cove as it was in 1802, when Nicholas Delaney lived there

Sydney Cove and Farm Cove as they were in 1802

You’d need to be canny or lucky, or both, to survive as a convict in the early days of European settlement in Australia. Two decades of researching Nicholas Delaney’s life have convinced me that he was both. And tough as old work boots, too.

After six years working for Lachlan Macquarie it’s likely that Nicholas would’ve known when Mrs Macquarie’s birthday was. The 13th of June. And if speeding up or slowing down a bit meant that the gang finished work on her road on her birthday, well, what a wonderful extra birthday present that would be. One that her loving husband might appreciate, too.

And guess what? Nicholas and his men did just that. Was Lachlan Macquarie pleased? I’ll let the Governor tell you in his own words.

Old handwritten document - Lachlan Macquarie's journal for 13 June, 1816 part 1

Lachlan Macquarie’s journal for 13 June, 1816, pt 1

(He continues over the page)

Old handwritten document - Lachlan Macquarie's journal for 13 June, 1816 part 2

Lachlan Macquarie’s journal for 13 June, 1816, pt 2

Here’s the transcription:

This day at 1. P.M. Nicholas Delaney the Overseer of the Working Gang employed for some time past in the Government Domain reported to me that Mrs. Macquarie’s New Road – (measuring 3 miles and 377 yards –) round the inside of the Government – together with all the necessary Bridges on the same – were completely [page break] finished agreeably to the Plan laid down originally for constructing it by Mrs. Macquarie.

As a reward for their exertions in having completed “Mrs. Macquarie’s Road,” on this particular and auspicious Day, I have given Delaney and his Gang of Ten Men, Five Gallons of Spirits amongst them – as Donation from Government from the King’s Store. —

I’ve written more about Nicholas Delaney building Mrs Macquarie’s Road and what could be the oldest bridge in Australia already on this blog. But I’m so excited about the 200th anniversary of my ancestor leaving his mark on New South Wales that I’ll be posting more, up to and during the ‘auspicious Day’.

So do come back and find out more about the story behind #Garden200.

Picture credits:
Portrait of Governor Lachlan Macquarie via Wikimedia Commons
Aerial view of the Domain via Google Earth
1802 map of Sydney via Mapco
Extracts from Lachlan Macquarie’s journal courtesy of the State Library of New South Wales

Buy Nicholas Delaney’s biography, A Rebel Hand, here

 

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Celestina’s life in Millbank Prison: a Christmas tale pt 22

In the last post in this series, Celestina Sommer arrived at Millbank Prison on 6 September, 1856, to begin her sentence for murdering her daughter, Celestina Christmas. Her hair was cut off, she was given prison clothes and put in the probation ward. What was life like for her there?

Handwritten record of Celestina Sommer being sent to Millbank

Record of Celestina Sommer being sent to Millbank *

A good picture of Millbank from that era comes from Henry Mayhew and John Binny’s (M&B) 1862 book, The Criminal Prisons of London and Scenes of London Life, which I’m going to quote from several times in this post. There’s a list of further reading about women’s life in prison at the bottom.

Here they describe entering the women’s pentagon, the third of the six that made up Millbank Prison’s panopticon design:

Plan of the women's pentagon at Millbank Prison

The women’s pentagon at Millbank *

‘The matron now opened a heavy door that moaned on its hinges. “This is A ward, and has thirty cells in it, exactly the same as those in the male pentagon.”

‘The cells had register numbers outside, but the grated gate was considerably lighter, though equally as strong as those in the other pentagons.

‘As we peeped into one of the little cells, we saw a good-looking girl with a skein of thread round her neck, seated and busy making a shirt. The mattress and blankets were rolled up into a square bundle, as in the male cells. There was a small wooden stool and little square table with a gas jet just over it; the bright tins, wooden platter, and salt-box, a few books, and a slate, and signal-stick shaped like a harlequin’s wand, were all neatly arranged upon the table and shelf in the corner.’ M&B

They go into greater detail describing a typical cell on the men’s wards:

‘The colour of the walls we found of a light neutral tint. Beneath the solitary window, which, like all the cell windows, looked towards the “warder’s tower,” in the centre of the pentagon, was a little square table of plain wood, on which stood a small pyramid of books, consisting of a Bible, a Prayer-book, a hymn-book, an arithmetic-book, a work entitled “Home and Common Things,” and other similar publications of the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge, together with a slate and pencil, a wooden platter, two tin pints for cocoa and gruel, a salt-cellar, a wooden spoon, and the signal-stick before alluded to.

‘Underneath the table was a broom for sweeping out the cell, resembling a sweep’s brush, two combs, a hair-brush, a piece of soap, and a utensil like a pudding-basin.

A notice to female convicts, pinned to the wall at Millbank Prison

A notice to female convicts, Millbank *

‘Affixed to the wall was a card with texts, known in the prison as the “Scripture Card,” and a “Notice to Convicts” also; whilst on one side of the table stood a washing-tub and wooden stool, and on the other the hammock and bedding, neatly folded up. The mattress, blankets, and sheets, we were told, have to be arranged in five folds, the coloured night-cap being placed on the centre of the middle fold; and considerable attention is required to be paid to the precise folding of the bed-clothes, so as to form five layers of equal dimensions. The day-cap is placed on the top of the neat square parcel of bedding, which looks scarcely larger than a soldier’s knapsack.’ M&B

A day in the life of a woman prisoner at Millbank

What was a typical day like for Celestina at Millbank? I’ve turned to another fascinating contemporary book, Female life in prison, by a prison matron (FL), which was actually written by a man, Frederick William Robinson, and published in 1863.

The day begins at quarter to six, he wrote, when the night guard rings a bell. ‘At six o’clock every prisoner is expected to be dressed and standing in her cell, ready to show herself to the matrons on duty’, who ‘unbolt each inner door, and fling it back to make sure the prisoner is safe and in health.’ The outer door is ‘formed of an iron grating’, which can be left locked to keep the prisoner secure but visible.

Engraving of a guard at the inner gate, Millbank Prison

Guard at the inner gate, Millbank Prison *

‘The rattle, rattle of the bolts down the ward has a peculiar effect, and is the first sign of daily life.’ Some women were ‘let out to clean the flagstones in the wards, with a matron as guard over them; a few of the best-behaved dust the matrons’ rooms, and make their beds. The cells by this time are all cleaned and tidied, the bed is carefully folded up, the blankets, rug, shawl, and woman’s bonnet placed thereon, the deal table polished, and the stones of the cell scrubbed.’

At half past seven the prisoner gets a pint of cocoa ladled into her tin mug, and a four-pound loaf. After breakfast, she scrubs her ‘tin pint’, which she keeps in her cell. Work begins – ‘each woman in her separate cell, working silently, passively, and allowed no converse with her fellow-prisoners’.

At 9.15 chapel bell rings, and morning service is held half an hour later. ‘Each matron in charge of a ward is responsible for the number of women attending chapel, and the safe return to their cells.’ Presumably they go back to work, then at 12.30 ‘water is served to’ them and at 12.45 ‘the dinner-bell is rung, and each prisoner provided with four ounces of boiled meat, half a pound of potatoes, and a six-ounce loaf’ in a can, which is taken back after dinner. Then back to silent work, ‘coir-picking, shirt-making, &c’ with ‘only the voices of the matrons breaking the stillness.’

One hour a day is ‘allowed for exercise in the airing yards’, still under the rule of silence. ‘A ward of women is exercised at a time, walking ‘in Indian file’, with a prison matron in attendance, keeping a watch on her flock of black sheep.’ It’s ‘tedious and monotonous’ for the matron, ‘shivering in her in bearskin cloak’ in winter and ‘struggling against the heat’ in summer. I don’t imagine it was a barrel of laughs for the inmates, either, but at least they were able to get some exercise and fresh air.

Women convicts at exercise in Millbank Prison, wearing winter cloaks and tall hatstime

Millbank convicts at exercise time *

‘For one hour these convicted women tramp unceasingly round the gravelled yard, muttering to each other when at the farthest distance from the matron… plodding on in this mill-horse round for sixty minutes, with the matron at times nodding at her post.’

Work goes on till 5.30pm, ‘when gruel is served in the “pints” of prisoners’. Then ‘a few prayers are said by a matron standing in the centre of each ward, so that her voice can be heard by the prisoners standing at their doors of open iron-work. After prayers each woman answers to a name from the list called out’ and then it’s back to work ’till a quarter to eight, when the scissors are collected; reading, &c, is then allowed, till about half-past eight.’ As well as reading, the prisoners have to make their beds in this short spell of free time.

The matron turns out the gas in the cells at quarter to nine, and after that ‘it is supposed… that the prisoners are in their beds.’

At 9pm matron on night duty starts her rounds, ‘passing once an hour each cell’, looking for ‘sickness or breach of discipline… checking at times artful signals on the wall between one prisoner and another’ until the bell rings again at 5.45 am and the whole routine begins again. FL

No wonder women prisoners thought was an ‘every-day, toilsome, wearisome life’, though better than the workhouse (!)

Millbank Prison: what female prisoners ate

Millbank ‘dietary’. Monotonous and unhealthy

Mayhew and Binny were allowed into the kitchens at breakfast time to see the women’s breakfasts served. There were three kitchens, each one serving two of Millbank Prison’s six pentagons, and all staffed by men:

‘”This is the female compartment. Here, you see,” said the officer, pointing to the farther side of a wooden partition that stood at the end of the kitchen, “is the place where the women enter from pentagon 3, whilst this side is for the men coming from pentagon 4.” Presently the door was opened and files of male prisoners were seen, with warders, without.

‘”Now, they’re coming down to have breakfast served,” said the cook. “F ward!” cries an officer, and immediately two prisoners enter and run away with a tin can each, while another holds a conical basket and counts bread into it – saying, 6, 12, 18, and so on.

Engraving of Holloway Prison kitchen

Prison kitchen (Holloway)

‘When the males had been all served, and the kitchen was quiet again, the cook said to us, “Now you’ll see the females, sir. Are all the cooks out ?” he cried in a loud voice; and when he was assured that the prisoners serving in the kitchen had retired, the principal matron came in at the door on the other side of the partition. Presently she cried out, “Now, Miss Gardiner, if you please!” Whereupon the matron so named entered, costumed in a grey straw-bonnet and fawn-coloured merino dress, with a jacket of the same material over it, and attended by some two or three female prisoners habited in their loose, dark-brown gowns, check aprons, and close white cap.

‘The matron then proceeded to serve and count the bread into a basket, and afterwards handed the basket to one of the females near her. “I wish you people would move quick out of the way there,” says the principal female officer to some of the women who betray a disposition to stare. While this is going on, another convict enters and goes off with the tin can full of cocoa.

‘Then comes another matron with other prisoners, and so on, till all are served, when the cook says, “Good morning, Miss Crosswell,” and away the principal matron trips, leaving the kitchen all quiet again – so quiet, indeed, that we hear the sand crunching under the feet [on the kitchen floor].’ M&B

This account does give a first impression that the women prisoners came to the kitchen for their breakfast, which isn’t what the ‘prison matron’ said. Perhaps what happened was that the matrons were helped by a few trusted prisoners, the sort that had the dubious privilege of cleaning the matrons’ rooms.

Millbank Prison laundry

Washing was, of course, women’s work, and very hard work it was. So in addition to coir-picking and sewing, Celestina’s fellow prisoners worked in the prison laundry, too. Mayhew and Binny paid another of their visits there:

‘We now entered the laundry, which reminded us somewhat of a fish-market, with its wet-looking, black, shiny asphalte floor. The place was empty – work being finished on the Friday. On Saturday mornings, the convicts who are usually employed to do the washing, go to school, and in the afternoon they clean the laundry, so as to have it ready for work on Monday morning. Long dressers stretch round the building; there is a heavy mangle at one side, and cloths’-horses, done up in quires, rest against the wall.

Old photo of Millbank Prison in the 1880s showing an exercise yard and a tower

Millbank Prison in the 1880s

‘We are next led through the drying and getting-up room, and so into the wash-house. Here we find rows of troughs, with brass taps, for hot and cold water, jutting over them. There is a large bricken boiler at one end of the apartment, pails and tubs stand about, and a few limp-wet clothes are still on the lines. “There are only ten women washing every week now,” observed the matron; “we have had thirty-six or forty-quite as many as that. We used to do for the whole service, but at present we wash only for the female prisoners and their officers.”‘

The matron then led them back into the wards. “Generally speaking… those who have been very bad outside are found the best in prison both for work and behaviour; and the longest-sentenced females are usually the best behaved.”

“The long sentences are, mostly, for murder – child-murder,” she added; “and this is usually the first and only offence; but the others are continually in and out, and become at last regular jail people.” M&B

And, of course, it was ‘child-murder’ that Celestina Sommer was in prison for. There’s a strong implication in these accounts that women convicts were seen as either being incorrigibly criminal – poor, bad, ignorant but cunning – or one-off murderers. Though if you were locked up for a long time your chances of killing your child or abusive husband were lowered significantly…

Celestina was self-contained while she was at Millbank, not misbehaving in a way that would cause her to be punished. But for a moment, I’m going to take a quick look at what was called ‘breaking out’, which wasn’t escaping but acting in an irrational way.

Punishment cells

The ‘prison matron’ explained that at Millbank there were 42 matrons of various ranks, and an average of 471 prisoners; that’s about 11 convicts to each warder. She went on:

‘The most trying ordeal for all prisoners is that of probation at Millbank – the silent system, as it may almost be termed… it is simply impossible to make the female prisoners conform to strictly silent rules, or to any rules, for a length of time… there is a restlessness and excitability in the character of these women, that makes the charge of them infinitely more of a labour and a study than the management of treble the number of men.

‘The male prisoners are influenced by some amount of reason and forethought, but the female prisoner… acts more often like a mad woman than a rational, reflecting human being.’ FL

The offending women were put into ‘dark cells’. Mayhew and Binny were shown them as part of their tour of Millbank. ‘”There’s one of our punishment cells,” says the dark-eyed young matron, as we quit B ward, passage No 2. The cell was not quite dark; there was a bed in the corner of it.

‘”What can the women do there?” asked we. “Do!” cried the matron; “why, they can sing and dance, and whistle, and make use, as they do, of the most profane language conceivable.”‘ Dancing and whistling? Disgraceful.

Women prisoners in the yard at Millbank

Women prisoners in the yard at Millbank *

‘We now proceeded up stairs to the punishment cell on the landing. This one was intensely dark, with a kind of grating in the walls for ventilation, but no light-hole; and there was a small raised wooden bed in the corner. The cell was shut in first by a grated gate, then a wooden door, lined with iron, with another door outside that; and then a kind of mattress, or large straw-pad, arranged on a slide before the outer door, to deaden the sound from within. “Those are the best dark cells in all England,” said our guide, as he closed the many doors. ” They’re clean, warm, and well ventilated.” There were five such cells in a line…

‘”That’s one of the women under punishment who’s singing now,” said the matron, as we stood still to listen. “They generally sing. Oh! that’s nothing – that’s very quiet for them. Their language to the minister is sometimes so horrible, that I am obliged to run away with disgust.

‘”Some that we’ve had,” went on the matron, “have torn up their beds. They make up songs themselves all about the officers of the prison. Oh! they’ll have every one in their verses – the directors, the governor, and all of us.” She then repeated the following doggerel from one of the prison songs :- “If you go to Millbank, and you want to see Miss Cosgrove, you must inquire at the round house; – and they’ll add something I can’t tell you of.”

Engraving of Millbank Prision, 19th century‘We went down stairs and listened to the woman in the dark cell, who was singing “Buffalo Gals,” but we could not make out a word – we could only catch the tune.

‘In F ward is the padded cell. “We’ve not had a woman in here for many months,” said the matron, as we entered the place. The apartment was about six feet high; a wainscot of mattresses was ranged all round the walls, and large beds were placed on the ground in one corner, and were big enough to cover the whole cell. “This is for persons subject to fits,” says the matron; “but very few suffer from them.”

‘The matron now led us into a double cell, containing an iron bed and tressel [trestle table]. Here the windows were all broken, and many of the sashes shattered as well. This had been done by one of the women with a tin pot, we were informed.

‘”What is this, Miss Cosgrove ?” asked the warder, pointing to a bundle of sticks like firewood in the corner.

‘”Oh, that’s the remains of her table! And if we hadn’t come in time, she would have broken up her bedstead as well, I dare say…”‘

Isolation

Next they went to ‘D ward, passage No 2; this is the penal ward. Here the windows were wired inside, and had rude kinds of Venetian blinds fixed on the outside; the cells were comparatively dark, and the prisoners younger and much prettier than any we had yet seen. Many of them smiled impudently as we passed. Here the bedding was ranged in square bundles all along the passage, because the prisoners had been found to wear them for bustles.

Millbank Prison convict in a canvas dress

Millbank convict in a canvas dress *

‘”Those bells,” points out the matron, “are to call male officers in case of alarm.”
Presently we saw, inside one of the cells we passed, a girl in a coarse canvas dress, strapped over her claret-brown convict clothes. This dress was fastened by a belt and straps of the same stuff, and, instead of an ordinary buckle, it was held tight by means of a key acting on a screw attached to the back. The girl had been tearing her clothes, and the coarse canvas dress was put on to prevent her repeating the act…

‘The canvas dress we found to be like a coarse sack, with sleeves, and straps at the waist – the latter made to fasten, as we have said before, with small screws. With it we were shown the prison strait-waistcoat, which consisted of a canvas jacket, with black leathern sleeves, like boots closed at the end, and with straps up the arm.

‘The canvas dress has sometimes been cut up by the women with bits of broken glass. Formerly the women used to break the glass window in the penal ward, by taking the bones out of their stays and pushing them through the wires in front.’ M&B

When they knew that the punishment cells were full, ‘women will break their windows, or strike… their officers… knowing that they will have a companion for a day or two; and a companion, even with bread and water by way of diet, is better than silent existence under separate confinement,’ the ‘prison matron’ wrote. Some prisoners ‘feigned’ madness in order to get out of their solitary cells. But Celestina wasn’t one of these.

There’s much more about break-outs and ‘the dark’ in Female Life in Prison, if you’re interested.

Rules for the penal class of female convicts at Millbank Prison

Rules pinned up at Millbank *

Millbank Prison was ‘founded on humane and rational principles; in which the prisoners should be separated into classes, be compelled to work, and their religious and moral habits properly attended to,’ according to London and its Environs; or, the General Ambulator, a guidebook printed in 1820.

Admirable in theory, perhaps; but in real life being locked up alone and in silence was worse for many of these women than having human contact, even in a punishment cell.

So it’s probably no surprise that being ‘allowed’ to act as servants to matrons was seen as a favour to the better-behaved prisoners. The ‘matron’ listed some of the ways they could get ‘breaks in the monotony of their existence’, such as ‘letter-writing days’ – their letters were opened and read before leaving the prison; ‘schooling’; ‘extra duties out of their cell, in attendance on a matron’; ‘association’, for instance in the prison yard at exercise time; ‘seeing directors, to make remonstrances, or solicit extra favours’; and ‘seeing the surgeon about their little ailments’. FL

But, as I mentioned, Celestina didn’t break out. The ‘matron’ described her as being ‘quiet and well-ordered… partial to her own cell and her work therein’. This earned her the reward of a transfer to Brixton Prison, which is where I’ll take up her story in the next post.

Millbank CS crop


Further reading:
Memorials of Millbank, Arthur Griffiths, 1884
The Criminal Prisons of London and Scenes of London Life, Henry Mayhew and John Binny, 1862
Female life in prison, by a prison matron, Vol 1, Frederick William Robinson, 1863
London and its Environs; or, the General Ambulator, 1820

* Picture credits:
Prison record: FindMyPast
Plan of Millbank Penitentiary: Wikipedia
Both images of Millbank women convicts in the exercise yard: Memorials of Millbank
Other images inside Millbank Prison, and the two prison notices: The Criminal Prisons of London and Scenes of London Life

Catch up with A Christmas tale:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22

Posted in Celestina, Convicts | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Finding my past in Ireland free: Julia Harrington

I’m spending today using the free access to Irish records offered by FindMyPast Ireland this weekend (until 1200 on Monday 25 January, in case you haven’t seen the special offer – UK records are free, too, but I’ve already got a sub).

It’s an attempt to break down one of my many brick walls. This one is Julia Harrington, who played a part in the Celestina Christmas story.

Julia’s tricky because although I know her married surname, Harrington, and the surname of her first husband, Russell, her maiden name is hard to pin down.

It could be Cammell, or Cannell, or Gammell, or Gamin, according to the records I’ve found so far.

And the 1851 and 1871 censuses just have her as coming from Ireland. Helpful.

Julia Harrington in the 1851 census

Julia Harrington in the 1851 census, at Gwynn’s Place, Hackney

But there’s one clue that I’ve grabbed like a swimmer grabs a lifebelt. Of course, it could be sweeping me further out to sea, but there’s no point in not looking deep into it.

The Wesleyan Methodist baptism of her daughter Hannah (or Annah) on 9 August, 1835, states that she was the daughter of James and Mary Cammell. Or possibly Gammell. What do you think?

Hannah Harrington's baptism, 1835

Hannah Harrington’s baptism, 1835

The trouble with this baptism entry is that the minister who made it, WL Thornton, only made one entry in the record book. And there’s only one C in the record to compare Julia’s name with, and no G. So I’m going for both Cammell and Gammell.

Cammell bcuAnd taking into consideration variations of spelling and pronunciation, I’m also looking for Cannel/l, Connel/l, Cannon, Gannon, Gammon, Gaiman, and even Carroll, Connor and Campbell.

I’m focusing on James, her (probable) father, since I haven’t found any Julias with the right sort of surname, daughter of James and/or Mary, born about 1808, somewhere in Ireland (do I hear hollow laughter?), who was married to the elusive Mr Russel/l by 1828. Who knows? I might find a clue.

Wish me luck!

I may be some time.

(PS: There are also offers at Ancestry Australia/NZ until the end of Australia Day (of course!), the 26th – see Judy Webster’s excellent page; Lost Cousins is free, also until midnight on the 26th; and Chris Paton flags up a great Ancestry UK offer at his British GENES blog, which closes tonight at 2359 – so hurry!)

Some names from the Carnew registers at the National Library of Ireland, just to illustrate the problem:

Carroll, probably

Carroll, probably

Four examples of Carroll

Four examples of Carroll

Connors, probably

Connors, probably

Posted in Genealogy, Ireland | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

A sad Christmas story

Merry Christmas, and I hope it’s a happy season for you and those you love.

Picture of Old Father Christmas with a holly crown, yule log and wassail bowlThat’s a much older (and slightly sinister) version of Father Christmas from 1855, before he turned into jolly red-faced, red-hooded Santa.

Old Father Christmas

His yule log is strapped to his back, he’s crowned with holly, and he carries a wassail bowl. I’d guess he’s dressed in green. Very pagan.

I’m not sure I’d trust him popping down the chimney into a child’s bedroom. But then, he comes from a time when Christmas was more for the grown-ups than for children, which it became later in the 19th century.

My Christmas post this year is a short one. I’m moving away from my other Christmas tale, about the murder of Celestina Christmas by her mother.

But it’s still on a sad note.

Baby Christmas

Now that it’s the holidays, I’ve got some time for genealogical research (yayyy!). I was looking for my great-great grandfather, George Richard or Richards. He was the father of Elizabeth, who married Griffith Owen from Anglesey. As far as I know George was not a relative of my other Richards family.

George Richard was born in St Dogmael’s, also known as St Dogmell’s, on the border of Cardiganshire and Pembrokeshire and sometimes in one county, sometimes in the other. It’s on the other side of the river Teifi from Cardigan/Aberteifi.

Old map of St Dogmael's, Ordnance Survey, 1885-1900

OS map, 1″, 1885-1900 *

And I came across a record in the Pembrokeshire Burials at FindMyPast. Very simple, very short, it told a sad story.

St Dogmells death record for five month old Christmas

St Dogmells burials for 1848 *

A five-month old baby called Christmas, buried on 5 May 1848. No surname. And looking at where she or he (we don’t even know that) spent their short life… it was the workhouse.

Close-up of old map showing Cardigan Union workhouse, St Dogmael's

Cardigan Union workhouse, St Dogmael’s/St Dogmell’s *

The old workhouse still stands. It’s now called Albro Castle and is a private property with holiday lets.

I checked the baptism records and couldn’t find any babies who matched.

So… no surname, no recorded parents, died at the workhouse. Would I be right in picturing a desperate woman abandoning her newly-born illegitimate child at the workhouse in late December 1847, where the staff named the little scrap after the Christmas season? Or perhaps Christmas’s mother was already in the workhouse and died in or after childbirth.

I hope this hasn’t saddened you – it just seemed such a poignant story I wanted to share it.

May you be surrounded with the love of family, friends or whoever is dear to you this festive season.

Picture credits:
Old Father Christmas: Forrester’s Pictorial Miscellany for the Family Circle, 1855, via Sherurcij for Wikimedia
Map of St Dogmell’s: OS Great Britain, 1″, 1885-1900, via National Library of Scotland
St Dogmael’s burial records: FindMyPast, Pembroke burials

Posted in History | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments

New South Wales 1891 census online

The Shoestring Genealogist here, just popping in to make sure you know that the New South Wales census for 1891 is now online at Family Search – with images! And free to everyone!

I had to have a look.

Extract from the NSW 1891 census showing householders at Hartley and Cox's River

Extract from the NSW 1891 census showing householders at Hartley and Cox’s River

There’s my great-grandfather Tom Delaney at the family home, Moyne Farm, with the (sadly un-named) other members of the household. There were five males and six females in all.

My great-grandmother, Mary Maude Wilson, Tom’s wife, was one of them. The Delaney children, Ethel, Laurence Thomas, Winnie, Flo and Ella would also have been included unless they weren’t at home on 5 April, 1891, when the census was taken.

The index to this census was already available on the New South Wales State Records website, and the index could be searched at Ancestry. But, as Peter from Lost Cousins, who wrote about this development in his newsletter, says: “free access to indexed records and images at FamilySearch will make it more readily accessible.”

Thanks for the tip, Peter! And thanks to FamilySearch for making the 1891 census so accessible.

Posted in A Rebel Hand, Australia, Genealogy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

How to get the FMP half-price offer (ends 30 November 2015)

This offer’s now ended – but do read what Judy Webster says about using the ChangeDetection button on her web pages – see comments at the bottom.

Hi, it’s the Shoestring Genealogist popping in to let you know a trick which should still get you a half-price subscription to FindMyPast until Monday, 30 November. So be quick!

The offer applies to FMP records for the UK, Australia/New Zealand and Ireland. Genealogists in the States get a huge 75% off. But 50% seems pretty good to me, so I was excited, as my last FMP sub had run out a few months ago.

Oh no! I can’t get my FindMyPast offer!

I learned about the offer from the wonderful Geneabloggers and Judy Webster and tried clicking on the UK FMP link on both their posts to subscribe, using the code BLACKFRIDAY15. But every time I got the same message:

FMP snipOh, no! Was it because I’m in the UK and Thomas MacEntee’s link was from the US, Judy’s from Australia? But why would that make a difference? Both the links took me to the UK site, after all.

Update: Judy has since told me: ‘ Lots of people have told me that it worked for them – but as a precaution, I’ve made some minor changes to that page.’

I sent out a worried tweet. Could FMP help? Perhaps it was just me. But no, other geneamates had problems, too.

Twitter comes to the genealogist’s rescue

Then I saw a tweet from Claire Santry of Irish Genealogy News. I remembered that she posts special offers and hurried to her website.

Yes! There was a post with a link. Here’s what to look for:

FMP offerThird time lucky, I thought, and clicked through. Sweet as a nut! The discount code applied automatically and I paid my half price. So I’ve got my year’s sub after all. Thanks, Claire!

And thank you to Thomas and Judy for alerting me to the offer, and to FMP for the lovely low price. I just wish it had been a little easier to take it up.

Oh, and thanks to Twitter, my genealogy newsfeed.

PS: Lynn Corrigan tells me that she had to log out of US FMP and then use the Thanksgiving code THNKSGNG15 in order to get her 75% off sub.

Have you had trouble with this offer? Did Claire’s link work for you?

Posted in Genealogy | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Celestina arrives at Millbank Prison: a Christmas tale pt 21

Celestina Sommer’s death sentence was commuted to transportation for life on 22 April 1856. Because she was still waiting for her sentence to be carried out, she was taken back to Newgate Prison (which was a ‘detentional’ prison, only used for debtors and for those awaiting trial, death or transportation).

CS transportation cropShe was under the category of ‘Prisoners whose Judgments have been respited or from Various Causes remain in Custody from time to time Brought into Court for Trial or Otherwise. Usually called Prisoners upon Orders’ (London Lives).

However Newgate would soon fill up again with prisoners awaiting their own trials and there was now a second ‘holding’ option for women convicts: Millbank Prison, where they could be accommodated for much longer stretches. And that’s where Celestina and the two other convicted murderers, Elizabeth Ann Harris and Mary Ann Alice Seago, were sent in the next few months.

Map showing Millbank Prison, London

Map showing Millbank Prison, near Vauxhall Bridge

‘Every male and female convict sentenced to transportation in Great Britain is sent to Millbank previous to the sentence being executed. Here they remain about three months under the close inspection of the three inspectors of the prison, at the end of which time the inspectors report to the Home Secretary, and recommend the place of transportation,’ wrote Peter Cunningham in his Handbook of London, published in 1850.

This is where you’d expect me to start on another story of a convict transported to Australia, like many of my posts. But Celestina’s sentence and the identical sentences of the other two women  were changed again, to penal servitude for life.

Life imprisonment, to be served in Britain.

This intrigued me. One of my convict ancestors, Nicholas Delaney, had his sentence changed from death to penal service overseas (pretty much a death sentence) and then to transportation. But that was over 50 years before, when there were too many in prison and sending them to Australia was seen as the solution. So why would the authorities prefer imprisonment in Britain to transportation – a complete reversal of policy – in 1856?

One reason seems to have been that those Aussies were getting all uppity about having convicts sent over. They’d got it into their heads that they’d had enough of them, thanks, and anyway there were now enough people to do the work that was needed, so don’t send any more. Only Western Australia, proclaimed a penal colony in 1849, needed the labour.

Hougoumont, the last convict ship sent to Australia. Old photo

The convict ship Hougoumont

Meanwhile Mother England was reconsidering the cost of sending her dregs overseas when there were plenty of people ready to go to Australia and pay their own passage, or have it paid for them (like some of my other ancestors). Transportation didn’t reform the convicts, and the threat of it hadn’t lowered the crime rate. It had been a useful experiment, but now it wasn’t working.

Very few people, in fact, were in favour of transportation by the time Celestina was sentenced.

Indeed, in 1853, the Penal Servitude Act had ordered that only long-term transportation would continue and, four years later, the 1857 Penal Servitude Act ended it, in theory at least. Prisoners were transported for another 10 years, with the last convict ship, the Hougoumont, arriving in 1868.

During my research I noticed that the last four ships to take women convicts to Australia had sailed in 1852, with the very last, Midlothian, carrying just 18 convicts from Ireland, arriving in February 1853. So it looks as if there was very little chance of Celestina ever being transported.

Plan of Millbank Prison, showing the six separate wings

Plan of Millbank Prison *

Built as a panopticon, reformer Jeremy Bentham‘s design for a prison where all (convicts) could be seen (by their gaolers), Millbank Penitentiary opened in 1816. It closed in 1890 and Tate Britain now stands on part of its 16-acre former site.

Millbank seems to have acted as a holding house for convicts waiting for places to become available on the ships and also in other prisons. As Henry Mayhew and John Binny wrote in The Criminal Prisons of London and Scenes of London Life in 1862, ‘The female prison here is to Brixton what the male prison is to Pentonville – a kind of depot to which the convicts are forwarded as vacancies occur.’

They elaborated: ‘Males and females of all ages are received here, the prison being the depot for convicts of every description. When a man [or woman, my note] is convicted, and sentenced either to transportation or penal servitude, he remains in the prison in which he was confined previous to his trial, until such time as the order of the Secretary of State is forwarded for his removal; and he is then transferred to us… From this prison he is, after a time, removed to some “probationary” prison (to undergo a certain term of separate confinement) such as that at Pentonville…’ or, in the case of women, to Brixton Prison.

And in Millbank Prison Celestina would begin her next period of waiting.

Millbank Prison from the Thames; old engraving

Millbank Prison from the Thames

The papers went quiet about what was happening to her after her transfer to Millbank was reported on 18 August, 1856, in the London Standard.

That doesn’t mean that they stopped talking about her. In fact her case became iconic in the debate about capital punishment, and she was referred to in both Houses of Parliament. But that’s (at least) a whole post in itself and I have a feeling that you want to get to the end of the story fairly soon. Let me know if you want more about the death penalty debate and I’ll come up with something.

Back to Celestina and Millbank Penitentiary. It was a less terrible place to be imprisoned than Newgate – though it was hard to find more feared prisons than ‘Hell above ground‘.

From the outside, it wasn’t as forbidding as Newgate, but it was still obviously a building meant to stop people getting out (or in) and to be a reminder of what fate waited a criminal.

Millbank Prison, the outer lodge entrance

Millbank Prison, outer lodge *

There was one entrance to the prison, facing the Thames. Seen from the river, it looked like a castle from the Middle Ages, with its high walls and watchtowers.

Contemporary writers noted that Millbank was even surrounded by an old moat, now filled in and grazed by cows.

The castle-like impression would have been reinforced for Celestina as she approached the outer lodge, with its huge doors. These were opened by an official wearing a ‘half-police-half-coast-guard kind of uniform’, Mayhew and Binny reported. (From now on, any unattributed quotations will be from their book.)

‘Hence we were directed across the long wedge-shaped “outer yard” of the prison – a mere triangular slip, or “tongue,” as it is called, of bare, gravelled ground, between the diverging sides of the first and last pentagons; and so we reached the barred “inner gate,” set, within a narrow archway at the apex, as it were, of the yard. Here the duty of the gate-keeper is to keep a list of all persons entering and quitting the prison.

‘After unlocking a “double-shotted” door, the warder, under whose charge we had been placed, conducted us into a long, lofty passage, like that of a narrow cloister, or rude whitewashed box-lobby to a theatre. On the right, higher than we could conveniently see, were the exterior windows of the pentagon; on the left, the doors of the apparently infinite series of cells.

‘These doors are double, the inner one being of wood and the outer one of iron lattice- work or “cross-bars.”

Millbank Prison flank gates (inside the prison)

Millbank Prison ‘flank’ gates *

‘Every ward consists of two passages or sides of the several pentagons, and ranged along each passage are fifteen cells. The passages are fifty yards long, about ten feet high, and about seven wide, and all of equal size. They are paved and coloured white…

‘Each cell is about twelve feet long by seven broad… The inner door is left open in the day time from nine till five, so that all semblance of a communication with the world may not be taken away from the inmate. At night, however, or upon any misconduct on the part of the prisoner, the inner door is closed or “bolted up,” as it is termed; nevertheless, [s]he can be seen by the jailer through a small vertical slit in the wall-like that of a perpendicular letter-box.’

Celestina was taken to the third of the six pentagons, the one where women prisoners were kept. It was ‘quite shut off from the others, and opened with a separate key.’

Plan of the women's pentagon at Millbank Prison

The women’s pentagon at Millbank *

It was ‘of slighter construction; though this is a compliment to the sex which unfortunately they have failed to justify, as the female convicts throughout the prison are pronounced “fifty times more troublesome than the men.” The grated iron gates are less massive.’

There are different views in academic writings about whether women prisoners were really worse-behaved than men. Some say that disruptive behaviour was to be expected in a system designed by, and for, men, and which didn’t work for women; others reckon that convict women were seen as worse, because they’d failed to live up to the image of the ‘angel in the house‘, meek, obedient, almost asexual. It’s a familiar picture to anyone who’s looked at early Australian colonial history.

I’ll come back to badly-behaved women in a later post. Let’s get Celestina locked up first.

The third pentagon – the women’s prison – was divided into wards.  Celestina would have been taken to B ward, the ‘first probation ward’, for women in their first months of detention.

Millbank Prison's rules for the 'probation class' of women convicts

Millbank: rules for the ‘probation class’ *

‘The convicts pick coir for the first two months, and, if well-behaved for that time, they are then put to needlework. Their door is bolted up for the first four months of their incarceration.’

This was one of the principles of the ‘separate system’, where (unlike at Newgate) convicts slept, ate and worked in their cell and were allowed no contact with other prisoners.

Picking coir was similar to the better-known oakum-picking, a boring, difficult job. Oakum was made by unravelling old ropes and picking out the individual strands, which would be used to caulk the seams of boats. Coir, also probably taken from old ropes, was unpicked to make mats or as stuffing for beds – you can still get mattresses with a coir layer in them.

‘Here we find the inner wooden doors thrown back. “These women have all been here less than three months,” adds the principal matron. ” Such as you have already seen at needlework have been here over two months, and those that have coir to pick have been in less than two months.”

Woman convict at Millbank Prison

Millbank prisoner *

‘As we pass, the convicts all jump up and curtsey – some of them bobbing two or three times. All wear the close white prison cap. Some are pretty, and others coarse-featured women; many of them are impudent-looking, and curl their lip, and stare at us as we go by.’

What did Celestina look like in her Millbank prison clothing? Mayhew and Binny mention her white cap. But what about her hair? It was cut off: ‘”Oh, yes, they’d sooner lose their lives than their hair!” said the warder, in answer to our question as to whether the females were cropped upon entering the prison. “We do not allow them to send locks of the hair cut off to their sweethearts; locks, however, are generally sent to their children, or sisters, or mother, or father…”‘

Presumably the woman in the illustration to the right had been incarcerated long enough to regrow her hair.

It was ‘a trial that is always the hardest to bear’, said FW Robinson, a man writing as ‘a prison matron’, in Female Life in Prison.

‘Women whose hearts have not quailed, perhaps, at the murder of their infants, or the poisoning of their husbands, clasp their hands in horror at this sacrifice of their natural adornment – weep, beg, pray, occasionally assume a defiant attitude, resist to the last, and are finally overcome only by force. It is one of the most painful tasks of the prison…’

The horror women convicts felt at having their hair cut off is a thread running through criminal history. It may have been useful, getting rid of nits and lice as well as identifying potential escapees. But above all it was humiliating, defeminising and long-lasting – think of those flowing Victorian tresses, which would take years to grow. Celestina, so pretty and well-dressed, would have felt this as a terrible blow.

Her clothes were taken away and she was given standard Millbank slops (prison clothes): a ‘dark claret-brown’ dress, a check apron, a grey bonnet and, presumably, shifts and any other underclothes.

Then the door was slammed and locked, and Celestina Sommer began life as a convict in Millbank Prison.

Further reading:
A Concise View of the Origin and Progress of the British Ladies’ Society for Promoting the Reformation of Female Prisoners, downloadable ebook
Victorians Against the Gallows, James Gregory, 2012
Memorials of Millbank, Arthur Griffiths, 1884
The Criminal Prisons of London and Scenes of London Life, Henry Mayhew and John Binny, 1862
Female life in prison, by a prison matron, Vol 1, Frederick William Robinson, 1863
Victorian London

* Picture credits:
Prisoners on orders: findmypast
Map of Millbank Prison: Stanford’s library map of London and its suburbs
Plan of Millbank Penitentiary: Wikipedia
Convict ship Hougoumont, Millbank from the Thames: public domain
Millbank Prison outer lodge, flank gates: Memorials of Millbank
Millbank rules and prisoner: The Criminal Prisons of London and Scenes of London Life

Catch up with A Christmas tale:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

 

Posted in Celestina | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Five years of genealogy blogging

It’s my fifth blogiversary this week. I can hardly believe I’ve been geneablogging for five years!

Hand showing five fingers

So much has changed since then. I started out posting so that I could add new information which wasn’t available when my mother and I wrote a book about our ancestor, Nicholas Delaney, the Irish rebel and Australian convict who built some of New South Wales’s first roads and settled down as a respectable farmer.

Then my genealogy research expanded and so did the blog, taking in more convict ancestors, John Simpson and Sarah Marshall. My post about her grave is still the most visited one.

I branched out again to my last convict James Thomas Richards, a Thames waterman who robbed a pub.

Then my mum Patricia, my genealogy inspiration, died. I could have given up, without having her to share my discoveries with. A big part of the joy of genealogy had been  hearing her thoughts on new insights.

Geneabloggers are wonderful

But I wasn’t alone – the genealogy community was out there and they rallied round.

The best thing about blogging has been the people I’ve met, online and in person. Geneabloggers are wonderfully generous and supportive. And they – you – inspired me to go on. Thank you.

Victorian murder

I went hunting for James Richards’ wife, Rebecca Harrington. I missed being able to tell Mum about that. And Rebecca’s mother, Julia Harrington, led me to a Victorian murder which I’ve been blogging about this year.

That was an experiment, and I didn’t think it would go on as long as it has, but I found more and more fascinating stuff I just had to write about. And I ‘met’ some great historians online as I was researching Celestina Sommer, born Christmas.

I’d like to apologise for the long delay since my last post. A combination of dying laptop, long wait for new PC, broadband troubles and working more hours took me away, but it’s time to give this blog a bit of birthday love and care.

What would you like to read?

So what next? I’d love to hear from you. Would you like more of the social history type posts, like the ones about Celestina? Or do you prefer more family history ones? And I’ve neglected my other ancestors on this blog – the Owens, Lloyds, Davieses, all from Wales. Is it time for Welsh geneablogging?

What do you think?

Image of hand by woodleywonderworks * CC by 2.0 via Wikimedia, slightly cropped

 

Posted in Blogging, Genealogy | Tagged , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Will Celestina hang? A Christmas tale pt 20

Celestina Sommer had been sentenced to death for the murder of her daughter, Celestina Christmas. On Thursday, 10 April, 1856, she was taken back to Newgate Prison, which was used only for prisoners awaiting trial, execution or transportation.

Celestina's death sentence

At the top of this page from the returns of the Proceedings of the Old Bailey are the only two women and the only two death sentences – Celestina’s, and that of Elizabeth Ann Harris, who killed two of her own children. This wasn’t to be the last time their names were linked.

Celestina's death sentence - prited

Here’s the printed version, with Elizabeth Harris and Celestina at the top again, plus some extra information, including the costs of the prosecution (£31.4.6d, in Celestina’s case), the number of witnesses (11), whether the defendant could read or write, and the details of their offence.

Celestina was taken straight from her trial at the Old Bailey back to Newgate Prison, as Elizabeth (who was tried the day before, 9 April) had been. There they were held in ‘separate rooms on the female side of the prison’, most newspapers reported. The Bath Chronicle and Weekly Gazette, though, had them both put in ‘the condemned cell’, but this could just have been incorrect information.

The Morning Chronicle, a London newspaper which had employed writers such as Charles Dickens, Henry Mayhew, William Hazlitt and John Stuart Mill, elaborated on the two women’s living conditions:

Morning Chronicle article about Celestina in Newgate

The turnkey and the woman who sat up at night would presumably have been there to make sure that they didn’t ‘cheat the gallows’ and kill themselves. Still, this description paints a picture of humane treatment which contrasts strongly with conditions for the prisoners waiting for trial or transportation as opposed to death.

Celestina and Elizabeth’s spiritual wellbeing was also looked after. The Chronicle continued:

Ngt news 5

John Davis, the Ordinary (chaplain) of Newgate, had many duties, including, not surprisingly, providing condemned prisoners with spiritual care – or at least those who were Anglicans. He also conducted the services in the chapel, and attended prisoners on the scaffold.

Catherine Frazer, the ‘benevolent lady’, was a former colleague of Elizabeth Fry (who died in 1845) and a long-standing member of the British Ladies’ Society for Female Prisoners. As well as visiting prisoners, she occasionally petitioned for mercy in cases which she thought deserving.

Elizabeth Fry reading to women at Newgate PrisonElizabeth Fry had been visiting women in Newgate and, later, other prisons since 1813 and had made many improvements to their lives. The engraving shown here, produced in the 1860s but purporting to show her reading to prisoners in 1816, looks at first fairly sentimentalised. But not all the women are listening with regret and humility; some are hiding playing cards or bottles of booze. There’s a great post which discusses this image, and the issues of women prisoners and prison reform, here.

Whether or not Celestina had been affected by Catherine Frazer’s ‘religious exhortations’, her mental state was bad, as the Taunton Courier reported:

Celestina and Elizabeth in a bad way in prison

 

I have to feel sorry for Elizabeth Harris, racked by guilt, sentenced to die, and about to have her new baby taken from her.

Celestina, meanwhile, appeared to be stupefied. Other reports, though have something to say about her thoughts at the time. Here’s the Sheffield Daily Telegraph:

Celestina thinks she'll be set free: newspaper report

Even after her trial and the guilty verdict and the sentence of death she was still clinging onto her hope of being set free after a few months in an asylum – a belief which may have been one of the reasons she committed the murder in the first place.

Newgate prison cell where Elizabeth Fry is said to have read to prisoners

Newgate cell where Elizabeth Fry is said to have read to prisoners *

But the prison authorities, and their medical officer, weren’t convinced that this was a sign of her being ‘in any way deranged’. Things looked bad for Celestina.

Murderers were usually hung on a Monday, and two Sundays had to pass between sentence and death, so her execution was ‘definitely fixed’ for 28 April, the Illustrated Times reported. That gave her 18 days left to live after her trial.

Unless… As many of the papers pointed out, it had been many years since a woman had been hanged at Newgate. She was Martha Browning, who murdered her mistress, Elizabeth Mundell, for a £5 note – which turned out to be a fake,  a ‘flash’ Bank of Elegance note used in advertising. Martha was executed in January 1846, just over ten years earlier.

So hanging a woman – two women, in fact, with Elizabeth Harris also sentenced to death – outside Newgate Prison would be something of a novelty. It would excite a great deal of interest, not least from people opposed to public executions, or to the death sentence itself. And hanging women was considered distasteful to even those who could accept the public hanging of men.

And so, the Chronicle said on 14 April,

Morning Chronicle report about a petition for commuting the death sentence on Celestina

Who was involved in trying to get Celestina and Elizabeth’s death sentences commuted? Once again, Quaker women were involved. Catherine Frazer played her part, as the Illustrated Times reported:

Celestina and Elizabeth repentA cynic might think that it wasn’t very surprising that the woman were ‘anxious… to obtain pardon’. But after decades of prison visiting, Miss Frazer could probably tell when her audience was faking.

Maria Allen, another Quaker, sent a petition to the Home Office from Wantage on behalf of Elizabeth and Celestina. George Gray, also a Friend, wrote from Glasgow. And the ‘ladies’ of Stockton-on-Tees petitioned, saying that they couldn’t argue for commutation for the child-killers except from the women’s ‘low moral sense and slight feeling of moral accountability’, but added their arguments against all capital punishment.

As the Dorset County Chronicle reported on 24 April:

Petitions sent to the government for Celestina

And on 26 April, the Illustrated Times told its readers:

A petition on behalf of Celestina by the solicitor Mr HumphreysThis Mr Humphreys was probably William Corne Humphreys, whose office was near the Old Bailey in Newgate Street. He doesn’t seem to have been mentioned before in the documents regarding her case.

Celestina’s repeated story that she killed her daughter because her husband Charles treated her badly ‘on account of the child’ and she thought he’d be kinder to her if she ‘destroy[ed] it’ is chilling. Though whether it was what she really believed is anyone’s guess.

There were some other sinister reports in the papers. Here’s the Morning Chronicle:

Celestina Christmas's father?

Presumably this refers to Celestina’s assertion that her brother was the father, though I can’t help wishing that it had been more ‘necessary more particularly to allude to’ it more specifically.

But back to the petitions. The Illustrated Times must have gone to press before the next important development in Celestina’s story. By Friday, 26 April, the papers were reporting that on the afternoon of Tuesday 22 that the Sheriffs of Newgate, who set the dates for condemned prisoners’ executions, ‘received information from the Secretary of State for the Home Department that Her Majesty has been graciously pleased to grant a respite during Royal pleasure to the two wretched women…’

In other accounts, Sir George Grey, the Home Secretary, told Mr Wetherhead, Governor of Newgate, that the two women’s death sentences were to be respited. In all events, the Sheriffs and John Davis, the Ordinary, went to their cells and told them the news. The Huddersfield Chronicle says that they, especially Elizabeth Ann Harris, ‘received the tidings with earnest thankfulness’. As well they might. Celestina’s lack of enthusiasm, given her belief that she wouldn’t hang, seems odd. Perhaps it’s an indication of her state of mind.

By the 28th, the newspapers added that the ‘wretched women’ were to be transported for life.

As you might expect, there were still to be more twists in the tale…

Further reading:
A Concise View of the Origin and Progress of the British Ladies’ Society for Promoting the Reformation of Female Prisoners, downloadable ebook
Victorians Against the Gallows, James Gregory, 2012

* Picture credits:
OB Proceedings recording death sentence (written): Findmypast
OB Proceedings recording death sentence (printed): Ancestry
Elizabeth Fry reading to prisoners in Newgate (1860s print): Martin Poulter via Wikimedia
Newgate prison cell where Elizabeth Fry is said to have read to women prisoners, photo before 1902: via Heritage Explorer
Newspaper reports: The British Library Board, via Findmypast


Catch up with A Christmas tale:
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Broadside ballads about Celestina: a Christmas tale pt 19

As Celestina Sommer and two other equally notorious women waited for death in Newgate Prison‘s condemned cell in April 1856, two sets of people got busy. Some were gathering evidence and support to petition for her to be reprieved. I’ll come back to this part of the story soon.

Broadsheet seller, British LibraryOthers, though, would have been delighted to see her hang, and not on moral grounds. These were the printers and sellers of broadsides, the cheaply printed, one-page scandal sheets sold on the streets. Part titillation, part shocker, they were the nineteenth century equivalent of our red-top tabloid newspapers.

Their speciality was printing (often made up) last words and confessions of criminals to be sold on the day they were hung to the crowds gathered to watch the execution – or to those who hadn’t been lucky enough to get to the show.

Broadsides also contained details of the trials of murders (almost always ‘horrid’, ‘inhuman’, ‘cruel’ or ‘barbarous’) and/or a ‘copy of verses’ detailing the crime, the lamentation of the criminal, or a lesson by example to young men, maidens or other susceptible groups.

Execution of Frederick and Maria Manning, British Library

Execution of the Mannings, with ‘inserted’ woman *

While the broadside printers were, no doubt, getting the stock woodcut of a hanging ready for their ‘dying confession of the Islington murderess’ edition, they were canny enough to gather in a few pennies with what they had already. So in this post I’m moving from newspapers and official reports to, quite literally, the word on the street about Celestina Sommer.

I’ve found three different broadsides with versions of Celestina’s murder of her daughter.

The first is a retelling in verse of the details publicly known from her trials, plus an invented judge’s pronouncement and a stock warning to ‘young females’ to remain virtuous. Here are some extracts, keeping the original spelling and punctuation as far as possible. The illustration has nothing to do with the story; it’s probably just to use up space. You can see the original here.

The Islington Tragedy

Bdside 2‘A warning take by my sad fate,
In Newgate Cell I now do lie,
For murdering of my own dear child,
My time is short I soon must die
My guilty heart can take no rest,
That deed of blood still in my mind,
How could I kill me daughter dear,
Who never spoke one word unkind

‘But guilt and fear it tempted me.
To murder and conceal the same,
I thought I would be free from her,
And no one then would know my shame…

‘I’m frighted at this dismal place,
Oh mother dear why bring me here,
I will not harm you I did say,
Come on my dear you need not fear.
I took her to the cellar there,
The child all trembling looked around,
I thought no one this deed would see,
I thought her dead upon the ground,

‘Oh mother dear don’t murder me,
Oh let me go I’ll cry no more,
I cut her throat from ear to ear,
I left her weltering in her gore
My gown with blood was sprinkled o’er
I took and put another on,
I washed myself and then did wait,
Until my husband did return…

‘They searched the cellar, there they found
Her lifeless body lying there,
Enough to melt a heart of stone,
For who could fail to shed a tear,
I taken was, to trial sent,
The judge pronounced my dreadful doom,
Celestia Somner you must die,
And in the midst of youth and bloom…

‘Now all young females standing round,
Let virtue guide you on your way
O think upon her awfull death,
And from good actions never stray,
But oh! how soon you might be caught
If tempted to commit that sin,
Which was the cause of her downfall
How happy she might still have been.’

Broadside detail: a woman opens a door into a dark roomNext is a more flowery yet lurid version, again told from the viewpoint of ‘Celestia’. All three broadsides mis-spell her name in the same way, which suggests that they got their copy from the same source – or copied the first sheet to be published. The illustration is probably one used for various broadsides. The metre suggests that it may have been written to be sung to a popular tune. Here are some of the verses:

Lamentation of Celestia Somner

‘You tender parents list to me,
High and low of all degree,
Oh what a dreadful sight to see,
A female in her bloom,
Condemned to die, on a tree so high,
For killing of her darling child,
Who in her murderer’s face did smile
And in a very little while,
The gallows is my doom.

‘Celestia Somner is my name,
Borne down with sorrow grief & shame
I do confess I was to blame
My daughter dear to kill,
That lovely child did sweetly smile,
And said as she beheld the knife,
Upon that sad and fatal night.
Mother dear don’t take my life,
My innocent blood don’t spill,

Broadside: Lamentation of Celestia Somner‘Mother dear she kindly said,
That innocent sweet little maid
Mother I don’t feel afraid.
This dark and dismal night.
Her dying groans would pierce a stone
I seized the sharp and deadly knife
And took my tender daughter’s life,
Upon a fateful Saturday night
When we were both alone.

‘To kill my child I did engage,
My little dear ten years of age,
A pretty pratling darling maid
Mine and my brother’s child.
A wretch distressed I must confess
I am as all the world may see,
Before me stands the fatal tree,
And my darling’s spirit haunting me.
Oh I am almost wild…

‘Oh you tender mother’s dear,
When my dreadful fate you hear,
Can you for me shed a tear
I know you will say no.
I am doomed to go to the shades below
No one on earth will sorry be,
No pity for a wretch like me,
Exposed upon the fatal tree,
A sad and awful sight.

‘I am a wretch trembling with fear,
My end alas is drawing near,
How could I kill my little dear,
My sweet and darling child,
My glass is run, my time has come,
Mark the solemn bell doth toll,
On the moments swiftly roll.
Oh Lord have mercy on the soul
Of a cruel murderess base.’

You’ll notice that the balladeer says that little Celestina was ‘mine and my brother’s child’. Extra scandal, revealed at the second trial at Clerkenwell Police Court.

Portrait of Celestina Sommer ('Celestia Somner') from a broadsideThe third broadside is my favourite, so I’ve saved it till last. I like it because it’s got the nearest we’ll ever come to a portrait of Celestina Sommer (as far as I can tell), even though it may not actually be of her.

What we know about Celestina’s appearance is that she was very small and looked like a young girl; she was fair-skinned and pretty; her hair, ‘somewhat inclining to red‘, was ‘tastefully banded over her ears‘ (perhaps as in the 1850s photographs here); she dressed fashionably, as suited her position in society.

I also like the way this broadside combines a copy of verses, a picture, and a reprint of the newspaper reports about Celestina’s trial. Here are some of the verses, which were to be sung to the tune of Just before the Battle, an American Civil War song which had become popular in Britain. If you fancy a sing-song, there are some versions of it here. The online image is badly distorted, but here’s my best shot:

Full Particulars of the Trial & Sentence of Celestia Somner

‘Oh list you dear and tender mothers,
Old and young of each degree
Of dreadful murders here’s another,
The Islington tragedy.
There lived a wretch Celestia Somner,
A monster in a human shape,
Her mind was harder far than Iron,
The same would make each heart to ache.

Chorus
‘Oh the cruel murdering mother,
How could she her offspring slay.
She bore a child by her own brother,
And took the Darlings life away.

‘Cruel base and wicked mother.
Her own offsprings blood did spill,
Without a cause and without reason
Her dear child the monster killed,
Seventeen wounds she had inflicted,
What a sight for to behold,
Little poor Celestia Christmas,
Who was scarcely ten years old.

Broadside: the trial of Celestia Somner‘On the sixteenth of February.
On that fatal saturday night,
She to her home did lead the infant,
Which did the little girl affright.
She cried oh mother do not kill me
Do not take my life away,
If you do my God won’t love you.
The pretty little dear did say…

‘This dreadfull deed is most distressing
In a dungeon now she lies,
The murderess makes a full confession
My blessed baby oh, she cries.
How could cursed Satan tempt me,
My sweet darling child to slay,
Oh whatever could possess me,
To take her precious life away…

‘O mother mother dearest mother.
Little dear Celistia said,
With that knife my own dear mother,
Don’t you kill your little maid.
But the tigress had no pity,
She seized her with the deadly knife
And in the dark and dismal cellar,
Took away her infants life.’

I hope this post has given you a taste of how the non-newspaper readers might have got their information about Celestina Sommer’s trial and sentence. Not forgetting word of mouth, the oldest and (until recently) quickest way to find out the news.

Next time: will Celestina hang?

Further reading:
Murder as entertainment: the British Library
The death hunters: British broadsides
Broadside Ballads Online, from the Bodleian Library
Crime broadsides, Harvard Law School Library
A brief guide to broadsides
Producing and Marketing Broadsides on Public Executions
Convict Voices: Women, Class, and Writing about Prison in Nineteenth-Century: ebook, Anne Schwan
The Hanging Tree: Execution and the English People 1770-1868: ebook, VAC Gatrell

* Picture credits:
Broadside seller (Last Dying Speech): Rowlandson’s Characteristic Sketches of the Lower Orders, 1820, public domain via the British Library
Life of the Mannings: broadside woodcut, c 1849, public domain via the British Library
Three broadsides: Broadside Ballads Online, from the Bodleian Library


Catch up with A Christmas tale:
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Celestina’s trial – verdict and sentence: a Christmas tale pt 18

It was on Thursday, 10 April, 1856 that Celestina Sommer’s fate was to be decided: death by hanging or incarceration in an asylum. The evidence against her, and her own confession, made her guilt plain. But what would the verdict be?

Rachel Mount, the Sommers’ servant, had finished her witness statement. She’d described the events of little Celestina Christmas’s murder. To what was already known, she added that Charles and Celestina Sommer quarrelled, and that Charles beat his wife, who (not surprisingly) ‘seemed very unhappy’ and ‘frequently cried’.

Linton St sign - where Celestina Sommer murdered her daughterSergeant Edwin Townsend then took the stand. He repeated the evidence he’d given at Clerkenwell Police Court on Monday, 18 February: that he’d gone to 18 Linton Street (the Sommers’ home) on the day after the murder, with Rachel’s sister and Inspector Hutton; that he’d seen the body in the cellar; that Celestina ‘had said, “Me! I did not do it; I know nothing of it,” and then she said, “I heard a noise outside the area railings last night, but I not tell you, dear” (addressing her husband), “as I thought it would make you timid”.’

Later, Sgt Townsend said, he’d searched the house on 17 February and found a black dress with partly washed out bloodstains on it, hidden under Celestina’s bed. This was produced for the court. He said he’d also found bloody marks on the cellar and kitchen doors, on the sheet on Rachel’s bed in the kitchen, and on a lucifer (match) box.

respectable witnessRebecca Anne Donovan was the next witness. She was the ‘female searcher’ at Hoxton Police Station in Robert Street (which no longer exists but may be the current Prestwood St, off Wenlock St, near Shepherdess Walk).

She stated that she took Celestina to an upstairs room to search her. ‘After taking her dress off, she saw me look down at her petticoat, which I here produce, with marks of blood on it – she said, “I am subject to a bleeding at the nose, and I have used my petticoat; my husband can, tell you that, for he lent me a silk handkerchief” – she then said, “I have a coal cellar in my house without a coal plate; a girl was found there stabbed with a knife; I know nothing about it, for my house was fastened up by 10 o’clock that night.”‘

Sgt George Bexley (or Beckley) then gave evidence. He showed the jury the bloodstained stockings he’d found ‘between the bed and the floor – under the bed seemed to be the extent of Celestina’s hiding of bloodied clothes – and a knife.

At the first hearing at Clerkenwell Police Court there was no recorded mention of the murder weapon having been found. But now Sgt Bexley showed it to the court, saying: ‘I looked into a cupboard in the back parlour shortly afterwards, that same evening, and found this knife there (produced) – there were no other knives with it – there appeared to be a little red round this part of the handle – it appeared like blood.’

The Times report about the murder weaponIt’s odd that the sergeant was saying he’d found the ‘large sharp carving-knife’ on the day Celestina was arrested and the Sommers’ house was searched, 17 February. Yet at the police court hearing Inspector Payne had testified that he’d searched the house on the same day, but ‘could not discover the knife or any weapon with which the wounds were inflicted.’

How likely is it that an inspector of N (Islington) Division would be unaware of the appearance of such an important piece of evidence? Or that one of his sergeants would forget about finding it, or not mention it to his superior?

The knife handle also ‘appeared’ to be stained with red, which ‘appeared’ like blood. Was this cautious legal language? Yet the dress, petticoat, stockings, lucifer box and so on had definite blood on them, not apparent blood. However there’s no record of anyone picking up on this discrepancy.

Joseph Howe (or Hone), a police constable, was next. He repeated the evidence he’d given at the second hearing at Clerkenwell about Celestina’s bizarre behaviour while in the gaoler’s room at the back of the court.

Old Bailey Proceedings account of Celestina talkingHe stated: ‘After I had been there a few minutes, she began talking to herself about Hamlet and Richard the Third – after she had been talking some time, she put her handkerchief to her face, and said, in a low tone, that it was her brother’s child that was dead (that was said to herself), and he was dead, and when he died, she took the child to keep it, and she paid 5s. a week for it, which she paid out of her own earnings, as she taught music, and she did not wish to put the child to service, she was not big enough – she said, “I did it; it is no use telling a lie about it, for I did not know what to do for the best” – she said nothing more about the child – she was talking the whole of the time she was there, about her husband, what he was, and where she lived before they were married – she said her husband was an engraver – I do not remember anything else that she said.’

Was Celestina really talking to herself? The policeman said that ‘she knew that I was in the room.’ But when asked: ‘Was she speaking to you, or muttering to herself?’ he answered: ‘No – she was talking aloud to herself – I sat at the back of her – I do not know whether she saw me or not’. He was under orders not to speak to her.

He described Celestina talking about Hamlet and Richard III and commented: ‘She did not appear to be rambling’. Which suggests that if Celestina was trying to act ‘mad’ (like Hamlet?) she didn’t succeed.

The police surgeon, George William Henry Coward, testified to what he’d found at the Sommers’ house on 17 February:

Police surgeon's reportHis language was cautious, but he, too, mentioned the carving knife and said that he’d seen it at the Coroner’s inquest – again, something which hadn’t been mentioned in newspaper reports.

Then it was Julia Harrington‘s turn. She told the court:

Julia Harrington's evidence at Celestina's trialI wonder why Celestina’d written Julia a letter. For evidence? When she married Thomas, Julia hadn’t signed the register, just made her mark. Perhaps she could read but not write? She didn’t mention what was in Celestina’s letter.

The fact that Celestina had been paying less does suggest that what she’d said about not being able to afford her daughter’s keep might have been a fact. Yet if her husband Charles was telling the truth, he’d always paid for the child’s keep as part of an arrangement made before they married. Maybe Celestina had topped up Charles’s 2/6 from her own earnings as a ‘vocalist’.

Apart from having her name in the papers yet again, the Old Bailey appearance was the end of my 3x great-grandmother Julia’s association with this story. But who can tell what pain it had caused her: losing the child she’d brought up from birth, the news of the murder, having to see little Celestina’s body and giving evidence in two courts, including the forbidding Old Bailey? I imagine it was traumatic for her.

The last witness was Charles Grobe, husband of Celestina Sommer’s sister Elizabeth Jane, who lived in Murray St. He said that he’d last seen little Celestina on the 16th of February, when her mother came to take her away, saying she’d got her a post as a greengrocer’s servant. They left at about 10 at night and he’d followed them (why? Did did he suspect something?) until they were inside 18 Linton St, when he went home.

Photograph of William Ballantine, Jack1956 via Wikimedia

William Ballantine *

That’s where the account in the Old Bailey Proceedings ended, apart from the verdict. The Times continued with William Ballantine’s address to the jury on Celestina’s behalf.

It was brief. He suggested that ‘there were circumstances in the case that would justify the jury in coming either to the conclusion that at the time the act was committed the prisoner, from some cause or other, was not in a state of mind to be responsible for her acts, or else that she was not actuated by that malice required by the law to constitute the act of murder.’

The Reading Mercury and Leeds Times elaborated, saying that he ‘urged that the ill-usage [Celestina] had received from her husband had so preyed upon her mind as to render her not a responsible agent.’

William Ballantine finished by suggesting to the jury that ‘they might find her guilty of a lesser crime which would still entail upon her the most severe punishment.’ A verdict such as ‘guilty but insane’ would mean a custodial sentence – but not death.

It was in vain. The chief judge in Celestina’s case, Charles Crompton, summed up and, as The Times put it, ‘the jury almost immediately found her guilty.’

The judges put on their black caps – a well-known sign that the death sentence was to be passed – and Justice Crompton said: ‘You have been convicted… of the dreadful crime of murdering your own child, a girl ten years of age. The evidence shows that you designedly took her away from the person in whose charge she was to your husband’s house, and that you there committed the dreadful crime.’

He went on to comment on the verdict:

Justice Crompton comment on the jury's verdict in Celestina Sommer's caseIt seems to overstate things for him to say that he didn’t remember a clearer case of murder. But Celestina’s crime had already become in some way special, and it would grow into an iconic cause célèbre.

Justice Crompton would not go into details of the crime, but continued:

Justice Crompton's sentence continuedWe know that what Celestina had expected was to be found insane and to be released after a short time. But the judge went on, in the familiar and terrible words of the death sentence:

Celestina Sommer's death sentenceThe Essex Standard added:

Trial 1

Charles Crompton asked ‘the usual formal question in such cases, whether the prisoner had anything to urge in stay of execution’, but the answer was no.

The papers ended their reports by describing Celestina’s anguish:

Celestina assisted from the courtThe Hereford Times described her as being in ‘an almost senseless state’.

Whether Celestina’s ‘intense mental agony’ during the trial was because she was hearing, again, the details of what she’d done to her daughter, or because these details sounded so damning, or perhaps because her defence lawyer, William Ballantine, had warned her that she was likely not to be found insane, we can only guess.

But it’s easy to imagine why she collapsed when she heard the sentence. All her hopes and fantasies were crushed. She was to hang, and the judge had warned her not to expect mercy.

Celestina Sommer was escorted along Dead Man’s Walk back to Newgate Prison, where she was to wait for her execution.

Further reading:
Old Bailey Online. Extracts quoted: Old Bailey Proceedings Online (www.oldbaileyonline.org, version 7.2, 08 August 2015), April 1856, trial of Celestina Somner (t18560407-457)

* Picture credits:
Old Bailey Proceedings (book form): Old Bailey Online, from microfilm produced by Hudson House Associates, Inc, under the imprint of Trans-Media Microfilms
Caricature from London Characters and the Humorous Side of London Life
William Ballantine, photograph: via Wikipedia
Newspaper reports: The British Library Board, via Findmypast, and The Times Digital Archive


Catch up with A Christmas tale:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17

 

 

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Celestina Sommer’s trial for murder: a Christmas tale pt 17

Celestina Sommer was eventually tried for the murder of her daughter, Celestina Christmas, at the Old Bailey on Thursday, 10 April, 1856, over a month after her first appearance in the Central Criminal Court.

Old Bailey proceedings: details of trial and charge of murder

Old Bailey Proceedings *

The newspapers reported the trial with their usual enthusiasm, and I’m going to use their accounts as well as the Proceedings of the Old Bailey to tell the story, as they cover different aspects.

Cartoon from Punch: 'Thirst for Murder'

Punch cartoon, 1874 *

As you’d expect from the interest in Celestina’s case (by now she was famous, or infamous, enough not to need much introduction) the court was crowded.

The judge in her case was Charles Crompton, whose portrait you can see here. He was considered one of the best judges on the bench, and ‘had a character as open and winning as it was upright and high-principled, with a lively humour that in youth was apt to brim over and later was sometimes rather caustic but which grew mellow with age.’ (Wikisource)

William Bodkin was once more counsel for the prosecution and William Ballantine for the defence.

The newspapers opened with more comments about Celestina’s appearance. Here’s the Leeds Times:

Trial5Several papers again commented on how small and young-looking Celestina Sommer was, and that she must’ve been quite young when she gave birth to her daughter.

The trial began with William Bodkin briefly stating the facts in support of the charge of wilful murder. Then it was time for the ‘principal witness’ to be questioned. This was, once more, Rachel Mount (or Mont, or Munt). One more piece of information about this ‘interesting little girl’ was that she originally came from Littleworth, in Oxfordshire. It was a local paper, the Oxford Chronicle and Reading Gazette, which mentioned that, not surprisingly.

OB Ill Ldn News 1842

Old Bailey trial, Illustrated London News, 1842 *

Most of Rachel’s evidence was similar to her account from the hearings at Clerkenwell Police Court. She repeated that Celestina went out at about 10 o’clock one Saturday night in February, telling her that she was going to Murray Street, and that she expected Rachel to be in bed when she got back. But Rachel stayed up, sewing a silk apron for herself, and hurried into bed when she heard her mistress come back.

After telling the unknown visitor to wipe her feet and wait in the parlour, Celestina went upstairs to change out of her ‘black dress, with flounces to it, and bugles up the sleeves’ into a plainer one. She came down into the kitchen and told the girl, who we know was her daughter, Celestina Christmas, to come in. According to The Times, Rachel said that she’d seen the girl before, ‘and knew she was the prisoner’s child’, which is different from her evidence at earlier trials.

The two Celestinas went into the cellar, where the conversation about throat-cutting took place:

Old Bailey proceedings: Someone was going to cut Celestina Christmas's throatI have to say I find this puzzling. Why would little Celestina have said ‘someone’ was going to cut her throat? Who would have told her that, and why? Or how else would she know? But great stress seems to have been placed on this conversation, and I suppose it was to show that the murder was premeditated.

Rachel’s account, in the Proceedings, continued: ‘Mistress said, “Oh! was she?” and the girl said, “Yes” – then mistress said, “Supposing I cut it” – then the child said, “Oh! you are going to cut my throat,” and mistress said, “Hush! hush” – the little girl said that she was going to the devil, the devil would take her, she was going to hell and she said, “I am dying! I am dying” – then the candle was put out, and mistress walked about the front kitchen, and she said, “You b—— I will kill you! you b——, I will kill you! I will teach you telling any more lies about me: you are a liar, and you are a thief” – at that time the child was making a groaning noise in the cellar – the groaning noise was before what my mistress said, whilst she was saying it…’

Barrister, from London Characters *

Barrister, from London Characters *

The older Celestina then went to the kitchen, lit a candle and went back into the cellar. ‘I did not hear the deceased make any noise after this,’ Rachel continued. Not long after, her mistress came back and said: ‘There, you b——, you must be dead now.’

Rachel went on to describe how her mistress then tapped her shoulder to wake her up and asked if she’d gone out to get soap, which Rachel had. Celestina spent about half an hour in the back kitchen, washing, then went upstairs to the parlour, where she paced around for a while before going up to bed.

Charles Sommer, Celestina’s husband, had been out since about eight that evening. Presumably Celestina had known that he’d be out late, which is why she chose that night to kill her daughter. He came home at one in the morning; Rachel said that she’d hear him say so to his wife. Unsurprisingly, Rachel didn’t sleep that night, and stayed in bed late in the morning. Perhaps she felt safer there, or was putting off checking that the unbelievable event she’d witnessed had really happened.

Rachel also spoke about going to look in the cellar on the next morning, and telling her sister some of what had happened.

William Ballantine, counsel for the defence, cross-examined her. She told him that, although the master (Charles Sommer) was kind to her, he was less than kind to his own wife. Celestina, in turn, scolded Rachel. The Times reported:

Trial7It was William Bodkin who asked the second question, as the Proceedings’ report of the cross-examination says:

Old Bailey proceedings: Charles Sommer beat CelestinaSo Charles beat Celestina. Could it really have been because, as Rachel told the prosecution, dinner was late? Celestina was unhappy, cried a lot, and possibly took it out on Rachel. Charles, meanwhile, stayed out until one in the morning. The marriage of convenience seemed to be falling apart after not much more than a year.

That was the end of Rachel Mount’s evidence. And because there’s still plenty of the trial to cover, I’m going to end this post here. I did put it all in one post, but it was far too long and I didn’t want you to fall asleep or get bored halfway through.

So watch this space for more witnesses, a pair of stockings, a petticoat and a knife. Oh, and a verdict.

Further reading:
Old Bailey Online. Extracts quoted: Old Bailey Proceedings Online (www.oldbaileyonline.org, version 7.2, 08 August 2015), April 1856, trial of Celestina Somner (t18560407-457)

* Picture credits:
Old Bailey Proceedings (book form): Old Bailey Online, from microfilm produced by Hudson House Associates, Inc, under the imprint of Trans-Media Microfilms
Punch cartoon: Punch Historical Archive, 4.7.18.1874
Caricature from London Characters and the Humorous Side of London Life
Newspaper reports: The British Library Board, via Findmypast, and The Times Digital Archive


Catch up with A Christmas tale:
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Celestina at the Old Bailey: a Christmas tale pt 16

In the last episode of this true story, Celestina Sommer was in Newgate Prison awaiting her trial at another iconic bastion of London’s penal system – the Old Bailey.

Newgate prison: Cross’s New Plan of London, 1850

Newgate (green) and the Old Bailey (red), 1850 *

The Central Criminal Court, as it was, and is, more formally known, was next to Newgate, just to the south on the street which gave it its name, Old Bailey. It was just as likely to terrify the criminal and the passing citizen as its neighbour was.

The building was designed by the same architect, George Dance, as Newgate, but in a neoclassical style and with a semi-circular wall around the front for better crowd control and privacy. The wonderful Old Bailey Online site has an image of this, and a history of the court, here.

OS map of the Old Bailey, 1953

OS map of the Old Bailey, 1953 *

The current Central Criminal Court was built on the site of the former Newgate Prison and the Sessions House (another name for the court). They were demolished in 1902 and the new building was opened in 1907.

There aren’t as many images of the Sessions House before it was pulled down as there are of Newgate, so I’m going to use contemporary written accounts to paint a word picture of what Celestina experienced on the morning of Friday, 7 March, 1856, when she was taken for trial at the Old Bailey.

The judge Celestina appeared before was Sir William Wightman, QC, a Scotsman born in 1784 and a knight and judge since 1841, 15 years before this trial. There’s a portrait of him from the 1840s here.

The newspapers loved a good murder trial. Well, in fact, most Victorians did. So it’s no surprise that they were there to see Celestina’s. Here’s the Sheffield Telegraph‘s report from the following day:

Sheffield Telegraph report of the first trail of Celestina Sommer at the Old BaileyThe Era, two days after the trial, had even more to say about what Celestina looked like in the dock:

The Era's report on the Old Bailey trial of Celestina SommerThe journalists in these and other papers were very struck by Celestina’s young appearance and ‘absence of ferocity’. She just didn’t look like a proper murderess should. Victorians judged others on their looks even more than we do now.

'Contrasted faces', a picture showing the ideal woman and an Irish oneThese, after all, were the days when people believed that bumps on the skull could reveal someone’s character. Faces could tell you whether someone was a criminal or not. Irish people, being poor, rowdy and foreign, had rough, monkey-like faces (prejudice has a long history) and well-behaved young women had soft, regular features. Criminals should seem coarse, violent and debauched, not small and young. That, for goodness’ sake, was what innocent women looked like.

Whether Celestina was acting the part of a madwoman, or understandably frightened and distraught, she appeared distracted and must have been close to fainting if the attendant had to be there with a bottle of smelling salts.

 What would the Old Bailey have been like on that March morning in 1856? It’s time to turn to contemporary accounts. Montagu Williams, QC, wrote in Round London: Down East and Up West in 1894, four decades later, but it still gives a feeling of the outside of the Sessions House:

Outside the Old Bailey

‘There are two entrances to the Old Bailey, one approached from the public thoroughfare, and the other approached from the court-yard of the prison. You reach the latter by passing up some stone steps which are on the right-hand side as you enter through the broad gateway. This entrance is used by the Judges, Aldermen, Sheriffs, and other officers of the Court, by counsel, and, on occasions such as the one to which I am referring, by the few privileged members of the public who have been furnished with tickets of admission. In order to prevent a crush, wooden barriers are erected at the bottom and top of the stone steps…’

Here’s James Grant, writing in The Great Metropolis in 1837:

‘The scene exhibited outside is always well worth seeing. But to be seen to the greatest advantage, one should visit the place on a Monday morning when the courts open. On the street outside, in the place leading to the New Court and in the large yard then thrown open opposite the stairs leading to the Old Court, there is always, at such a time, a great concourse of what may be called mixed society with a propriety I have seldom seen equalled in any other case. There you see both sexes, in great numbers. There are persons of all ages, of every variety of character, and in every diversity of circumstances. There are the prosecutors and the witnesses for and against the prosecution. The judges and the persons to be tried are the only parties you miss…

‘ The Old Bailey is divided into two courts. Formerly there was only one court; but for a number of years past there have been two. The one last established is called the New Court; the court which previously existed is called the Old Court. The most important cases are usually disposed of in the Old Court…’

And indeed Celestina’s trial for wilful murder was held there. So let’s go inside and have a look at the courtroom. Montagu Williams again:

Inside the Old Bailey

‘I don’t think there is a more depressing place in the world than the Old Court of the Old Bailey. There are two doors leading into the Court from the corridor. One is used by the Judges, the Aldermen and Sheriffs, and the few selected visitors, who either take their seats upon the bench or in a contiguous enclosure that looks like a huge private box. The second entrance from the corridor is used by barristers and their clerks, solicitors, and other persons having business in the Court. The centre of the chamber is occupied with seats for the members of the Bar, and below them is the solicitors’ bench. Between the Judge and the jury — both of whom command a fine view of the dock — is the witness-box.

‘Underneath the jury-box sits the usher, an individual who must enjoy very little sleep in a natural way at night, for while the trials are on he is rarely to be seen with his eyes open. Once or twice during the day, however, he rouses himself by a great effort and, in stentorian tones, shouts “Silence!” and this, generally, at a time when everything is so still that you could almost hear a pin drop.

‘At length there are the two knocks, and the Judge, the Lord Mayor, and the Sheriffs, preceded by the mace bearer, enter the crowded Court. The prisoner ascends from below into the dock, steps up to the rail, and is called upon by the Clerk of Arraigns to plead to the indictment….’

Published in 1858, two years after Celestina Sommer’s trial, The Leisure Hour, an illustrated weekly journal, described the scene:

‘It is to the Old Court, however, situated to the left of the entrance from the street, that the greatest interest attaches, because it is here that those memorable trials have taken place which have made the annals of the Old Bailey famous in the classics of crime. This Old Court is a hall of no architectural pretensions, about forty feet square, and tolerably well lighted and ventilated. Opposite the entrance is the raised seat of the judges, extending along one whole side of the apartment. Near the centre is the chief seat, with a canopy overhead, surmounted by the royal arms, and showing beneath it a gilded sword upon the crimson draped wall.

Dead Man's Walk, the passage from Newgate to the Old Bailey

Dead Man’s Walk, the passage from Newgate to the court

‘Fronting the bench, and close to the entrance, is the dock for the prisoners, in which they stand on a raised platform with wainscoted bulwarks. The prisoners are not brought to this dock from the street and through the assembled crowds, but pass into it through an underground stone passage which connects the Old Court with the prison of Newgate. In front of the prisoner, on the broad hand-rail on which he leans, are scattered a number of sprigs of the rue plant – not to remind him, as simple people have supposed, of his rueful condition, but as an antidote to the danger of infection which the court is supposed to incur from his presence after confinement in unwholesome cells. This practice is about a century old…

‘To the left of the dock is the witness-box, and to the left of that the jury-box – an arrangement which enables the jury, as well as the judges on the bench, to see at one glance the faces both of the witnesses and the prisoners. The counsel have their seats round a table in the centre below, and to the right of the table are rows of raised seats for the accommodation of spectators, and a few benches, supposed by a fiction of the law to be free to the public, though in practice the reverse is the case. The accommodation really provided for the public is a gallery with rows of benches above the head of the prisoner, and in front of the bench of judges, admission to which is obtainable only on payment of a fee.

‘We will look in now upon this Old Court while a trial is going on. The crowd around the outer portals, and the pushing and struggling for entrance, would warn us, if we did not know it already, that an affair of more than usual interest is going forward. We elbow through the crowd and make for the lower door, but there the policemen in attendance only shake their heads at all demands for admission, and refuse to, pass a single additional person who cannot show that his presence is required within. We mount the stairs leading to the gallery, where numbers more are clustered round the doom, waiting their time to take the places of such of those within, who, under the pressure of the heat or that of hunger and thirst, shall choose to vacate them. Half an hour’s patience, and an oblation of current coin, at length procure us the privilege of attempting to force a way in…’

James Grant described the courtroom as it was two decades earlier, in 1837:

Trial at the Old Bailey (Central Criminal Court), 1808, hand-coloured print

Old Bailey trial, 1808, before refitting *

‘The interior of both courts is tastefully fitted up. They have of late been re-altered and repaired at an expense of several thousand pounds. The judges in either court sit on the north side. Immediately below them are the counsel, all seated around the table. Directly opposite the bench is the bar, and above it, but a little further back, is the gallery. The jury sit, in the Old Court, on the right of the bench: in the New Court they sit on the left of the bench. The witness-box is, in both courts, at the farthest end of the seats of the jury. The reporters, in both courts, sit opposite the jury.

‘The Old Bailey courts sit from nine in the morning, till nine, ten, and sometimes eleven at night. Nine is the usual time for rising; but when a case goes on up to that hour, the courts usually sit until it is finished.’

WS Gilbert, a man better known to have had a little list of lyrics for Arthur Sullivan’s tunes, also wrote a large part of the illustrated book London Characters and the Humorous Side of London Life. Before his theatrical career, he’d contemplated going into law. Unfortunately it seems that he didn’t write the sketches about the Old Bailey, the m’learned friends and the witnesses. Still, it’s worth adding some of these near-contemporary eyewitness accounts. These were written about 10 years after Celestina’s trial.

‘The bench occupies one side of the court, and the dock faces it. On the right side of the bench are the jury-box and witness-box; on the left are the seats for privileged witnesses and visitors, and also for the reporters and jurymen in waiting. The space bounded by the bench on one side, the dock on another, the jury-box on a third, and the reporters’ box on the fourth, is occupied by counsel and attorneys, the larger half being assigned to the counsel. Over the dock is the public gallery, to which admission was formerly obtained by payment of a fee to the warder. It is now free to about thirty of the public at large at one time, who can see nothing of the prisoner except his scalp, and hear very little of what is going on.

Punch cartoon: trial for murder

Punch’s Almanack: trial for murder mania *

‘The form in which a criminal trial is conducted is briefly as follows: The case is submitted to the grand jury, and if, on examination of one or more of the witnesses for the prosecution, they find a prima facie case against the prisoner, a “true bill” is found, and handed to the clerk of arraigns in open court. The prisoner is then called upon to plead: and, in the event of his pleading “guilty”, the facts of the case are briefly stated by counsel, together with a statement of a previous conviction, if the prisoner is an old offender, and the judge passes sentence. If the prisoner pleads “not guilty,” the trial proceeds in the following form. The indictment and plea are both read over to the jury by the clerk of arraigns, and they are charged by him to try whether the prisoner is “guilty” or “not guilty.” The counsel for the prosecution then opens the case briefly or at length, as its nature may suggest, and then proceeds to call witnesses for the prosecution. At the close of the “examination in chief” of each witness, the counsel for the defence (or, in the absence of counsel for the defence, the prisoner himself) cross-examines.

‘At the conclusion of the examination and cross-examination of the witnesses for the prosecution, the counsel for the prosecution has the privilege of summing up the arguments that support his case. If witnesses are called for the defence, the defending counsel has, also, a right to sum up; and in that case the counsel for the prosecution has a right of reply. The matter is then left in the hands of the judge, who “sums up”, placing the facts of the case clearly and impartially before the jury, pointing out discrepancies in the evidence, clearing the case of all superfluous matter, and directing them in all the points of law that arise in the case. The jury then consider their verdict, and, when they are agreed, give it in open court, and the prisoner at the bar is asked whether he has anything to say why the sentence of law shall not be passed upon him. This question is little more than a matter of form, and the judge rarely waits for an answer, but proceeds immediately to pass sentence on the prisoner…

William Ballantine, caricature by Alfred Thompson https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:William_Ballantine_Vanity_Fair_5_March_1870_%28crop%29.jpg

William Ballantine, Celestina’s defence counsel *

‘To a stranger, a criminal trial is always an interesting sight. If the prisoner happens to be charged with a crime of magnitude, he has become quite a public character by the time he enters the dock to take his trial; and it is always interesting to see how far a public character corresponds with the ideal which we have formed of him. Then his demeanour in the dock, influenced, as it often is, by the fluctuating character of the evidence for and against him, possesses a grim interest for the unaccustomed spectator. He is witnessing a real sensation drama, and as the case draws to a close, if the evidence has been very conflicting, he feels an interest in the issue akin to that with which a sporting man would take in the running of a great race.

‘Then the deliberations of the jury on their verdict, the sharp, anxious look which the prisoner casts ever and anon towards them, the deep breath that he draws as the jury resume their places, the trembling anxiety, or, more affecting still, the preternaturally compressed lips and contracted brow, with which he awaits the publication of their verdict, and his great, deep sigh of relief when he knows the worst, must possess a painful interest for all but those whom familiarity with such scenes has hardened. Then comes the sentence, followed, perhaps, by a woman’s shriek from the gallery, and all is over, as far as the spectator is concerned. The next case is called on, and new facts and new faces soon obliterate any painful effect which the trial may have had upon his mind.’

Celestina had certainly ‘become quite a public character’ and the crowds in the courtroom no doubt expected a thrilling trial. Unfortunately for them, the counsel for Celestina’s defence, William Ballantine, had other ideas. He asked the Court to allow the trial to ‘stand over’ until the next session, in April, as the Morning Post reported:

Morning post report of Celestina's first Old Bailey trialMr Justice Wightman pointed out that the trial was ‘specially fixed for that morning’. On what ground was the application for postponement made?

Morning post report of Celestina's first Old Bailey trialIn other words, he needed more time than the week he’d had to find out whether Celestina had been ‘insane’ when she murdered her daughter, Celestina Christmas. If she had been insane, she wouldn’t be sentenced to death. So the consequences were huge.

The counsel for the prosecution, William Bodkin, had no objection:

Morning post report of Celestina's first Old Bailey trialThe Court agreed to postpone Celestina Sommer’s trial until the April session.

It’s interesting that Bodkin picked up the ‘one possible result’ – hanging – and that a trial with such a possible end should not appear to have been hurried. He was thinking ahead, to public opinion as well as legal precedence.

And so Celestina was taken back to Newgate to prove herself insane – or not – and to wait for her final trial: for life or death.

Further reading:
The Cat’s Meat Shop: a tour of legal London
Wayward Women: Victorian England’s Female Offenders
Victorian London
: just what it says. A treasure trove
Old Bailey Online
London Characters and the Humorous Side of London Life
, c1870, written by Henry Mayhew (author of London Labour and the London Poor) and others

* Picture credits:
Dead Man’s Walk: public domain
Punch’s Almanack: British Library Board
William Ballantine, caricature by Alfred Thompson: via Wikipedia
Newspaper reports: The British Library Board, via Findmypast
Map: Cross’s New Plan of London, 1850, via Mapco
Map: OS London/TQ, 1:2,500/ 1:1,250, 1951, via National Library of Scotland


Catch up with A Christmas tale:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

 

 

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