Shakespeare’s characters

The Bard wrote works separated into Histories, Comedies, and Tragedies. While some of the characters were historical figures and therefore not named by Shakespeare, others were fictional with names chosen or created by Will. I doubt whether he really created as many as 1,700 words – he only used 20,000 different words in all his works, it is more likely these words are largely the first time they are recorded in writing. But why did he opt for those fictional names? Will etymology provide an answer?

Malvolio from Twelfth Night, a figure I particularly loathe as I was forced to portray this pillock when at school, he has a name from Italian and meaning ‘ill will’ – and from what I recall of the experience, a pretty accurate description.

Romeo is a title character whose name either means ‘Roman’ or ‘pilgrim to Rome’ – the latter is a better bet as the play is set in Verona.

Othello is the eponymous character whom Shakespeare named, probably from the Italian Otello or the Hebrew name Otiel meaning ‘my God is He’. (insert punctuation and see how those four words change in meaning)

Desdemona is from the Greek dysdaimon meaning either ‘misery’ or ‘ill-fated’.

Mercutio is derived from the Latin mercurialis meaning ‘of Mercury’.

Banquo is of Scottish Gaelic origin from ban and means ‘white’ or perhaps ‘fair’.

Titania is from the Titans of Greek mythology, specifically the daughters of those Titans.

Polonius is probably from the Latin word for Poland, Shakespeare may have got the idea from a Latin book on statesmanship by a Polish author.

Laertes is from Greek mythology, the father of Odysseus.

Caliban is believed to be derived from ‘cannibal’, an appropriate name for the character’s savagery.

Hermia is of Greek origin, it means ‘messenger’ as does the Greek Hermes.

Benvolio comes from the Italian benevolo meaning ‘goodwill’, which describes Romeo’s cousin the play rather well.

Capulet is derived from capuleti ‘little chief’.

Fortinbras is of Norman French derivation meaning ‘strong in the arm’.

Yorick, a variation on the Danish Jorck, is itself a variation of George.

Portia is from the Latin porcus meaning ‘pig’, not a particularly appropriate description of the character.

Petruchio is from the Italian name Pietro, itself from the Greek Peter meaning ‘stone’ or ‘rock’.

Perdita is from the Latin perditus meaning ‘lost, abandoned’ and an appropriate name for Shakespeare’s character.

Other names may be associated with Shakespeare, but they pre-date the Bard. These include Ophelia, Prospero, Iago, Shylock, Titania.

Esther Dyson

The question of mental capacity comes into question in the case of Esther Dyson. Murder of a child in Victorian times was not regarded as any less despicable than today, but this 24-year-old woman may have been treated rather differently today.

In 1830 Esther was accused of murdering her illegitimate daughter. Bad enough? Maybe worse when you hear she attempted to sever her newborn child’s head with a knife before attempting to hide the body by throwing it in a dam. Appalled? Read on.

Esther was acquitted on the grounds of insanity – although the ‘insanity’ was probably due to her being deaf and dumb since birth. Feeling more lenient? There’s more.

Contemporary newspaper reports claimed her disabilities were rather exaggerated, describing her as ‘shrewd’ and ‘an intelligent woman’ who well ‘knew right from wrong’. In a crowded court at Leeds in March 1831 was asked how she pleaded but failed to respond – so the members of the jury were asked to determine whether the prisoner stood mute ‘by malice or by thr visitation of God’. The jury blamed the Almighty.

One called to give evidence, Mrs Ann Briggs, had known the prisoner of almost ten years and stated she doubted whether Esther had any idea of what was happening in the courts. But Mrs Briggs admitted Esther certainly knew the difference between right and wrong.

The judge, reluctant to try Esther, instructed the jury to decide whether she was insane, in which case she would be detained at His Majesty’s pleasure. This is what happened and the West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum in Wakefield became her home from 24 November 1831 until her death on 2 March 1869 at the age of 62.

It is recorded that she was regularly employed as a housemaid, and showed no symptoms of insanity during her more than three decades at Wakefield.

Was she insane? Should she hang? What do you think?

Jane Frearson

Jane Frearson had lived at the Bell Inn in Derby for some five months, employed as a kitchen maid by Mrs Wightman. She had returned to the area after spending time in Sheffield, again as a domestic servant, having previously lived with her parents at Normanton.

Tuesday 19th January 1830, and at the Bell Inn a most gruesome discovery was made. A newborn female infant had been discovered among the detritus in the privy at the public house. At the inquest, also held at the Bell Inn, medical opinion suggested the child had been alive at birth, there was no outward appearance of any injuries and nothing to suspect internal injuries. The child had probably died shortly after birth. The inquest decided Frearson should face charges and was given bail awaiting her appearance in court.

The case came to court on Wednesday 28th April 1830, where she faced a charge of concealing the birth of her infant bastard child. The court decided to acquit her, and Frearson walked free. It later transpired that Frearson had been seduced by a member of the family while working in Sheffield at the home of what was considered a respectable family. Finding herself with child, she returned to Derby, securing the job at the Bell Inn. Here she attempted to hide her pregnancy, but in the later stages it was clear to all and when the infant was discovered in the privy there was no doubting who the mother was. Frearson claimed the child had been alive at birth but died shortly after, medics could not determine whether the child would have lived had she sought medical help.

Whether Jane Frearson would have faced more serious charges today is uncertain. Contemporary reports do not touch on her mental state, nor go into any details as to how she became pregnant, the reaction of her employers in Sheffield, or why she left their employ.

The Oddingley Murders

Researching one thing often results in finding something else of note. This piqued my interest recently and, although I had read about such before, delved a little deeper.

The story begins in the quiet village of Oddingley some 5 miles north of the city of Worcester. The place name means ‘the woodland clearing of the family or followers of a man called Odda’, and as the story unfolds you will see events really do get ‘odder’.

Beginning on 24 June 1806, two fellows travelling near the glebe meadow heard a gunshot. As they went to investigate, they heard the faint cry of “Murder!” and soon discovered a man lying in the meadow, with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. This was George Parker, Rector of St James’ Church in Oddingley, but not for long as he soon died from his wounds. These witnesses also spied a man fleeing the scene. While these strangers could not name him, from their description he could only have been Richard Heming, a local odd-job man. A man-hunt ensued, but Heming would never be found – it was rumoured he had fled the country and living in anonymity in America. Not having any reasons to doubt the murderer had made good his escape, the story made the local headlines for a while but, other than local gossip, was forgotten.

Forgotten until 24 years later when the skeleton of a man was discovered buried beside the wall of a barn at nearby Netherwood Farm. Forensics not available in the first part of the 19th century, the identity of the chap could only be deduced from the clothes and belongings found with him. There was no doubt these were the skeletal remains of Richard Heming.

Investigations showed Netherwood Farm had been leased to a famer named Thomas Clewes at the time Heming vanished. Arrested, Clewes confessed to having witnessed the death of Heming, gave clear details of the killing and named the murderers. He named John Barnett and George Banks as the killers (a third man, Captain Evans, had since died), all three local farmers who had been at odds with the rector on the subject of tithes and had paid Heming the princely sum of £50 to kill George Parker, but subsequently reneged pn the deal and bludgeoned the assassin to death. They had the motive, the body, and the murderers. Locals were confident Barnett, Banks, and Clewes would soon provide the focus for the spectacle of a public hanging.

What had been a local scandal in 1806, became a national headline in 1830. Interest grew when it was announced they could not be tried with the murder of the rector, but only as accessories. The late Captain Evans, said to be the ringleader and mastermind despite being an officer and a magistrate, could not face charges; farrier James Taylor had dealt the fatal blow (according to Clewes) and he faced a murder charge; Clewes was charged, as were Barnett and Banks.

At the trial, the complexities of the case created more confusion. Clewes was the key, everything revolved around his confession. The jury’s verdict against Clewes was ‘guilty as accessory after the fact’ – but when the judge pointed out (and as the press reported quite vociferously) Clewes had not been charged with that but with ‘aiding and abetting’, they retired a second time and returned with a verdict of ‘not guilty’. Such effectively ended the cases against all concerned, and all went back to the quiet life away from the public eye.

The acquittals were, rather surprisingly, met with relief in and around Oddingley. Indeed, some of the villagers broke into the church and rang the bells in celebration – such levity did not go well with landowners or the press, especially when they learned the bell ringers gathered a group who continued the celebrations by drinking and smoking inside the church. Generally the newspapers were in agreement with the verdict as an important principal of law had been upheld.

While I could never suggest George Parker deserved to be murdered, his tithe demands would certainly be seen as excessive. As rector the tithes came to him, one-tenth of the value of their crops to be paid to him to cover his income. That income of £135 per annum - £14,450 today is not a fortune, but considering he did not have to pay for his accommodation, comfortable enough – but Parker, having spent five years trying to get the farmers to pay up, demanded an extortionate sum of £150 in compensation. When the rector took the farmers to court to get payment, he won. Then after five years the farmers, who had resigned themselves to having pay every year, would have given up – but then Parker got greedy.

Perhaps today forensic evidence would have helped secure a conviction or convictions. Doubtless we could almost certainly have shown Heming had not left the country, and surely forensic evidence would have identified killer or killers. And yet today’s legal system would also likely have rejected Parker’s demands for £150.

Dordon Hall

Dordon Hall, built from red sandstone and one wing built in brick and is situated on Dunns Lane, Dordon.

This post –medieval farmhouse, with elements dating from the 16th or 17th century, was extensively remodelled in the early 18th century by William Sant, who built its prosperous-looking, symmetrical sandstone facade. The building's complex irregular plan and crow-stepped gables suggest earlier Tudor origins, and it features timber framing with whitewashed brick infill, along with latter-day brick and sandstone additions.

Medieval Origins: The earliest part of the house has a timber-framed structure with an irregular plan, indicated by features like jowled posts to the gable ends and hints of a pre-Tudor origin. Early 18th Century Facade: William Sant, a prosperous landowner in the 1720s, commissioned a new facade for Dordon Hall. This addition was built from regular coursed sandstone, featuring a string course and a moulded cornice, giving the building a more formal appearance. Later Additions and Alterations: In the 19th century, the building underwent further alterations and rebuilding, with modifications to the front range, including the addition of a Cl9 ribbed door with a rusticated surround. Some parts of the original timber-framed left wing were also rebuilt with brick.

Materials: Dordon Hall is a combination of materials, including timber framing, whitewashed brick, and sandstone for the main front elevation. Gables: The building displays crow-stepped gables, a distinctive architectural feature that indicates its earlier Tudor-era origins.

Interior Features: The interior includes broad stop-chamfered beams and an altered open fireplace with fire windows, showcasing elements of its historical construction.

William Sant was buried at Grendon Church on 14th April 1779 and here is a copy of his will.

Amington Hall

The current building known as Amington Hall was built in 1810. Designed by Samuel Wyatt – he also designed Soho House in Handsworth – it replaced the Amington Old Hall farmhouse, both are Grade II Listed. Owned by the Repington family, who had held the estate since 1539.

Ownership passed down to eventually reaching Charles Henry Wyndham A’Court. He rented it out to wealthy tenants, as did his son Charles a’Court Repington on his father’s death in 1903.

Eventually Charles Junior sold the building to former tenant Sydney Fisher, owner of Kettlebrook Paper Mill – their wealth is indicated by the 1911 Census records showing he living at the hall with his wife, four children, a butler, footman, hall boy, governess, two lady maids, and five house maids.

Arbury Hall

Ancestral home of the Newdigate family, built on the site of the former Arbury Priory. One of Nuneaton’s most famous ‘sons’, author George Eliot – actually a famous daughter, Mary Anne Evans – was born on one of the estate farms, her father was the estate’s land agent. She used Arbury Hall as the model for Cheverel Manor in Scenes of Clerical Life, it is the setting for Mr Gilfil’s Love Story.

. In more modern times the film Angels and Insects was filmed here; and became the fictional Hoxley Manor in BBC’s The Land Girls.

The Newdigate baronetcy was created on 24 July 1677 and became extinct with the death of the 5th baronet in 1806. The family name is later noted as Newdigate-Newdegate.

The 300 acre estate has a system of private canals. Connected to the Coventry Canal, there are six distinct sections, and a seventh (The Griff Hollows Canal) not connected to the others. The entire system covers 6 miles and has 13 locks – one a Y-shaped feature is the Triple Lock, with two separate entrances leading to different branches. A few visible signs remain on the estate today.

Arbury Park in South Australia is named after Arbury Hall. A 17-room Georgian-style house constructed in 1935 for politician Sir Alexander Downer, close friend of Sir Francis Alexander Newdigate-Newdegate (1862-1936) MP for Tamworth, Nuneaton, and Governor of Tasmania and Western Australia, which is why he chose the name.

Pooley Hall Colliery

The Pooley Hall Estate surrounded the hall built by Sir Thomas Cockayne in 1509. Later the hall became the property of Charles Jennens and subsequently the Hon. Charles Finch MP. When the Coventry Canal opened in 1789 – it runs within twenty metres of the hall – it was probably inevitable that coal would be extracted from the extensive coalfields.

The first shaft was sunk in 1849 and completed in 1849, with the first coal extracted the following year. By 1897 the colliery had been formed and a branch line built to connect to the Trent Valley Line – remains of the bridge across the canal can still be seen.

In 1921 the Pooley Hall miners did not join the miners’ strike and in June the striking miners at Baddesley and Birch Coppice marched on Polesworth to persuade them to join the strike – but 200 policemen had been drafted in and a baton charge left several striking miners unconscious. Eventually the strikers accepted the reduction in salary and extension of the working week, as the Pooley Hall miners already had.

In 1924 the colliery was visited by the Duke of York – the miners selected to meet the future King George VI were instructed to wear their Sunday best suit and a flat cap (if you didn’t own a flat cap, go out and buy one!) Further evidence of the conditions they worked in was hidden by whitewashing the pit bottom, while an underground toilet was installed (the first in the country) complete with rosewood seat. Nobody could use this toilet until the Duke’s visit was over, and within the week the bucket toilet was removed as the stench was overpowering.

The miners did join the strike of 1936, but as the family also owned Tamworth Electricity Company, they used the suddenly available labour to dig trenches for the electricity cables to bring electricity to surrounding villages.

The colliery closed in 1965 – much of the buildings had to be demolished due to subsidence. Today 154 acres of the estate is Pooley Hall Country Park.

Superstitious Black Country Miners

It is no surprise to find those working in dangerous jobs as being among the most superstitious. As is often the case, while researching one thing another interesting snippet surfaces and I found the following seven omens of disaster.

Ghosts and spirits seen in the workings could be chased off with the Bible and a key held in the right hand while reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Remember, not that long ago miners worked with candles and such would readily have produced the eeriest of images.

Foul smells were a bad omen – certainly true as any detection of gases which could asphyxiate or, such as methane, potentially explosive would be very useful.

If Gabriel’s hounds had been about the works, then no work was done that day. Gabriel’s Hounds (also known as Gabriel’s Ratchets) are legendary spectral hounds associated with death and misfortune in folklore – sometimes described as a pack of ghostly dogs with human heads that fly through the air while yelping. Some have ascribed this belief to migrating geese at night – night flying geese is also a bad omen.

A bright light seen in the mine was a good reason to flee. Aside from the obvious sign of fire, there is also a link to ghosts and spirits. Black magic was supposedly possible in the depths of the shafts – and protecting themselves by placing a crust of bread and a piece of cheese alongside a cross made from a knife and fork at the mouth of the shaft, before reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards would be sure to save them. Unless, of course, somebody dreamed of the bread and cheese being eaten. Bread/cheese and knife/fork dates back to lead mining.

Dreams of fire were harbingers of danger – and for obvious reasons.

If a woman was encountered at sunrise on the way to the pit, the men would turn on their heels and return to their homes. This goes back to the Staffordshire ‘plaguey woman’, another promise of doom and disaster. One colliery used a female ‘knocker-up’ – one employed to rouse the workers from their beds in the days before alarm clocks – which didn’t help the superstitious men in getting ready for work. Pit managers rarely accepted this reason for absenteeism.

To dream of a broken shoe foretold danger. Shoes feature regularly in Black Country folklore, but this would be a result of the Wednesbury miner who dreamed of his one shoe crumbling and ignored the warning only to be killed the next day.

Fictional place names

I abhor the fictional place name of Broadchurch. The creator of this fictional place clearly knew nothing about the origin of place names. The place name does exist, but as two words and is very recent in comparison to most place names. But as a place name it has to make sense – and if we stop and think for a moment if a church is broad in one dimension, it must be narrow in the other. I doubt anyone will create a place named Narrowchurch (or Slimchurch), so why opt for Broadchurch?

Perhaps publishers and/or authors might want to look more carefully at their created place names – maybe I should offer a consultation service?

It did get me thinking about other fictional names and whether they really work of not. Are some possible? How many are implausible? Let’s have a look and we’ll start with the greatest soap opera on radio today – well maybe….

The Archers live in Ambridge and, as we known the local river is called the Am, the idea of the ‘bridge across the Am’ seems plausible. Except very few places names have ‘bridge’ in them when they were coined during the Saxon era (as most were). Amford, would be more likely, unless the river took the name of the place (a process known as back-formation) but then we would need Am to be a personal name – not implausible, but doesn’t rub well with me. Ambridge is in the county of Borsetshire, named after the county town of Borchester. This works rather well and I can’t find any criticism here. We also hear of the nearby villages of Penny Hassett, Loxley Barrett, Darrington, Hollerton, Edgeley, Waterly Cross, and Lakey Green – all of these are quite likely, so it’s a pity they didn’t get Ambridge quite right!

Harry Potter has Hogwarts and the nearby village of Hogsmeade – now while these would never work as English place names, as it is set in the wizarding world (and the characters hardly have ‘standard’ names) I can’t really offer any complaints here.

Dad’s Army was set in Walmington-on-Sea and it is a perfect name for the southeast coast.

Coronation Street has Weatherfield and here I have a problem. To define its origin takes no stretch of the imagination at all, but places were named to be recognized. All fields have weather, and fields are a rather late addition to place name elements. Having said that, if we accept the ‘field’ suffix there is no reason it could not be said to be an exposed or ‘cold’ field – hence Coldfield might have been more appropriate.

EastEnders has Walford which can only have come from Old English wahl ford meaning the ‘ford of the Welsh’. Now while having Welsh (correctly non-Saxons) in the London area is not out of the question, it is stretching it a little. Anyway, not getting into a debate about it – I don’t wanna talk about it, leave it out, sorted.

Pride and Prejudice has Pemberley and is close enough to Permberton for us to use similar origins. Thus penn bere leah or ‘the clearing by the hill where barley grows’.

Famous Five and Kirrin Island (and also the family name), takes its name from a mythological creature meaning ‘the little dark one’.

Hot Fuzz is set in the fictional village of Sandford – obviously ‘the sandy ford’ which does work well enough.

Heartbeat was set in Aidensfield and I have problems with the ‘field’ (see above) and the supposed personal name as the prefix. Just doesn’t work for a Yorkshire place name – although I admit it does sound plausible and I’d probably be okay with it if I didn’t know better.

All Creatures Great and Small took place in Darrowby where the suffix of by works perfectly and the prefix is almost ideal – Barrowby would have been better ‘the farmstead by the burial mound’, but I’ll accept the slight tweak as credible.

Casualty is in Holby, and I have a real problem here as the place is supposed to be around the Bristol area and yet ‘by’ names are virtually all found in the north and east of the country. And the first element also doesn’t work.

Middlemarch is a novel by George Eliot and the place name only half works – nothing wrong with ‘middle’ but the ‘marches’ are the English/Welsh border regions and that doesn’t quite ring true with the book. But as a title, it’s fine.

Market Blandings is the fictional location created by P. G. Wodehouse. Market is quite possible, and if we take Blandings as a family name (it is the name of the castle) it works fine.

Midsomer Murders and Midsomer – there is a Midsomer Norton in Somerset, where the Norton or ‘northern farmstead’ has the addition for distinction. That addition comes from the dedication to the church to St John, whose feast day is Midsummer’s Day.

The League of Gentlemen and Royston Vasey – there is a place called Royston in Hertfordshire, the place name meaning ‘Royce’s farmstead’. Vasey is a perfectly plausible addition from the local lord of the manor.

Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple lived in St Mary Mead and again another plausible place name.

Children once watched Camberwick Green, Chigley, and Trumpton all set in Trumptonshire. Camberwick is fine, ‘the specialized farmstead at the sheltered place’. Chigley is a little more problematical, for while the ‘clearing’ suffix works I can’t find anything which would give a prefix like ‘Chig’. And then there’s the county town, again the suffix of ‘farmstead’ is fine, but no notion of where the first part could come from. And before you write, these programmes were broadcast years before anyone had heard of anyone called Trump.

Nonverbal Language

For writers nonverbal communication allows them to reveal a character’s thoughts and emotions without lengthy descriptions. Such also means drawing the reader into the story, top feel as the character does. But I wondered just where these originate. Are they learned or evolutionary?

Chemical communications may be associated with animals, but humans still pick up such olfactory messages. Scientists disagree as to the extent which humans can detect messages, and some maintain these abilities to detect pheromones fade and even vanish as an individual matures, which explains the high divorce rate.

Gestures may possibly predate verbal communication. Certainly apes do get a message across in this manner.

Universal expressions come next. The sort of things which communicate emotions such as anger, disgust, fear, happiness, surprise, and sadness – all of which are seemingly involuntary and thus suggesting these are evolutionary. Eyebrows are particularly helpful.

Facial expressions are possibly also evolutionary, but there is the idea that some of these – puzzlement, for example – are as much learned as involuntary.

There are also learned cues, the nod being the most obvious. I tried nodding for ‘no’ and shaking me head for ‘yes’ and found it more difficult than writing with my non-dominant hand. So isn’t it evolutionary? It can’t be – for while nodded affirmatives are well-nigh universal, there are several parts of the world where the reverse is the case. Bulgaria and Albania are two examples, while Greece and Turkey employs a quick backward jerk of the head to indicate ‘no’.

Body language – posture, stance, eye contact (or lack of it) – are all learned from out cultural and social experiences.

Vocalisations might seem to fit in the non-verbal group – but we all make sounds which convey a message, but are not words and are understood across verbal language barriers. “Ah”, “hmm”, “huh” for example.

And finally there are proxemics – which if you don’t know (and I didn’t) refers to how we have learned to communicate through the use of personal space. (Sociable and welcoming into that space; or the reverse like me.)

As a writer I have never considered I could communicate the miserable misanthrope through the use of body language in a passage. But the idea is intriguing and well worth investigating.

Sheepish

When contemplating the word sheepish, I wondered whether it just might have a different etymology to the animal. And are there any other animal references used as adjectives? Well to start with the sheep, it’s purely from the Germanic language group, older versions use ‘ram’ and ‘ewe’. Note while Old English used scap for both singular and plural, Old Northumbrian used scipo as the singular.

Sheep has appeared in various idioms. Wolf in sheep’s clothing appears in Matthew 15; Counting sheep to induce sleep is recorded in 1854 but doesn’t seem to have become popular until the 1870s; giving sheep’s eyes is seen from 1520.

Sheepish used to mean ‘bashful’ is first seen in the 1690s, although Chaucer had used ‘sheepy’. As expected it has the same etymology.

When it comes to other animal-style adjectives, I could only really find one in regular use – Asinine correctly ‘relating to donkeys’ but also describing foolishness. Just why a donkey should be considered foolish, I have no clue.

A couple of other adjectives less commonly used, are: Vulpine for ‘cunning’; and Cervine ‘grace, elegance’.

I did find a few traits associated with certain animals. These describe traits attributed to such species, although I think they are being anthropomorphised instead of looking at the real reasons for such behavior.

Foxes are described as both sly and cunning – I think they mean ‘successful’.

Lions are often said to be majestic – clearly derived from the idea they are king of beasts, and that idea of anthropomorhising creatures is clear in such drivel as The Lion King and other Disney dross.

But the worst of the lot is surely describing a dog as ‘loyal’ – no, it wants food the easiest way possible and you’re its meal ticket.

A few other misnomers. Dead as a dodo – no, they’re not dead they’re extinct; dead as a badger would make more sense as the vast majority of badgers are seen at the side of the road with legs in the air.

As strong as an ox – ludicrous, an ox isn’t strong it’s big – and two oxen are twice as strong anyway.

Proud as a peacock – peacocks have a very small brain size relative to its body, it doesn’t have an IQ big enough to know what pride is.

Wise as an owl – on a list of birds, owls are only halfway when it comes to intellect.

On this day 146 years ago…..

…. Magistrates heard a case brought against a resident of Muckley Corner near Lichfield. Mr Eglinton, also resident at Muckley Corner, had put his hand in his pocket and bought a few glasses of whisky for a neighbour down on his luck. When he was found in a drunken state he was charged and thus in court, where magistrates fined him and his previously clean record had been spoiled.

Once again Mr Eglinton came to his rescue and paid his fine. However, magistrates did not think much of his benevolence and urged the police officers in the court to charge him with aiding and abetting, which they did. Eglinton was fined ten shillings and charged the costs for both cases.

Now I have the perfect excuse for not buying anyone a drink ever again.

Forgotten medical instruments

While browsing old local newspapers, I discovered a reported theft of a urinometer. I wondered whether it did what I thought it did – it didn’t, it actually measures the specific gravity of urine, from which doctors claimed they could assess kidney function.

This did set me wondering whether there were other obsolete medical items and what they did – read on….

Trephines were used for making holes in the skull, the process known as trepanning.

Ecraseurs were used to strangle tumors, particularly in the uterus or ovary. It worked by tightening a wire loop around the base of the tumor.

Surgical guillotine was employed for urgent amputations, where surgeons decreed creating a flap of skin to fold over the wound would delay the procedure to an unacceptable degree.

Brass scarificators were considered a big step forward – we might view something which replaced leeches in the practice of blood letting rather differently.

Spinal saws were used for removing bone after fractures or deformities were diagnosed.

Surgical hammer – must have been of some use, and afterwards you can call a toffee hammer.

Skin hooks were obviously used to hold back the skin while playing around inside – but they do seem quite terrifying.