I’m pleased to learn of the publication of Death & Lighthouses on the Great Lakes by Michigan historian Dianna Higgs Stampfler later this month. The first chapter discusses my research into the 1815 murder of Toronto lighthouse keeper John Paul Radelmüller, allegedly by soldiers of the garrison.
Stephen Banks, A Polite Exchange of Bullets: The Duel and the English Gentleman 1750–1850 (Woodbridge, 2010).
Review by Eamonn O’Keeffe
This book is a welcome addition to the literature on duelling. It provides a helpful synopsis of the origins of the practice, stretching back to Renaissance Italy. The volume also examines the diverse motivations and actions of duellists through analysis of a wide array of case studies, a selection of which are helpfully summarized in an appendix.
Refreshingly, Banks takes duelling seriously as a phenomenon. Rather than caricaturing the institution as a bloodthirsty anachronism, he looks past the rhetoric of the Victorian anti-duelling movement to explore the culture of honour that drove men to risk death over seemingly minor slights.
Although he concedes that duelling was relatively rare and confined to an exclusive stratum of society, Banks convincingly argues that the study of this practice provides useful insight into elite social structures and values during a period of significant social and political change. Even though only a small minority of gentlemen duelled, the institution nonetheless played an important part in constructing elite conceptions of masculinity, serving as a social marker differentiating the high-born from the commoner.
Drawing on a database of almost eight hundred duels reported in The Times, along with further encounters documented in selected provincial newspapers, Banks analyzes the incidence of duelling, the social backgrounds of duellists and the geographical spread of these affrays. For instance, he demonstrates that over half of known English duels took place in or around London, with very few occurring in the countryside or in growing industrial cities like Manchester and Birmingham. Interestingly, the bulk of English duels outside the metropolis took place in port cities where army and naval officers – an occupational class especially prone to duelling – were most likely to be stationed.
Banks provides fascinating insight into the hitherto under-researched responsibilities of the seconds, charting how their role evolved over the course of the eighteenth century from that of retainers who often joined in the fight themselves to intermediaries who tried to resolve disputes amicably. Banks also convincingly demonstrates the divergence between the de jure and de facto treatment of duelling under the law. While duelling had always been illegal, most duellists who killed their opponents could expect leniency in court. Many (though not all) judges were complicit in the tacit societal acceptance of this often-deadly institution. Juries typically acquitted defendants as long as the duel was deemed to have been conducted fairly according to the prevailing code of honour.
With the exception of brief forays to British colonies, Banks primarily focuses on England, paying scant attention to Ireland and Scotland. However, he does provide instructive comparisons to duelling in France and Germany, arguing that the nineteenth-century bourgeois embrace of duelling on the Continent gave new life to the institution. This stands in pointed contrast to Antony Simpson’s argument that the increasing participation of the middle classes in duelling and honour culture in England undermined and devalued this time-honoured ritual in the eyes of the aristocracy, precipitating duelling’s Victorian-era demise.
Indeed, Banks challenges Simpson’s influential thesis, contending based on his dataset of known affrays that the social status of duellists did not decline significantly during the nineteenth century. The temporary flirtations of socially aspirant surgeons and lawyers excepted, Banks suggests that the middle classes in England never embraced duelling. He further argues that Victorian public discourse contains little evidence of any widespread concern that the ‘aristocratic’ institution of duelling was being subverted by bourgeois parvenus.
Banks charts the increasing condemnation and public ridicule of duellists in the nineteenth century, but refuses to attribute the practice’s demise to any single factor. The evangelical revival and the rise of middle class values emphasizing self-restraint over public displays of courage may indeed have turned gentlemen against duelling. Further, Banks suggests that an invigorated culture of professionalism in the armed forces, prioritizing discipline and collective military aims over individual honour, may have helped discourage the practice amongst military men. He also asserts in the closing pages of the book that a crisis of confidence amongst the English elite, shaken by the French Revolution and social unrest, hastened the demise of duelling. This argument seems plausible and may well have merit, but would have been more convincing had Banks marshalled more direct evidence.
While his research is unquestionably impressive, Banks could have done more to document duelling in the armed forces – widely acknowledged as the strongest bastions of the custom by the early nineteenth century. Banks draws on the diary of Colonel Bayley of the 12th Foot, a helpful source with several relevant examples, but unfortunately did not cast his net much wider even though scores of Napoleonic-era military memoirs, sprinkled with discussions of duelling, are now readily available online. Looking beyond often terse newspaper reports, he also might have consulted the courts-martial records for duelling officers held in the UK National Archives to enhance his analysis of encounters between military men. That said, given the state of the field, this book probably offers the best account of British military duelling published to date, and Banks’ analysis of the military’s honour culture is always astute.
In sum, Stephen Banks’ monograph is a commendable and insightful study – the most comprehensive analysis of English duelling published to date.
In the summer of 2019, I visited Chetham’s Library in Manchester and consulted the manuscript memoirs of James Weatherley, a local bookseller. Among other useful references, I was delighted to encounter a grotesque story about a drummer and Waterloo veteran.
On his first visit to London in November 1821, Weatherley attended a public hanging of eight convicts at the Old Bailey. As he relates, ‘I stood there some time after the drop fell…Old Jack Ketch [the executioner] came on the scaffold bringing a man and woman with him. The woman pulled of[f] her shawl and stood close to one of the bodys. Jack Ketch took hold of one of the dead man’s hands and rubbed the woman’s neck with it up and down several times. She then put on her shawl and turning round to go, I saw both of their faces. I was quite surprised to see two of the Manchester market stall keepers, old neighbours of mine in the market. It was Jem Hallewell and his wife. They had a stall opposite the Exchange. Mary his wife had a large wen [boil or other swelling on the skin] on her neck and they had been advised to go to London to have her neck rubbed with a man’s hand that had been hung, it was to take it away by a charm. They were both very superstitious but they might as well have rubbed it with a duck’s foot in Manchester. Jem told me they had given Jack Ketch 10/- [10 shillings] for the job. Jem had been a drummer in the 33rd Foot and was at Waterloo…Jem had lost one hand and three fingers of the other. He was druming [sic] when a shot took his hands. He said that he kept druming [sic] a minute or two after his hands and drum sticks were gone, he was not aware of his loss for a short time there was such a noise and the shock so sudden.’
Recourse to digitized military discharge records on FindMyPast reveals that James Hallowell or Hallewell, a Lancashire native and a weaver by trade, had served in the 33rd Foot from October 1810 to February 1816. He spent 2 years and 227 days as drummer, ranking as a private for the remainder. The records broadly corroborate Weatherley’s account of his battlefield injuries: Hallewell was discharged aged nineteen or twenty due to the ‘loss of left hand, & thumb of right hand, occasioned by a gun shot wound received at Waterloo’ on 18 June 1815. Described as ‘a very bad case’ on account of his injuries, Hallewell was awarded a large pension of two shillings and six pence a day.
The behaviour of Hallewell and his wife on the scaffold may seem more in keeping with ancient or medieval superstition but in fact reflected a folk medical practice that remained popular in the Georgian era. As Owen Davies and Francesca Matteoni wrote in a 2015 article for the Social History of Medicine journal: ‘From the eighteenth century through to the abolition of public executions in England in 1868, the touch of a freshly hanged man’s hand was sought after to cure a variety of swellings, wens in particular.’
Jem Hallewell’s claim that he had been injured while drumming provides rare evidence of British drummers beating at Waterloo, although what he was playing, and in what circumstances, is not specified. While a surgeon of the Life Guards heard ‘the drums of different regiments beating along the line’ on the morning of 18 June before the battle commenced, drummers do not generally seem to have communicated commands under fire, in contrast to light infantry buglers and cavalry trumpeters. One officer present noted that British drummers no longer rolled during charges. Instead, they were tasked with assisting the wounded. Another infantryman wrote that neither drum nor fife ‘mock[ed] us with useless din’ during the battle, adding that gunfire, groans and cheering were the true ‘music of the field’.
Chetham’s Library, Manuscripts/1/371, ‘Recollections…by James Weatherley’, pp.34-35
UK National Archives, WO97/512/8, discharge of James Hallowell.
J. Anton, Retrospect of a Military Life (Edinburgh, 1841), p.211.
[H. Ross-Lewin], The Life of a Soldier: A Narrative of Twenty-Seven Years’ Service in various parts of the world (3 vols, London, 1834), vol. ii, p.198.
J. Vansittart (ed.), Surgeon James’s Journal (London, 1964), p.31.
O. Davies and F. Matteoni, ‘”A virtue beyond all medicine”: The Hanged Man’s Hand, Gallows Tradition and Healing in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-century England’, Social History of Medicine, 28/4 (November 2015), pp.686-705.
Last night I appeared on ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’, the hit genealogy series on BBC One, speaking with English singer-songwriter Pixie Lott about Victorian military musicians in her family tree. I highlighted the significance of regimental bands as a social amenity in garrison towns and a major employer of professional musicians. An episode synopsis can be found here. Filming was completed at Aldershot Military Museum in June.
The programme is now available to view in the UK on-demand via BBC iPlayer.
I previously appeared on ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ in 2019, conversing with Kate Winslet about her ancestor, a drummer in the Grenadier Guards. A clip from that episode has been made available on YouTube.
This post is a sobering illustration of how readily fiction can become entrenched as accepted fact, through a process of historiographical ‘Chinese whispers’ or ‘broken telephone’.
In late August, the ‘Colonial Countryside’ project, an initiative that partners with the National Trust to facilitate discussion of colonial history, called for public interpretations of the Duke of Wellington to give more prominence to his early military service in India. In support of this reasonable suggestion, it shared a claim that the future Lord Wellington had celebrated the death of Tipu Sultan, slain during the British storming of Seringapatam (Srirangapatna) in 1799, with a contemptuous toast: ‘Ladies & gentlemen, I drink to the corpse of India.’ The anecdote was reiterated on social media by the project’s leader, Professor Corinne Fowler, as a means of emphasizing Wellington’s involvement in the British subjugation of the Indian subcontinent.
Having never encountered this quotation before, I searched for it online, and soon found that the remark is mentioned on page 354 of William Dalrymple’s The Anarchy: The Relentless Rise of the East India Company. It is also used as the title of a chapter in this prizewinning 2019 book. I noticed, however, that Dalrymple attributed the toast to Richard Wellesley, Lord Mornington, the Governor-General of India, rather than his younger brother Arthur, the colonel of the 33rd Regiment of Foot and the future Duke of Wellington. Further investigation revealed that no other sources attributed the line to Arthur; it transpired that an individual had read Dalrymple’s reference to ‘Wellesley’ and failed to appreciate that more than one Wellesley brother was in India in 1799. I pointed out the mistaken attribution to Professor Fowler, along with the erroneous claim that the future Duke of Wellington ‘oversaw’ the assault on Tipu’s stronghold. The social media posts were consequently deleted.
There was, however, a good deal more to the story. While investigating the origin of the ‘corpse of India’ comment, I had been disconcerted by the fact that relatively few reliable accounts seemed to mention the toast. It was quoted in the Journal of the Pakistan History Society in 1983 and the 2010 edition of India First by K. R. Malkani, but neither provided a source. Dalrymple did include a citation, albeit to another secondary work: page 39 of Abdus Subhan’s chapter ‘Tipu Sultan: India’s Freedom-Fighter par Excellence’ in A. Ray (ed) Tipu Sultan and his Age: A Collection of Seminar Papers (Kolkata, 2002).
Encouraged by several friends who were curious about the origins of and context for the remark, I consulted the book at the Bodleian Library. I discovered that, while Subhan did indeed mention the anecdote, the author failed to give a source (see below).
In fact, the only work I could find which furnished a reference for Mornington’s ostensible ‘corpse of India’ comment was Kabir Kausar’s Secret Correspondence of Tipu Sultan (New Delhi, 1980), available on Archive.org. On page 33, Kausar presented the episode as fact and cited The Sword of Tipu Sultan by B.S. Gidwani.
Yet Gidwani’s bestselling book, first published in 1976 and subsequently adapted for Indian television, was subtitled A Historical Novel about the Life and Legend of Tipu Sultan of India. Gidwani described his extensive research into Tipu Sultan’s life and times in the author’s note but unambiguously identified his book as a work of historical fiction, complete with ‘imaginative judgements’ and ‘invented’ dialogue intended to fill out his characterization of the Tiger of Mysore. I searched the 2015 edition on Amazon Preview and discovered that the ‘corpse of India’ toast was the final line in the novel.
Despite considerable sleuthing, I have not been able to find any references to such a toast prior to 1976. While I would be happy to stand corrected, it seems clear that the comment originated with Gidwani and was heedlessly copied by scholars who either did not recognise or did not bother to identify its fictional genesis. The toast’s allegorical nature was certainly not lost on critics of the novel, including a 2005 reviewer in the Indian Journal of English Language Teaching, who understood the quip as a ‘metaphorical proclamation’ illustrative of Gidwani’s authorial imagination rather than a bona fide exclamation by the historical Mornington.
The evolution of the ‘corpse of India’ anecdote from invented scene to accepted historical truth is a classic case of what Randall Munroe, creator of the xkcd comic series, has termed ‘citogenesis’. A false claim, mentioned in and repeated by ‘reliable’ sources such as books and media articles, all too easily becomes established as fact.
Needless to say, I am not writing this post to criticize either the ‘Colonial Countryside’ project nor William Dalrymple. The former’s valuable work has often been unfairly smeared and the latter is a fine historian. I have read The Anarchy and you should too – it is a magnificent and accessible survey which deserves the ample praise it has received. No book is free from errors; I am sure mine won’t be. Dalrymple was, it should be remembered, relying on a published chapter authored by an academic – something most laypeople would consider the very definition of a dependable source.
When I shared my findings, William Dalrymple responded with grace, thanking me and and adding: ‘I rarely cite secondary sources for quotations and this is a very good illustration of why one should be very careful when doing so.’
As a PhD student presently occupied with drafting my thesis, I am fully cognizant of the fact that it is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to trace every scrap of evidence back to its origins, even with all the wonders of the digital revolution. Historians must inevitably rely to a greater or lesser degree upon the work of others. I consider this story a lesson in humility (There but for the grace of God…) rather than a reason for smugness. That said, it is important to verify sources wherever practicable, cite them properly, and treat unreferenced anecdotes and assertions, especially quotations that seem too good to be true, with due skepticism.
On reflection, it is not entirely surprising that the quip has been so widely parroted. The toast seems to perfectly encapsulate the arrogance and genuine rapacity of the conquerors of India. It also dovetails with a popular South Asian perception of Tipu Sultan as ‘the first among modern Indian nationalists’, to borrow a phrase from the back cover of the 2015 edition of Gidwani’s novel. The fictional anecdote’s invocation as historical evidence unfortunately reinforces this interpretation – criticized as anachronistic by the Indian-born American historian Narasingha Sil – by casting Tipu as the embodiment of India who led a doomed last stand against the British.
As public and academic debates about Wellington, Mornington and colonialism continue, I fully expect that the ‘corpse of India’ anecdote will be trotted out by well-intentioned individuals unaware of its backstory for many years to come. Yet I hope that, by laying out the origins of the remark in this blog post, I will have prevented its wholesale acceptance as fact.
The journey of the ‘corpse of India’ red herring and the phenomenon of citogenesis more broadly are disturbing reminders of the fragility of truth and the historical record. They prompt us to recognize that misinformation can be spread not only by demagogues, pranksters and conspiracy-mongers but also by people acting in good faith. Once accepted and echoed by mainstream sources, false or exaggerated claims are often exceedingly difficult to debunk. A far-fetched origin story for the Amelia Bedelia books, an American children’s series, for instance, was even believed and repeated in an interview by the author’s own nephew! To choose another example, readers of the Washington Post learned in 2018 that nineteenth-century Toronto, Canada, was widely known as ‘Methodist Rome’ on account of the prevalence of Protestant nonconformity and strait-laced morals, an anecdote allegedly mentioned in ‘all the tour books’. This unfounded piece of trivia had in fact been popularized by an unreferenced Wikipedia article created fourteen years earlier.
Readers interested in learning more about ‘citogenesis’ can peruse a list of further cases on (where else?) Wikipedia.
Eamonn O’Keeffe, September 2021
Featured image: ‘The Assault and taking of Seringapatam, 1799’; Coloured aquatint c1800 by Laminet after H Singleton. National Army Museum, Accession Number 1971-02-33-385-1
The 1815 murder of J.P. Radelmüller, lighthouse keeper and servant of royalty, forms the basis of one of Canada’s most famous ghost stories. My 2015 research on the case was featured in the 8 August 2021 edition of the Toronto Star, Canada’s largest circulation newspaper.
Reporter Peter Edwards describes the tall tales surrounding the lighthouse and my efforts to distinguish fact from fiction. The story is available on the Star’s website here.
On 24 June at 2pm EDT (7pm in UK/ROI) I will be giving a lecture for the Ontario Genealogical Society (Toronto Branch) on the 1815 demise of J.P. Radelmüller, royal servant and lighthouse keeper. His death, allegedly at the hands of soldiers, forms the basis of a famous Canadian ghost story. The talk is based on my past research on the case, which was nominated for the 2016 Heritage Toronto Awards and can be found elsewhere on this website.
Those interested may register for the talk, part of a four-part speaker series entitled ‘Unusual Lives’, by clicking the following link: https://torontofamilyhistory.org/unusual-lives-online/
A recording of the lecture, along with recordings of the other talks in the series, will be available to paid registrants until July 31, 2021.
See below for the lecture synopsis:
June 24, 2:00 pm EDT: The 1815 Murder behind Toronto’s Oldest Ghost Story – Eamonn O’Keeffe
The 1815 murder of J.P. Radelmüller, keeper of the Gibraltar Point Lighthouse, forms the basis of Toronto’s most enduring ghost story. In this webinar, historian Eamonn O’Keeffe will share his research into the case, separating fact from fable. He will explore Radelmüller’s early life as a servant of royalty, consider the circumstances of his untimely death, and identify the soldiers charged with his murder. The webinar will devote extensive attention to the sources used to discern the truth behind one of Toronto’s oldest mysteries, ranging from court records and newspapers to British military muster rolls. By sharing his research methods, Eamonn will provide insight for genealogists and historians interested in researching the inhabitants of colonial York and life in early-19th-century Upper Canada more generally.
Speaker: Eamonn O’Keeffe, a Toronto native, is undertaking a PhD at the University of Oxford on military musicians during the Napoleonic Wars. He has published several academic articles and appeared as an expert on the BBC’s hit family history show “Who Do You Think You Are?” Eamonn has served as a trustee of the Society for Army Historical Research since 2016 and previously spent eleven years volunteering and working at Fort York in Toronto.
On Saturday 27 February I gave a presentation as part of the Heritage Days 2021 History Symposium. For those unable to attend the (virtual) proceedings, a recording of my talk, which explores honour, hierarchy and discipline among British army officers during the era of the Napoleonic Wars, is now available on YouTube.
Siblings or Subordinates? Brotherhood, Hierarchy, and Discipline among Napoleonic-era British Army Officers
Although a regiment’s officer corps indeed formed an ‘exclusive club with its own distinct values’, Napoleonic-era martial masculinity was profoundly indebted to the social milieu in which most officers were bred. Gentility and politeness were considered essential for military leadership, enhancing discipline and social harmony, while preoccupation with personal honour promoted battlefield bravery. However, if some aspects of civilian elite masculinity proved germane to army life, other doctrines imported from wider society threatened military discipline. The civilian credo of manly autonomy, encouraged by a mess-room culture of fraternal camaraderie, fomented resentment of soldierly subservience, while duelling, socially expected among gentlemen, imperilled military authority and cohesion. Officers were obliged to negotiate the competing conduct codes of law, honour and martial subordination, with the limits of mess-room brotherhood and hierarchical obedience often contested and ill-defined. Was it acceptable, for instance, to challenge superiors to duel? Did rank still apply at mess? While military authorities insisted on absolute subordination, junior officers championed a vision of regimental social relations instead defined by fraternal egalitarianism. To the frustration of their commanding officers, subalterns often considered the mess a space of brotherly comradeship free from hierarchical trammels and regularly asserted their right to overrule superiors at collective meetings and courts-martial. Exploration of these contemporary points of conflict reveals both the tensions implicit within early nineteenth-century military masculinity and the influence of civilian elite culture on mess-room life.
Click on this link to view the presentation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ft6r0_yFaM
This Valentine’s Day, I’m very pleased to share a new publication, “‘A natural passion?’: The 1810 reflections of a Yorkshire farmer on homosexuality”. It considers a diary entry by Matthew Tomlinson which made the news last year and appears in the journal Historical Research.
The article can be accessed via this link but requires a subscription. However, I am able and willing to share a PDF with anyone who wants a copy via email.
My research on Tomlinson’s diary entry has been a diversion from the main thrust of my PhD studies into military music, albeit a very fruitful one. I hope specialists in the history of sexuality find the resulting article stimulating and useful.
I gratefully acknowledge the Arts and Humanities Research Council for funding the doctoral research which led to this discovery. I thank Rictor Norton for his advice and encouragement as well as my supervisors Erica Charters and Bob Harris, Matt Pickles at the Oxford University Press Office and the staff at Wakefield Library, especially Claire Pickering. I am also grateful to Helen Craske, Fara Dabhoiwala, Matthew Grimley, Joanna Innes, Gerard Killoran, Seth LeJacq and the two anonymous reviewers of the article for their suggestions and contributions.
The military was the largest single employer of professional musicians in late Georgian Britain and Ireland by a country mile. The armed forces considerably expanded opportunities for men and boys to acquire musical skills and, as Trevor Herbert and Helen Barlow have argued, stimulated innovations in instrument design.1
Instruments popularized by military musicians were widely employed in the amateur wind and later brass bands which proliferated in the decades after Waterloo, often comprised of working-class men under the direction of old soldiers. But the impact of military music-making on wider musical culture can also be discerned in more unexpected contexts – including the world of stagecoach transport.
Red-coated coach guards had traditionally blown tin post horns to announce their arrival at inns or toll-gates, producing (according to one army officer) an unmelodious and ‘intolerable blast’.2 But these unsophisticated instruments were frequently cast aside in the post-war years in favour of the keyed bugle, which had been patented in 1810 by Joseph Haliday, the master of the band of the Cavan Militia, and rapidly adopted by myriad regimental ensembles thereafter.3 The keyed bugle boasted not only the requisite audibility but (unlike the ordinary bugle) a full chromatic range, allowing guards to entertain travellers with lively melodies on tedious journeys and thereby secure generous gratuities.4 Although musical competence among coachmen varied widely, able performers achieved considerable renown along their routes, drawing eager listeners ‘to the windows and doors of their houses’ as they played their way through the countryside.5 Musically-inclined coach guards were also acutely audible in late Georgian cityscapes, participating in civic processions and entertaining ‘very numerous’ audiences outside inns while waiting to depart. The London artisan and social reformer Francis Place, for example, described several guards joining in waltzes and ‘fashionable airs’ from their respective vehicles around Charing Cross on a sunny summer morning in 1827.6 Accomplished performances on the keyed bugle were an advertised selling point on some services, with knowledge of the instrument becoming a common job requirement for coach guards.7
Unsurprisingly, some of these musically-trained transport workers had honed their skills in the military. One coach guard, who ‘always attracted much attention’ by blowing his bugle through central Manchester, had previously served as a musician in the Grenadier Guards.8 Indeed, the keyed bugle craze among coachmen owed much to the enterprise of an old soldier, Joseph Greenhill, a London-based teacher and maker of the keyed bugle. Formerly the bugle-major of the Shropshire Militia and a virtuoso performer in his own right, Greenhill was reportedly the first to introduce Haliday’s new-fangled horns on coaching services. Having aggressively developed the market and manufactured thousands of bugles, he enjoyed a roaring trade catering to coach guards until his death in 1836.9
The coming of the railways undermined the coaching industry soon after, while new valved brass systems imported from the Continent, adopted and publicized by regimental bands and ex-servicemen such as John Distin, rendered Haliday’s instrument obsolete by the 1840s. Yet the cheery bugle solos of passing coachmen elicited considerable nostalgia from Victorian writers, and were even credited by one commentator in 1853 with better attuning ‘the ears of the masses’ to the correct musical scales.10 As the keyed bugle’s ubiquity in the coaching trade suggests, the technologies, repertoires and musical forms developed or inspired by martial musicians and armed conflict – from the brass band to the battle piece – were embraced and reimagined by civilians in contexts as disparate as radical political rallies and fashionable drawing rooms. The entrepreneurial spirit of Joseph Greenhill, moreover, was by no means atypical of discharged regimental bandsmen in the post-war decades. These men moved between civilian and military spheres with relative ease, carving out varied careers as street performers, amateur band leaders and retailers, developing controversial piano teaching methods and even making their mark as opera singers on the London stage. In music as in so many other areas, war and culture were intertwined: state and elite investment in military ensembles, combined with the ingenuity of individual ‘musical warriors’, spawned technological innovation and helped stimulate the nineteenth-century expansion of popular music-making.
Listen to a keyed bugle made by Joseph Greenhill, now held in the University of Edinburgh’s Musical Instrument Collection, in the video below:
Images: ‘North Country Mails at the Peacock, Islington’ by James Pollard, 1821 and ‘The Birmingham Tally-Ho! Coaches Passing the Crown at Holloway’, 1828 (Yale Center for British Art)
1 T. Herbert and H. Barlow, Music and the British Military in the Long Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 2013), p.85. Wartime coachmen had occasionally experimented with more sonorous alternatives, not always with felicitous results: a guard on the Derry mail coach in 1810 delighted passengers by playing the clarinet but was thrown from the roof and killed instantly. See J. Gamble, Society and Manners in Early Nineteenth-Century Ireland, ed. B. Mac Suibhne (Dublin, 2011), p.179.
2 Journal of an Officer in the King’s German Legion… (London, 1827), p.41.
3 R.T. Dudgeon, The Keyed Bugle, 2nd edn (Lanham, MD, 2004), pp.14-16; J.B. Logier, Logier’s Introduction to the Art of Playing on the Royal Kent Bugle (Dublin, ), p.5.
4 Dudgeon, The Keyed Bugle, p.34; Morning Post, 27 September 1825; United Service Journal (February 1837), p.198.
5 [H.E.] Malet, Annals of the Road or Notes on Mail and Stage Coaching in Great Britain (London, 1876), p.44; J. Cossins, Reminiscences of Exeter fifty years since (Exeter, 1877), p.54.
6 F.E. Witts, The Complete Diary of a Cotswold Parson: The Diaries of the Revd Francis Edward Witts, ed. A. Sutton (10 vols, Chalford, 2008), vol. iv, p.188; Malet, Annals of the Road, p.41; United Service Journal (May 1837), p.70; British Library, Add MS 27828, Francis Place: Collections on manners and morals, vol. iv, 25 July 1827, p.7.
7 Western Times, 13 August 1842; Bell’s Life in London and Sporting Chronicle, 31 January 1836; Freeman’s Journal, 5 May 1836.
8 J.T. Slugg, Reminiscences of Manchester Fifty Years Ago (Manchester, 1881), pp.212-213.
9 D. Lasocki, ‘New Light on the Early History of the Keyed Bugle, Part 2: More on England and Ireland; The United States’, Historic Brass Society Journal, 22 (2010) pp.22-23; Morning Advertiser, 16 August 1827; Bell’s Life, 31 January 1836; Morning Advertiser, 2 April 1836.
10 Musical Times, 1 March 1853, p.149; C.T.S. Birch Reynardson, ‘Down the Road’, or, Reminiscences of a Gentleman Coachman, 2nd edn (London, 1875), p.208.