A horrid attack on a gamekeeper by a poacher left him unable to speak, but the prominent Bow Street police officers, Lavender and Vickery were on the case. The gamekeeper was in the employment of the second Earl Spencer at his Estate in Wimbledon Park.
“On Saturday se’nnight Mr. Thomas Astill, head gamekeeper to Earl Spencer, at Wimbledon Park, arrived at his own house speechless, having his scull dreadfully fractured, apparently by a bullet from a horse pistol, which has perforated his hat in two places; he was also much struck about the thighs by the hilt of a sword or cutlass. He had been seen to follow and overtake a man in a dark jacket, who had been shooting and taking away some game, and they were observed to walk together towards the park paling, not above 5 or 600 yards from his residence. Information of the above having been given at Bow-street, Lavender and Vickary (sic) were dispatched to obtain information; and on their arrival at Wimbledon, they found that one Holt, who had come from Hampshire to assist in the harvest, was the suspected person. The officers then proceeded to the Antelope, at Wandsworth, where he lodged, but he had not been home all night. They then, with much difficulty, and after a long pursuit, traced him to the Waggon and Horses at Farnham, where they secured him, and learned that previous to entering the house he had discharged a musket, which, nevertheless, he denied being in his possession, and said it belonged to a soldier. They, however, found it in the cellar of the house concealed behind a beer barrel, and, on inspection, it proved to be the piece which the gamekeeper has taken out with him. On Thursday he was taken to the wounded gamekeeper, who was not able to speak. He, however, identified the prisoner as the man who wounded him; and his testimony was taken before Major Fleming, a Magistrate, which will be made evidence on the trial.”
A poor lad suffered a broken arm and some horrible injuries, trying to escape the eyes of his father while viewing a new threshing machine (or thrashing-machine). These machines first came into use in the industrial revolution to replace the time-consuming practice of flailing by hand.
On Wednesday se’nnight a shocking accident happened at Bourn. Mr. John Chamberlain, of that place, had lately put up a new thrashing-machine, which excited the curiosity of numbers of persons to see it work : among others, a son of William Davy, (contrarily to the injunction of his father,) went for that purpose : the father happened to go also, and the boy, perceiving him come, ran over the spindle of the machine in order to get away, but being caught by the cloaths, was doubled up amongst the works, and had an arm broken, and his head and shoulders cut and mangled in a shocking way. Notwithstanding all these apparently ‘mortal wounds, the least a death to nature,’ the boy, we understand, still survives, & there are even hopes of his recovery.”
Stamford was a popular racing venue (1717 – 1873), so its newspaper attracted many such advertisements. Baronet was well-known and may have been one of the horses painted by George Stubbs, although he is referred to in the advertisement as a chestnut and Stubbs’ subject was called a bay.
“BARONET will COVER Mares this season, 1811, at Two Guineas each. He was got by Stride (that uncommonly speedy well-bred son of Phenomenon), his dam by Drone, grandam by Young Marske, out of Ferret, by a brother to Silvio, Regulus, Morton Arabian, Mixbury, Mulse Bay Turk, Bay Bolton, Coneyskins, Hutton Grey Barb, Byerley Turk, and Bustler.
Baronet is own brother to Sir John, Lady Brough, and Brough – all good runners, and, to those conversant with the turf, well known to possess great speed.
Baronet is seven years old, a good chestnut, fifteen hands three inches high, free from all natural blemishes, with great powers, fine shape, and good action – and for constitution and good temper, not inferior to any horse in existence. He had won as follows : viz
At York, on Wednesday 23rd May, 1805, being then only two years old, a sweepstakes for 120gs. beating Mr. Knapton’s filly by a brother to Eagle, Mr. Mellish’s Companion, Sir H. T. Vane’s filly by Patriot, and Mr. J. Hill’s Talisman by Totteridge. – At Doncaster, on Thursday 25th September, 1806, a match for 300 gs. beating Mr. Mellish’s colt Luck’s-All by Stamford. – At York on Saturday 29th August, 1807, the Ladies’ Plate, beating Sir T. Gascoigne’s filly by Hambletonian, Mr. Mellish’s Luck’s-All, Sir M. Sykes’ Harriet, Mr. Grimstone’s Woldsman, and Mr. Wentworth’s Irene. – At Ormskirk, July 22, 1808, a sweepstakes of 80 gs. for all ages, four miles, beating Mr. Benson’s Dimple, &c. &c.
He will be at Barton, Grimsby and Castor markets, and travel that circuit during the season.”
One lucky ‘Mercury’ reporter was invited to visit the site of the old paper mills at Wansford. There he discovered the fascinating history of the house and grounds, and paper making.
“Once Belonged | In Existence
To The ‘Mercury’ | Nearly 300 Years
Interesting Retrospective Glance
The days when the paper on which the ‘Mercury’ was printed was manufactured at Wansford, near Stamford, were recalled when, through the courtesy of Mr. G. Wyman Abbott, of Stibbington House, Wansford, a Mercury reporter was shown over the grounds of Stibbington House, the site of the old Paper Mills.
Stibbington House, which is even now occasionally referred to by old residents of Wansford as ‘The Paper Mills,’ was for over a century the property of the Newcomb family, a family which retained a controlling interest in the ‘Mercury’ for nearly 150 years. The paper was bought by one Richard Newcomb in 1785, but it was not until 1824 that he purchased the Paper Mills and used their product in Stamford.
Mr. Abbott was able to trace the ownership of the Mills as far back as 1650, when they were bought by William Page. Page married a lady by the name of Bridget, who had a daughter of the same name. He died in 1678, whereupon his widow re-married a man named Wright. The property then passed to a cousin, William Walcot, and then to William Walcot junior, of Oundle, a surgeon.
At this stage there is a gap in the records, the next known owner being the Richard Newcomb referred to abouve.
Sold Eleven Years Ago.
The Paper Mills remained in the Newcomb family until as recently as 1927, when Mrs. Todd-Newcomb sold the property to Mr. Abbott.
There is now little recognisable trace of the Mills, though, thanks to Mr. Abbott, I had little difficulty in re-constructing the scene of activity of a century or so ago.
There still remain standing a building which was the lower storey of the mill itself and a number of outbuildings which were probably used as drying rooms.
At the bottom of Mr. Abbott’s beautiul gardens runds an offshoot oft the River Nene and, standing on a small bridge over this stream, Mr. Abbott pointd out to me the site of the mill wheel which provided the power for the Mills.
A little higher up a verdant bank slopes down to the water’s edge, but is was not until Mr. Abbott acquired the property that the slope was made, as until 1927 there still remained the old wharf on to which the bales of rags from which the paper was made, were unloaded.
One could easily picture the barges mooring by the wharf, the bales being unloaded and carried off to the rag pits where they were pulled to pieces by women and taken to the mill itself.
Chimney Foundations Found
Some of these rag pits were filled in by Mr. Abbott when he bought the property, and the foundations of the tall chimney were dug up at the same time.
Mr. Abbott showed me an old photograph of the mill and chimney which, unfortunately, is too faded with age for reproduction. So changed is the site now, however, that it is scarcely possible to recognise the photograph.
The lower portion of the mill itself has been converted by Mr. Abbott into a garden house and a garage, and other buildings which were used for the manufacture of the paper are now utilised as garages etc.
The accompanying illustrations give some idea of the site as it was and as it is today.
The photograph shows what is now Mr. Abbott’s garden room, and if you look at the engraving you may recognise this garden room as the square building on the left of the mill. This engraving, incidentally, is reproduced from the letter head of one Thomas Nelson, paper maker, Wansford Mill, Northamptonshire, a sheet of which remains in Mr. Abbott’s possession.”
The Stamford Mercury, 13th, May, 1938.
In the foregraound can be seen the river on which the barges brought rags for paper making, and in the background is Mr. Abbott’d garden room, formerly part of the mill.
This reproduction from an old letter heading, shows the mill as it was in bygone days. The garden-house in the photograph above is the square building on the left.
Another Stamford Mercury columnist picked up a mistake in S.H.E.’s reminiscences. However, it adds to her story and explains how the blind organist learnt his music.
“Blind Stamford Organist
My attention has been drawn to a slight straying from the path of strict accuracy by our ‘memorist,’ ‘S.H.E.,’ whose series of articles have proved so absorbingly interesting to readers of the ‘Mercury,’ who will share with me the regret I feel at the fact that, for the time being at least, her writings will disappear from our columns.
In last week’s article, ‘S.H.E.’ referred to Mr. Hilary Hewitt as the blind organist of St. Mary’s church, whereas the blind organist at St. Mary’s was Mr. William Marriott, who lived at Borderville and was led to the church by a boy. This information has been given to me by a septuagenarian resident of Stamford, who tells me that when she was a child she used to sit with a hymn-book before her reading out the notes as Mr. Marriott found them on the piano and so committed the hymn tunes to memory. In those days the Rev. A. C. Abdy was Rector of St. Mary’s, and the organ was exactly opposite its present situation.
Mr. Hilary Hewitt was a blind resident of St. Mary’s at the time, but, as far as my informant knows, had no occupation. His father was engaged in Burghley estate office, and his sister conducted a preparatory school at the house in St. Martin’s now occupied by Mr. Fred Miles.”
Some interesting pieces of folklore, legend and superstitions about the prickly holly bush, are presented in our third look back at Christmas items from the Stamford Mercury in December, 1927.
“Holly Lore.
Holly is a fine crop and beautifully berried this year. That is often the case after a wet summer, and the theory that this means a severe winter has even less to its credit than the tradition that a green Christmas spells a fat churchyard. Nevertheless, these popular sayings of the countryside should not be dismissed too dogmatically, for a spice of truth generally flavours the most grosteque delusions. Not a little legend surrounds this beautiful plant. One of the tales is that holly first sprang up under the feet of Christ when He trod our earth, and, as an addendum to this idea, we are assured that animals remember what man has forgotten, and thus they never harm the holly.
Ancient Superstitions.
An early classical writer attributed to holly wood the stange power of compelling any animal to return the thrower of a staff of holly, it the latter so disired it, and to lie down by the staff. A rather weird variation, this, on the familiar return of the Australian native’s boomerang, which returns to the thrower. Holly used to play an important part in West Country affaires. For instance, the oath on mining questions in the Forest of Dean was sworn on the holly-stick instead of the Bible. We used to export birdlime made from holly bark, they say, and, apart from alleged medical properties of the berry, the tree has had many other uses. There is no more lovely wood, when worked up and polished, than holly.
Carve that bird! Dismember that fowl! Another look back at The Stamford Mercury for items about eating at Christmas in December, 1927.
“JUST CARVING
Synonymous though Christmas is with feasting, most children will be satisfied, as will their parents, with an admixture of turkey or goose, pudding, mince-pies, nuts and oranges. Certainly none of those strange dishes which graced our forefathers’ tables will be seen in many households. But no matter the nature of the the joint or bird which we shall eat with relish on Christmas-day – and, perhaps, rue on ‘Boxing-day – the dismemberment of the carcase is invariably referred to as ‘carving.’ We will, in these days of stereotyped production, have none of those weird and fanciful terms which a professional carver would apply to the disintegration of the various delicacies, placed before him on which to work. Father will not ‘disfigure’ a peacock, nor ‘spawl’ a hen, nor ‘break’ a deer, nor ‘rend’ a goose, nor ‘barb’ a lobster, not ‘ally’ a pheasant, nor ‘mince’ a plover. He will just carve, and if you ‘come again’ as you must do on Christmas-day, he will carve again. After all, the food’s the thing.
There was a time in England when the Christmas mince pie was the subject of fierce controversy. The Puritans regarded the making and easting of these delicacies as a superstitious observance savouring of Popery, and Bunyan, when in prison refused to eat them lest he should ‘injure’ his morals. The reason was that the ingredients of the mince-pie, especially the spices, were supposed to have reference to the offering of the Wise Men. The pastry cover was oblong in shape, to represent the creche or manger where Our Savious was born. In the seventeenth century mince-pies were made of meats, tongues, chicken, eggs, sugar, currants, and lemon and orange peel, with various spices.”
Looking back to Christmas, 1927, there are a number of interesting ‘snippets’ in the Mercury, mainly regarding the food and drink of yesteryear.
” DIMINISHING APPETITE
Some folk delight to assert that in the Christmas season there is too much over-eating, and that as a consequence the people who reap the benefit are the chemists and doctors. But a dip into old-time menus of feasts in the Christmas season impels one to the conclusion that individually much less is now eaten than in the old days, when gargantuan appetities, as we should think them now, appeared to be the rule, and not exceptions. Some of the dishes, too, were extremely outlandish, and items appeared in the list of good things that are scarcely ever heard of now, and, even if they are, would not be assiciated with the idea of providing an excellent dish. The lordly peacock, lamphreys*, and other items outside the ken of the up-to-date chef figured prominently.
AN EARLY MENU
Are Britishers less robust at the table, or is it that wisdom has grown with the years? Yet the heavy eaters of other days did not appear to suffer in health from their heartiness. They lived to a ripe old age and did the work of Old England, taking the difference of education into account, quite as well as those of a later generation. The account of a supper party, given by Madame de Sevigne in 1677, is intriguing. It mentions sundry soups, rounds of beef, sausages, spiced stews, calves’ and pigs’ tongues, hot pasties, a Christmas lamb surrounded by partidges, pheasants, turkeys, leverets, and capons, followed by salmon, trout, carp pie, thrushes, larks, ortolans, and fat quails. Then there were various kinds of pudding and liberal dessert for such as had a few corners to fill. Madame de Sevigne’s feasting did not appear to impair her faculties; she died in her 77th year.”
A gallon of beer was the penalty for falling into the Thames in the nineteenth century dockside – if you wanted to be rescued.
” – On Wednesday the 16th Inst. a man of the name of Edwards, while working out a barge laden with coals at Queenhithe, had the misfortune to slip off the plank into the river. His companions, on hearing the splash in the water, ran to his assisstance, and instantly succeded in getting hold of his jacket; but, instead of immediately dragging him out, they barely kept his head above water, and began vociferating ‘Beer! beer!’ The man in the water in short time endeavoured to speak, but had no sooner opened his mouth than a wave, owing to his head being kept so low, gently glided down his throat, and prevented him; he was then allowed to stand up, the water being at the spot about four feet deep, but not to get out, and as well as the water in his throat would allow he bawled out ‘beer!’ His black companions on hearing him mention the word ‘beer,’ immediately assisted him in getting into the barge, and the whole gang of them shortly after repaired to the Farnham Castle, Trinity-lane, and ordered the landlady to send in a gallon of beer. On inquiring into these curious proceedings, it turned out that the coal-heavers have a standing rule, that if any man falls overboard, he is to be fined a gallon of beer; but as many of them, after being safely pulled out, have refused to comply with the rule, they now keep the unfortunate fellow in the water till he gives his consent by called our ‘beer!’ when they take him out, and proceed to a public-house, and drink a gallon at his expense.”
We now know it as a hotel and some will remember it as ‘home’ during the Stamford High School terms when it became a boarding house, but this is how Lady Anne’s House started life.
“In the early ‘eighties workmen were busy at the top of St. Martin’s turning three houses into one and building on at the back. The result was Lady Anne’s House. There were all sorts of rumourrs (sic) during the building operations. One was that Baron Rothschild was coming there to live. In the end, it turned out to be the Earl of Rosslyn – the fourth earl, with his stately wife and beautiful daughters. They would all come to church on a Sunday morning, giving us all something to look at. He was a fine, handsome man with a monocle and waxed moustache. In the winter he wore a coat with enormous sable collar and cuffs, each cuff as deep as a lady’s muff. he walked into church with a magnificent air, sat down and made his devotions into his glossy silk hat, which he held in his hand the while (we used to whisper ‘He’s counting them’). Then, having deposited his had, he stood up, fixed his eye-glass and gazed deliberately all over the church before settling down. He always joined very heartily in the service, as though he thoroughly enjoyed it.
It was said that he was a man given to language more forcible than polite. Once he was entertaining a dignitary of the church, when something annoyed him and he started to curse with his customary fluency. Suddenly he stopped and apologized, excusing himself on the grounds that he always called a spade a spade.
‘Indeed,’ said the cleric dryly, ‘I should have thought you would call it a damned agricultural implement.'”
