‘The very image of the Devil himself, with horns and eyes of flame’; Spring Heeled Jack in Kentish Town


At some point in the late 1830s a new monster appeared in the public consciousness. A humanoid figure with glowing eyes, that breathed fire and leap over walls attacked and frightened women across the capital. The fearsome creature – dubbed ‘Spring Heeled Jack’ – disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, leaving the police baffled and the public in terror.

In February 1838 Lucy Scales and her sister were terrified by ‘Jack’ as they walked home in Limehouse. The cloaked monster shot ‘a quantity of blue flame’ into a face, temporarily blinding her and bringing on what sound like epileptic fits for several hours.

In Kentish Town in March 1838 PC Markham (S24) was walking his beat one Saturday evening when he screams and shouts ahead of him. Suddenly he saw ‘women and children running in all directions, screaming out “Here’s Spring-heel’d Jack’.

The constable drew his ‘staff’ (his truncheon) gathered his wits and courage and set off to confront the demon. Several women who had run to the policeman for safety pointed at a man in the street as the ‘terror of London’ in person.

‘Perceiving that a sort of blue froth was at his mouth, and his features were not altogether natural, [PC Markham] went up to him, and seizing him by the collar, dragged him to a butcher’s shop, by the light of which he discovered that he wore a mask, embellished at the mouth with blue glazed paper’.

The brave constable grabbed his man by the collar and frog-marched him off to the nearest police station. The next morning the monster, who went by the name of Daniel Granville, was set in the dock at Marylebone Police Court. He cut a strange and sorry figure: ‘a simple-looking fellow, with a most bewitching obliquity of vision’ as the paper described him. Granville apologised for frightening the public and said it was never his intention. The magistrate dismissed him with a warning, presumably as a sad rather than bad individual who was trading on the publicity that the real ‘devil’ had generated.

Sightings of Spring Heeled Jack multiplied across the 1830s and into the 1840s, and the phenomenon spread beyond the capital. Jack was spotted in Brighton later in 1838 and by the 1840s had traveled to East Anglia and Northampton Jack became a feature of contemporary popular culture – headlining in several penny dreadfuls and a number of plays and melodramas. ‘Jack’ eventually passed into myth (if he even existed at all) and by the 1950s was appearing in popular comics as a sort of dark vigilante, a caped anti-hero rather similar to Gotham’s Batman.

No one has ever been formally identified at the culprit and the reality may be that there were several ‘Jacks’. For me it is an example of how a growing urban populace retained some of the folk beliefs and ‘monsters’ from their rural past and merged them with the threats posed by the modern city environment. ‘Spring Heel’d Jack’ was embodiment then of the fears of the City at the beginning of Queen Victoria’s reign just as ‘Jack the Ripper’ was to become symbolic of urban degradation towards its end.

[from The Morning Post, Tuesday, March 20, 1838]


Health and safety ‘gone mad’, as a child narrowly avoids being roasted alive

The Great Western Railway

On the 19 March 1873 The Morning Post reported its daily selection of reports from the Metropolitan Police Courts. At Marylebone there was a complicated ‘health and safety’ case (or at least that is how we would probably describe it today). Nowadays these sorts of cases don’t tend to come up before a magistrate, being dealt with elsewhere, but in the 1800s these were part and parcel of a local justice’s workload.

A summons had been taken out by James Henderson, a factory inspector, who was bringing a charge against the Great Western (Railway) company. He was represented in  court  by a barrister, Mr Henderson, while the company was defended by another lawyer, Mr Thesiger. The case was heard by Mr D’Eyncourt.

The fact were briefly restated: a young lad working for the company during the day had:

‘imprudently crept into the fire-box of a [steam] engine, and whilst asleep the fire was lifted by the fireman in ignorance of the poor boy being there’.

Crucially the report doesn’t say  what happened to the ‘poor boy’ but I am assuming he was fine, or this would have been a very different sort of prosecution. As it was Mr Henderson was attempting prosecute under the terms of the Factory Acts while the company’s counsel argued that these acts didn’t cover the railway company’s premises.

As I suggested, the case was complex and turned on a number of key points of law involving the definition of the engine sheds in the context of the Factory legislation. In the end Mr D’Eyncourt ruled that since the work carried out there involved repairs and maintenance to the rolling stock and locomotives owned by the railway, rather than any manufacturing per se, the acts did not apply and so he dismissed the summons.

I think we would all be more interested in the welfare of the boy and how he came to be sleeping in a fire box but the editor clearly thought his readers would prefer to hear the minutiae of a legal debate. What was more interesting (to me at least) was its remark that exactly a year earlier the Marylebone court had been much busier than it was this week in 1873. In March 1872 there had been 49 charges heard on the corresponding day whereas a year later there were just 23.

The paper listed them:

‘Drunk and incapable, 8; drunk and disorderly, 13; drunk and assault, 1; throwing stones, 1’.

All the offenders that were known to the court were fined 26d or sent to prison for seven days. These types of cases were much more typical of the London Police Courts in the 1800s; and thankfully much more typical than cases involving the accidental roasting of children in locomotive sheds.

[from The Morning Post, Wednesday, March 19, 1873]

A father washes his hands of his troublesome daughter as she lets him down yet again


You might have noticed that we’ve been spending a lot of time in 1883 this week. 1883 corresponded exactly with our 2018 calendar so its been interesting to map a week’s progress through the police courts. Marylebone dealt with a central London area of mixed demography; there were wealthy areas south of Regent’s Park but also less well-heeled parts of the capital close in Lisson Grove.

We can see this by looking at Charles Booth’s poverty maps (1888-91) which reveal that while the south east of the parish was strongly marked in red and yellow (signifying wealth), the north west was blue and black. So, as with much of the metropolis we get a variety of people from all social classes coming into the summary court system.

Amelia Lucy Goodall was a juvenile thief. Aged just 16 she was charged with stealing a large array of items and money from her mistress in Paddington. Her employer was Miss Dewar of 16 Spring Street and she testified that Amelia had stolen the following:

‘a sealskin jacket, velvet jacket, silver watch, velvet muff, silk umbrella, silk shirt, £1 14s in money, breaking open a collecting box in aid of the Boys’ Cripples Home containing about £1 and stealing other things’.

It was quite a haul for the teenager and must have shocked the audience listening in the Marylebone Police Court (and those reading about the case in The Standard newspaper the next day).

Amelia had got the job on the strength of a recommendation made by her mother. She has started work at the beginning of January 1883 but ran away on the 8th. The things listed were discovered missing soon after she disappeared.

She must have fled to Southampton because Amelia was arrested and charged there with stealing a silver watch, perhaps by picking a pocket. The magistrates at Southampton sent her to Winchester Gaol for a fortnight and when she was released the police were waiting for her.

Detective-sergeant Crane had been investigating the theft at the Dewars and brought her back to face the music in London. Amelia tried to wriggle out the charge against her, blaming someone else and saying that anyway the charity box only contained  a few coppers, nothing like the pound that Mrs Dewar alleged.

Her parents were in court and all but washed their hands of their child. Mr Goodall said ‘he’d striven to bring up his large family in a respectable manner’,  but admitted that   Amelia had been a constant source of trouble and had been ‘in a Home’ from which she’d also stolen, pawning the goods to get money.

Mr Cooke reprimand the father for not informing Mrs Dewar of the extent of his daughter’s mischief in the past. He remanded Amelia in custody so that further enquiries could be made into her character and actions. The future, it has to be said, didn’t look that bright for the sixteen-year old.

[from The Standard, Friday, March 09, 1883]

A ‘friendly quarrel’ ends in a broken leg and a prosecution for assault


A Drummond Street grocer 

Assault was one of the most common charges to be heard before the Police Courts of nineteenth-century London. Assaults varied however, and the definition in the police handbook allowed for a considerable amount of discretion on the part of the victim, police or the courts. Assault could mean something as minor as a shove or a threat, but it could also involve a real attempt to harm.

Definitions were tightened during the later 1800s and the Offences Against the Person Act (1861) enshrined in law the modern forms of violence that are prosecuted today, such as grievous bodily harm (GBH), actual bodily harm (ABH) and wounding. All of these could be prosecuted at a higher jury court while common assault was routinely dealt with my the magistracy.

A dispute ‘over shillings’ had broken out between Daniel Skelton and Frederick Flint and the pair squared up to each other in Drummond Street. It was about 11 o’clock at night and so perhaps alcohol was involved. Both men divested themselves of their jackets and a so-caleld ‘fair fight’ began.

So far, so good – there was no need for the police or the law to get involved.

‘They had several rounds’ before ‘both men fell’. Flint got up to continue the fight but Skelton was unable to – he had broken his leg in the fall.

The injured man was carried to the nearby University College Hospital while Flint was arrested and taken into custody. The next day Flint was hauled before the magistrate at Marylebone Police Court and charged with the assault.

Flint explained that Skelton was his friend and they had both been ‘the worse for drink’ which had contributed to the squabble. He’d intended no harm however and he’d spoken to Skelton who had accepted that he was as much to blame for his own injury as Flint was. Nevertheless, the court was told that Skelton’s broken leg was serious and he would be laid up for five or six weeks as a result.

If Flint was hoping he would walk away from court without sanction he was to be disappointed. The policeman that arrested him was determined he should face some punishment and told the magistrate that the 25 year-old was not telling the truth and requested a remand until his victim could appear in court to testify. The magistrate agreed but said he was prepared to release Flint if he could find ‘substantial bail’.

[from The Morning Post, Thursday, March 08, 1883]

‘A dangerous imposter’ on Rosslyn Hill spells trouble for DS Fox


The Victorian criminal justice had been developing a much more effective means of keeping records on those that passed through it doors than had been the case in the Georgian period. As a result criminals routinely gave false names to the police and magistrates in the hope that their previous convictions would not dog their footsteps for ever. Being ‘known to the police’ or the courts was dangerous; a magistrate or trial court judge was very likely to hand down a much stiffer sentence if he knew you’d failed to learn your lesson in the past.

I some cases of course the problem ran much deeper and this is particular true in cases of those that committed offences in part because they were suffering from mental illness. The law recognised that mental health was a factor and the principal of acting with ‘diminished responsibility’ had been debated throughout the nineteenth century following a handful of high profile cases that shocked society. In 1863 the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum had opened in 1863 to take those convicted as being guilty but insane.

This would have been too early for John Gough. He had been convicted of ‘assault with intent to murder’ at Exeter Assizes in 1856 and had sentenced to life imprisonment. In 1873 he was freed on a ticket of leave (effectively parole) and had then been admitted (or admitted himself, it is not clear) to a lunatic asylum. Gough must also have moved from the south west to London because in 1883 he turned up at the Marylebone Police Court charged with assaulting a police detective.

Detective Sergeant Fox saw Gough wandering at Rosslyn Hill in Hampstead in late February 1883. Gough looked in serious trouble and was soliciting for charity, as Fox described in court:

‘The prisoner was bandaged about the the head and arms, as though suffering from injuries, and while walking along praying aloud begged for alms of people’.

Begging was illegal and so DS Fox arrested him, only to attacked and verbally abused (with ‘profane language’) by his charge. Back at the station Gough was examined and it was found that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with him; his show of injury was just that, a show. The man was ‘an imposter’ Mr De Rutzen (the magistrate) was told and the police added the information regarding Gough’s previous conviction.

While Gough was clearly suffering from mental illness he had checked out of the asylum in 1877 and hadn’t been in contact with the police either. This was a breach of his release license and this, coupled with the assault on the detective sergeant, earned him a another spell inside. De Rutzen declared Gough was ‘a dangerous man’ and sentenced him to two months at hard labour. It might have bene more sensible to send him to Broadmoor or even to the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum which had opened in 1851 which held over 2000 patients in the 1880s, including (just possibly) a candidate for Jack the Ripper.

[from The Morning Post, Wednesday, March 07, 1883]

‘Everyone’s a critic’: the German band leader at the centre of a row in Blandford Square.


Joseph William Comyns Carr of the Pall Mall Gazette

Most of us will own some device we use to play recorded music on for entertainment. We might use the radio (for classical, jazz or pop), or a CD player. Perhaps today the most people are moving over to streaming music via an internet music library service or from their own collection.

I imagine very few of us would hire a nine piece brass band to perform outside our house once a week before while we enjoyed lunch inside. However this is exactly what Mr Strawbridge, a City stockbroker did ,and it was causing some consternation in the fashionable London square where he lived.

In early March 1883 a German musician and bandleader, Joseph Deuchseherer, was presented before the sitting magistrate at Marylebone on a charge of ‘annoying a gentleman’ by playing music near his home in Blandford Square (home to the writer Wilkie Collins in the late 1840s – as pictured left).blandford_square2

Joseph W. Comyns Carr was a noted art critic and champion of the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. For the past ten years he had worked for the Pall Mall Gazette as their arts correspondent and, according to him, Fridays were the day when he wrote up his articles for the paper. Carr lived at 19 Blindfold Square and Mr Strawbridge lived at number 11, which was situated at right angles to Carr’s. Thus, while the band weren’t direct;y outside the ‘noise’ travelled any upset the critic.

Carr had no objection in principle to the musicians playing, it was just that they were hired to do so at an inconvenient time for him. He had suggested a number of alternative times to his near neighbour but these had been rejected. Moreover that Friday the band had been hired by another household between 10 and 11 so he’d had little or no respite from the music.

Finally, Carr decided enough was enough and went out to ask Deuchseherer to desist. The musician obliged but on consulting with the stockbroker who had engaged their services, they soon started up again. As a result a prosecution was brought and the German found himself before Mr Cooke at Marylebone Police Court.

The case was presented by Strawbridge’s lawyer (he was unable to attend) as one of principle; he felt Mr Carr was intent on having all street music banned. His private secretary appeared to insist that Mr Strawbridge was quite happy to take this case to a higher court to test this principle. He added that:

‘The band was an excellent one, as many of the inhabitants of the square would be glad to testify’.

Mr Cooke agreed that there was an issue to be solved here, whether or not it went further than his own court. He decided to bind the prisoner (Deuchseherer) over on his own recognisances for a week, presumably so that Mr Strawbridge could attend in person. Hopefully then the two gentleman of Blandford Square might be reconciled to each other.

[from The Standard, Saturday, March 03, 1883]

for other examples of street musicians (albeit not large bands like Herr Deuchseherer’s) see the following blog posts:

Fined for disturbing a mathematical genius

A ‘hideous noise’ in the street and early concerns about immigration

Two Italian musicians in a row about a monkey


Libel and crim.con as the ‘better sort’ are dragged through the Police Courts


Sir Albert de Rutzen

Most of those appearing before the police magistrates of London were members of the working class. The vast majority were being prosecuted for all manner of petty and not so petty forms of crime and violence. When the more ‘respectable’ middle classes appeared it was usually as witnesses or victims (although there were plenty of these from the lower order as well – especially women) and the very wealthy rarely feature in the newspapers reports. T

here were exceptions however.

Crime was big news in the Victorian press and the daily ‘doings’ of the police courts are testament to the popularity of this amongst the reading public, of all classes it should be said. Alongside the police court news and the more sensational ‘murder news’ were the reports of adultery served up as scandal for public consumption. ‘Criminal conservation (or ‘crim. con’) cases offered readers a peep into the bedrooms of the rich and famous. This was where the ‘better sorts’ made the pages of the newspapers for reasons they would rather have kept to themselves.

Often linked eventually to divorce, crim.con proceedings were a legal procedure  whereby one man sued another for having an affair with his wife (on the basis that he could claim financial damages, as his wife was his property).

In February 1886 two wealthy individuals appeared at Marylebone Police court represented by their lawyers. Mr St. John Wontner was there to defend his client, Robert Bailey, against a charge of libelling the elaborately entitled Charles V. J. Frieden de Friedland and for assaulting him at the theatre.

The reporter is fairly careful to skirt around the issue at the centre of this case; namely that both men appear to have been having a relationship with the same woman, a woman that neither of them was married to. Her name was Mrs Astay and it isn’t clear whether she was married or a widow.

The magistrate, Sir Albert De Rutzen, was at pains to try and keep any of the details behind the libel accusation  out of his courtroom but, since some evidence had to be offered (so a formal committal could be made),  this was fairly difficult and ultimately impossible.

Prosecuting, Mr Lickfold explained that his client was a member of the Supper Club which had a premises in Paris and at Langham Place in London. Mr de Friedland was staying in London and had been receiving ‘communications’ from Mr Bailey.

These were quite unpleasant and contained ‘threats , and were written in a language quite unfit for publication’. Bailey and de Friedland had then met at the Alhambra in Leicester Square where they had argued.

Bailey had, he alleged:

‘knocked the Complainant’s hat of and abused him. In fact the conduct of the Defendant had been so bad that, unless restrained, the Complainant’s life would be insufferable’.

Wontner now cross-examined and this is where some of the detail that the magistrate presumably wished to keep hidden began to seep out. The readers would be able (as you will be) to fill in the gaps and make a judgement on what de Friedland had been up to and what sort of a man he really was.

De Friesland said he was a director of the Supper Club which was a respectable establishment and not a gaming club (as the lawyer must have suggested). He admitted that ‘baccarat was played there’ but refuted allegations of gambling. He admitted as well to being married, and that his wife lived in Paris but he wasn’t (as was suggested) in the middle of divorce proceedings with her. He also admitted knowing and visiting a ‘Mrs Astay’, but ‘refused to say whether he had been intimate with her’. He added that Bailey had been intimate with the woman, a libel itself if not true.

Mr Lickfold objected to his opposite number’s line of questioning but Wontner contended that his client’s defence in court would be that he was provoked and that he would counter sue de Friedland for libelling him. As such it was necessary to set his stall out at this stage.

The magistrate was not happy with this and told the defence lawyer to keep his defence for the senior court trial. He heard from several witnesses who confirmed seeing the trail of letters and cards sent to the complainant and fully committed Bailey for trial. He then bailed him on his own recognisances of £100 – a considerable sum – demonstrating the wealth associated with these two protagonists.

[from The Standard, Thursday, February 25, 1886]

Sir Albert de Rutzen died in 1913 at the age of 84. An obituary noted ‘his patience and gentleness alike with the highest of criminals and the Suffragettes, with whom he had to deal of late, were remarkable’.