The Hall Green Tragedy Part 2: Scandal at the Undertaker’s

This is part two of my retelling of the Hall Green Tragedy of 1895. For part one, see here.

It was not until the day after the deaths that the bodies were identified, after police found an address in Edward’s pocket.

His wife was brought to formally identify the bodies as those of her husband and her eldest daughter by her first husband. It was noted that ‘the distress and horror of the poor woman were most painful to witness’.

The Mermaid Inn in Sparkhill. Photo by Oosoom.

Carrie’s body was initially taken to the local pub, the Mermaid Inn, on Stratford Road, but later, both her body and that of Edward Birch were removed to the undertakers. Here, scandal ensued.

The undertaker unscrupulously allowed spectators to view the bodies on payment of a penny each admission fee.

The result was that his premises were ‘crowded with morbid sightseers’ all weekend, with women seen shaking their fists in Edward Birch’s dead face and shouting ‘May you go straight to hell!’.

The negative publicity this resulted in led to the undertaker promising to donate all money paid to Mrs Birch, but this did not lessen the views of other locals that this had been an ‘unedifying’, ‘repulsive’, spectacle.

Carrie’s inquest was held first, at the Mermaid Inn, with AH Hebbert, deputy coroner for North Worcestershire, presiding. Here, the verdict of wilful murder against Edward Birch was recorded, despite the couple appearing to have made a pact together to die.

The deputy coroner summed up by saying, ‘the extraordinary part of the case was that the girl consented to die’ but that if two persons agreed to kill themselves, but one of them survived, the survivor would be guilty of murder.

The jury expressed ‘strong dissatisfaction’ with how the bodies had been ‘housed’ – and the subsequent scandal – and ‘hoped it would not be long before a proper police-station, mortuary and ambulance’ was provided in Sparkhill.

Meanwhile, a search had been carried out in the family home, and police found several letters written by Birch. One read:

“E Birch, 59 Upper Highgate Street, Highgate, Birmingham. Nov 8^th 1894. This is to shew that I will not be bested I worned her 12 mounths ago she dou in May 5^th 1894 what she ourt not to… she as deceived me agin & when I get in drink it plays on my mind and I make the best of myself Ive taken her out & to places of amusement and then she will be after the men & in September last I give hir lef to go Sunday school and church if she be in by 9 and then she goes of with to fellers in the Ram till after 10 at night round the Mosley fields coaved with muck and paint… She is not my own child and this is the reason when I tell hir about it the mouther takes hir part and incurges hir in it. So this is the end of it.”

The next letter, sent to his parents in Wolverhampton on 5 January, stated:

“Dont put yourself about me of what you see and hear, I care for nothing as they ave brought it all on themselves. Emmer knows what I sed about genney when I was out of work being with that grieves till 1 o’clock in the morning as I keept from starving so long in 1893. So this makes to I have to keep of other mens kids and Calley is as bad…and have soon put her in trouble and this is the way out of it the Job is worse for me than hir as I shall go throw the same and no it tell the fokes to have mutch to say of this afair on either sides to envest into ther own life and they will no dout find soom black spots that will take a robbing out.”

The Victoria Law Courts, by Tony Hisgett

An inquest on Edward Birch was held on 15 January at the Victoria Courts in Birmingham, before city coroner Oliver Pemberton. Here, Mrs Birch repeated the evidence that she had given at her daughter’s inquest, detailing the ‘painful relationship’ between her relatives.

At a small china teacup, which had the words ‘A present from Birmingham’ inscribed in gold round it, being produced, she burst into sobs – ‘it was given to me by my daughter on my 32^nd birthday.’

Carrie’s younger sister Lilly, then aged around eight, then had to give evidence, followed by two of Birch’s colleagues at Messrs Lowe’s iron foundry in Upper Trinity Street. They noted that although quiet and intelligent as a worker, he was something of a drinker, and had been summoned before the courts recently for not sending one of his children to school.

The coroner stated that the dead man had ‘turned from the conduct of the parent and behaved in a manner almost impossible to describe.’ He went further; Birch was a ‘profoundly wicked man’, and he encouraged the jury to return a verdict of felo de se – that Birch had ‘feloniously, wilfully, and of malice aforethought did kill and murder himself’. The jury duly did so.

The funeral of Carrie Jones took place at Yardley Cemetery on the Monday morning. The funeral procession left her mother’s house at 59 Upper Highgate Street at 9.30am with the service taking place at 11am.

How did Mrs Birch cope with this double betrayal by her husband and daughter, followed by the double deaths and the publicity the events received?

Understandably, the press reported that she was ‘utterly prostrated, both mentally and physically’, to the extent of being unable to maintain either herself or her six other children, the youngest being only a few months old. In her lowest moments, but the community did not stigmatise her, instead rallying around her.

The jury had stated at Birch’s inquest that they expressed ‘deep sympathy’ for Mrs Birch, and collected money for her from each of the jurors at the end of the inquest. The coroner encouraged all the onlookers at the court to do the same.

Joseph Lock was appointed by the community to collect money on behalf of the Birch family, writing in the press that ‘any sums, however small’ would be welcome to help maintain the family as it would be ‘weeks, probably months’ before Mrs Birch was able to resume family life.

Another man, William L Sheffield, responded in the press that ‘the unfortunate woman Mrs Birch deserves some little help, and I shall be happy to contribute’, and others sent postal orders directly to the newspapers, asking for them to be forwarded on.

Selina Birch survived the ordeal, although life continued to be tough for her. She stayed in the Upper Highgate Street area for the next decade.

She worked as a laundress to maintain her children, and seems to have had at least two illegitimate children following Edward’s death – Jessie was born in 1898 and Lizzie in 1906.

In 1911, living at 6 Beales Buildings, Frank Street, in Balsall Heath, she stated that she was a widow with nine children, of whom two had died.

Significantly, though, despite being a widow, she wrote that her ‘present marriage’ had so far lasted 30 years, suggesting that she still saw Edward Birch very much as her husband.

Selina J Birch died in Birmingham in 1939, shortly before the start of the Second World War, aged 79 – having long outlived her unfaithful husband and naïve daughter.

Sources: 

The Standard, 9 January 1895, p.3; Nottinghamshire Guardian, 12 January 1895, p.8; Birmingham Daily Post, 12 January 1895; The Derby Mercury, 16 Jan 1895; Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper, 20 January 1895; Ancestry, The Genealogist.

The Ullingswick Murder, Part Three: How the press reported Mary Corbett’s murder

The third part of my series on the Ullingswick Murder of 1862. Catch up with Parts One and Two by clicking the links.

Entry for Mary Corbett in the 1861 census for Ullingswick, via Ancestry.

The coverage of Mary Corbett’s death in the newspapers was unusual in one respect – the media all focused on her reputation as a ‘well conducted, modest young woman’. This was unusual because Mary came from a background that Victorian England disapproved of – she was an illegitimate child, one of five, drawn from the rural labouring class.

As far as I have been able to work out, Mary was probably the illegitimate daughter of Jane Corbett, variously described as an agricultural labourer and a servant, presumably meaning she was an agricultural servant.

She had been born when her mother was between 15 and 18 years old (Jane was baptised on 27 May 1832, but in the census returns is listed as being born between 1829 and 1832).

Jane was, in turn, the daughter of a mason’s labourer, Richard, and his wife Sarah. In 1851, Jane and her father, sibling and 6 month old son had all been paupers living in the Bromyard Union Workhouse. In 1861, Mary was living with her family at Stone House, Ullingswick.

Her family are recorded in a way to make them ‘respectable’ in the census; Sarah Corbett, a 66 year old widow, is listed as the mother of Elizabeth and Jane, aged 35 and 32 – but also mother of 14 year old Mary – with Jane’s other four children – Elizabeth, Emma, Vincent and Fanny, aged between 2 and 12 – listed as grandchildren.

By 1871, Jane was back in the workhouse, together with her 12 year old son Vincent and a younger child, eight year old Eliza.

Yet despite this very humble background, Mary was seen as a good girl, and a rarity – a loyal, hard-working servant, who instilled the compassion and respect of her employers.

Berrow’s Worcester Journal, reporting the trial, noted that “the atrocity of the crime caused great excitement throughout the county of Hereford at the time, which, judging from the crowded state of the court this morning, has not yet subsided.”

Part of this excitement was reflected in the press coverage. The violent sexual death of a pretty 16 year old girl; the offence allegedly committed by a prior offender, who met the Victorian stereotype of the callous labouring class man whose previous criminal convictions should have led to hanging rather than a transportation from which he could return and commit new offences; the bucolic rural setting – all helped make this a story that the newspapers could sell their copies on.

The innocuous nature of Mary Corbett’s errand that October evening – an innocent trip to buy candles that led to her death, and the fact that she had only walked yards to a local shop yet did not return – added to the drama of the story.

There was a reluctance from the press to report the details of Mary’s post-mortem, and this continued at the trial. The detailed evidence of rape was glossed over, apart from the fact that there was bruising to the right side of Mary’s groin.

Dr Bull, who carried out the post mortem, had found evidence of a violent rape on Mary’s body, but Berrow’s Worcester Journal simply commented that ‘The doctor then detailed the appearances presented by other parts of the body, from which it was evident that violation with much violence had taken place.’

Apparently, it was alright for Victorian readers to learn about Mary’s struggle with her attacker, and the exact mode of death – but sexual violence had to be glossed over.

As was usual with press reports of deaths, some details were wrong or the result of Chinese whispers, with some reports naming William Hope as his brother George, and others reporting that Mary had been strangled, not suffocated.

But Mary’s death – and the subsequent trial of William Hope – was also news because it was unusual. It was noted by the Bristol Mercury that it had been some 30 years since the last execution in Hereford. In that case, too, in 1832, a man – named Gammond – had been hanged after raping a young girl.

The fact that Hereford rarely saw offences that resulted in executions was newsworthy in itself – the city papers stressing the rural, bucolic nature of the county. Added to this was the fact that at this time, the Royal Commission on Capital Punishment had been established, and two years later would recommend the end of public hangings.

The last public hanging took place in 1868, six years after Mary’s death. The debate as to whether public hangings were an educational experience for onlookers, or simply a form of entertainment, is evident in some of the press coverage about this case. It was noted after Mary’s killer was hanged that:

‘the conduct of the occupants of the houses opposite the place of execution deserves a passing word of praise. They either went from home or closed their houses, neither viewing themselves nor permitting others to view the execution from their premises.’ [Bristol Mercury, 18 April 1863]

It can be seen, then, that Mary’s murder was a chance for various issues to be explored in the press – and that it also demonstrate how the Victorian press reported violent crimes, depicting such events as a simplistic fight between good and evil and choosing the facts that best suited their chosen narrative.

Part Four of the Ullingswick Murder: The Criminality of William Hope, will be published tomorrow.

The Ullingswick Murder, Part Two: Local policing, forensics and the discovery of the body

Part Two of my series this week on a notorious 1862 murder. Catch up with part one here.

Victorian policeman, by Antony McCallum

The next morning, a thatcher, William Weaver, who lived in Ullingswick with George Hope, William Hope’s brother, woke up at his usual time of 7am, to find it raining heavily. He went into the garden, and saw something lying in the meadow behind. He called to George, who walked with him up to the gate.

They saw that the object he had seen was the dead body of a young woman, sitting up against an apple tree. A black cloak had been thrown over her body, and the grass all around the body was trampled down.

It was Mary, and she was very obviously dead. Her face was covered in mud and blood, and there was a pool of blood under her, as though she was sitting on it. A pail full of turnips was resting nearby.

The men ran back to the house, and told George’s wife, before going to notify the local constable, Frederick Pugh. Pugh, together with other local men, went to carry Mary onto a cart. She was on her back now in the Waterside meadow, her bonnet still on but hanging back off her head.

Thomas Simpson, another constable who had been notified of William Hope’s suspicious behaviour the night before by Herbert Skerrett, took possession of the pail, and went out in search of the labourer.

He found him halfway up a pear tree nearby, shaking down fruit for his employer, a Mr Wood. Hope was promptly arrested, but Hope’s only comment was to say, “I will say nothing.”

However, on reaching the Prince of Wales inn, Hope admitted that it was his turnip pail that had been found by Mary’s body. He was then conveyed to the gaol at Bromyard.

In the meantime, a search of the local area found evidence of a struggle some 100 yards away from where the body had been discovered. It was halfway between the meadow and Mrs Bevan’s shop, which lay on the parish road that ran between Hereford and Bromyard.

Mud and material were fundamental in the case against Hope. Daniel Harwood, the superintendent of police at Bromyard, examined the ground where signs of a struggle had been spotted with Thomas Simpson. They found that there was an impression in the clay of a person lying on her back, with the marks of buttocks and the back of a head clearly visible.

Facing towards that shape were marks as though someone had been kneeling by her. The marks were made by ‘a peculiar sort of ribbed stuff’, and when impressions were made of the clay indentations, it looked as though the person kneeling had been wearing cord trousers where part of the material had been worn through.

When Hope’s trousers were seized, it was found that they were made of a twill ribbed cord, were worn, and very muddy around the knees. Patches on the trousers also matched marks in the mud.

This was not the first time such methods had been used in a criminal investigation: in a similar case in 1816, a Warwick farm labourer was convicted of murdering a servant after the impression of corduroy cloth with a sewn patch, found in damp earth at the crime scene, was matched to the suspect’s breeches. [S Kind and M Overman, ‘Science Against Crime’, New York, 1972, pp.12-13]

***

Memorial to Henry Graves Bull, MD, at Hereford Cathedral

Surgeon Henry Graves Ball – who was also later a Hereford magistrate – conducted the post-mortem on Mary’s body, and found that she had died from being suffocated, two hands having squeezed her nose, mouth and throat.

However, she had also been raped ‘with very great violence’, and he was unsure whether she was raped before or after her death. Her face, body and clothes had all been bloody, indicating the level of violence with which she had been attacked.

He noted that Mary was a ‘healthy, well-developed young woman’, but that in death, the marks of fingernails around her mouth and jaw were clear. Her hands were clenched, and also noted that when he had later examined William Hope, Mary’s teeth marks were visible on Hope’s fingers, showing that Mary had tried to fight off her alleged attacker.

At the inquest, the jury ‘without hesitation’ returned a verdict of wilful murder, and William Hope was committed for trial at the next assizes.

Part 3 of the Ullingswick Murder: How the press reported Mary Corbett’s murder, will be published tomorrow.

The Ullingswick Murder, Part One: Mary Goes Missing

This week, I am writing about a notorious murder case that took place in rural Herefordshire in 1862. A post each day this week will look at a specific aspect of the case, taking in sex, the media, policing methods, and debates around public hangings.

On Thursday 23 October 1862, an inquest was held at the Prince of Wales Inn, Hereford, before Nicholas Lanwarne, the county coroner, on the body of 16 year old Mary Corbett.

Ullingswick, by Philip Pankhurst, from Geograph

Described as ‘a remarkable specimen of the ruddy-complexioned damsels of Herefordshire’, Mary was a native of Ullingswick, a small village six miles south of Bromyard in Herefordshire.

Since she was 14, she had been employed as the live-in servant of a local widow named Elizabeth Skerrett, who had found her to be a ‘very good little girl’. Elizabeth was a respected member of the community, who on her husband’s death had taken over his farm, The Gobbets, in the village.

On 20 October, about 8pm, 70-year-old Mrs Skerrett had sent Mary to the Drainers’ Arms, also known as the Half-way House, about 300 yards away, to ask the owner, Mrs Bevan, for some candles, pins and beer.

Mary duly arrived there a few minutes later. Mary Bevan, who was married to drainer John Bevan – presumably the reason why her beershop was known as the Drainers’ Arms – also kept a grocer’s shop, which was attached to her beer house, and knew Mary Corbett from previous errands.

To go to the shop, like any customer, she had to walk through the kitchen, where the beer was sold and supped. There that night were William Hope and John Prosser. The latter was asleep, but Hope, who was already tipsy, asked young Mary if she would like to have some beer with him.

Reports conflict over whether she did have some; one earlier report stated that she replied, “I do not want any tonight,” and left, flurried by the request. A later report stated that she had a quick glass of beer but then left.

On reaching Mrs Skerritt’s house, they realised that she had forgotten to get the candles, and at around 9.30 or 9.45pm – Mrs Skerritt was later confused about the time, as she said her clock was fast – Mary was asked to return to the shop and get the needed three candles.

Mary duly trotted off again, and on reaching Mrs Bevan’s, was again asked by Hope if she would have a drink. Mary refused; Hope ignored her and poured her a glass. Mary again refused to drink, bought the candles, and left the shop, apparently at ‘a bit of a run’, as the night was now dark and stormy. Hope, leaving a half-full jug of beer, got up and left immediately after, without saying anything to. Mrs Bevan.

Mrs Skerrett saw Mary as akin to a daughter; when she did not return home, she waited up for her till four o’clock the next morning – but she never came home.

Earlier that evening, Mrs Skerrett’s son Herbert, who still lived at home, had come home from Bromyard about 7.30pm and, after a spell at home, went off to Mrs Bevan’s about 9.30pm to fetch half a gallon of beer to take back to his mother’s.

Herbert stayed ten minutes, noting the sleeping Prosser and William Hope drinking. He also noted a pail of turnips at the end of the room, with a cord attached to it. On leaving the Half-way House, he saw Mary Corbett on her errand – but she did not say what errand she was on.

That night, Herbert stayed up until 3am. By midnight, worried about Mary, he traversed the hosue with a candle and lantern, to seeing if she was hiding anywhere. He did the same at 2am, but heard and saw nothing.

But someone else DID hear something. Richard Mapp, a labourer, lived about 100 yards from Mrs Bevan’s. He had done to bed about 10pm, and immediately after getting into bed, he heard two screams.

He got out of bed, ran to the window, and heard a female voice, in distress, calling out, “Oh! Oh dear!” He opened the window and listened for about ten minutes, but heard nothing else. It was very windy that night, and he struggled to hear anything other than the wind.

William Hope did not come back to his lodgings that night. Nobody heard anything of him, either, until the next day.

Part 2: Local policing, forensics and the discovery of the body will be published tomorrow.

A Letter from the Flagellator

Letters to the editors of Victorian newspapers are often fascinating insights into the minds of our 19th century forebears. This one, from 1842, caught my attention – from the self-titled Flagellator (whose name should give you an immediate indication of his interests), he argued that frequent flogging was the way to deal with pretty much all offenders.

It’s also interesting as it sheds light on Victorian debates surrounding the execution of criminals. Here, for your delectation, is a letter from the Flagellator of Victorian England.

“Punishment of Flogging. To the editor of The Times. Sir: I most cordially agree with your article in this day’s Times relative to the punishment of flogging for various offences.

“It is true that there are many mawkish and morbid persons who cannot bear to hear, or see, or think, of punishments; but, as prevention of crime is the object of punishment, I should most strongly advocate frequent flogging during the period of imprisonment, which would check many crimes, and pickpocketing in particular.

“Indeed, though I should be sorry that hanging be abolished, yet, if the morbid and canting part of the world would not object, I should almost be inclined to stop hanging, provided even the convicted murderer should be kept to hard labour, and be flogged well once a month as long as he lied.

“This would effectually prevent all crimes, for men could not bear such constant inflictions. Till this is agreed on, hanging must be continued.” FLAGELLATOR, July 5.

From The Times, 7 July 1842

Death of a radish seller

“Accident. Thursday evening, a poor Woman who was crossing the Road near Hyde-Park-Corner, with a Basket of Radishes on her Head, was thrown down by a Coach and four Horses, which ran over her, and kill’d her on the Spot.”

From the Country Journal, 17 May 1740

“Poverty is not the only crime”: death and the inhumane overseer of Brentford

In my 18^th century research, I’ve found the odd case of pregnant women being ferried across parishes in an attempt by overseers to shift financial responsibility for the women and their soon-to-be-born children to others… and these cases were in Old Poor Law days, before the divide between ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor became as sharp as it did post-1834.

So perhaps this following case shouldn’t shock me – but it does. In a case that took place not long after the 1834 Poor Law Amendment Act came into effect, the case of Bridget Neville and her daughter Margaret remains horrifying nearly 200 years after it took place.

 

“Infant’s Repast” by Ford Madox Brown (1848). This item is from the Pre-Raphaelite Online Resource http://www.preraphaelites.org, © Birmingham Museums & Art Gallery.

On Monday 6 February 1837, just four months before Victoria became Queen, an inquest took place into the death of a little girl named Margaret Neville, who was just short of two years old.

The inquest, heard before coroner Thomas Stirling at the Windmill Inn in Turnham Green, now west London, caused considerable interest both amongst residents and the press, and raised the issue of the responsibilities of the overseers, and the need for compassion when carrying out their duties.

It was heard that Margaret was one of two children of Bridget Neville and her unnamed husband (possibly Michael). The Nevilles, who may have been Irish, were desperately poor, unemployed, and were having to travel around the country in search of work.

They had been in Croydon before, where, on their daughter Margaret being poorly, they had taken her to a surgeon, who had diagnosed an inflammation of the chest, and had given Margaret a blister, and her mother some powders to give to her.

They had then had to leave Croydon, as a policeman had turned up at their lodging house at midnight and given them a couple of hours’ notice to leave. They had then walked to Wandsworth, where they spent their last pennies on a night’s lodging.

They had then decided to get to Bristol on foot, in the hope of finding work there. However, on reaching Brentford in Middlesex around 3pm on the previous Friday morning, they realised that little Margaret, who had been poorly for the past month, had taken a turn for the worse.

They decided to stay in Brentford for the night, and booked a bed in a “common lodging-house” – all that they could afford.

But when the landlady saw how ill Margaret was, she refused to allow them to stay, saying:

“since the Poor Law Commissioners had come down there, the Overseers had given orders to the lodging-house keepers not to shelter any persons who were likely to become a burden to the [Poor Law] Union.”

So the Nevilles then went to another lodging house, where they were again met with a refusal. At a third house, the landlady said they could stay if they got the permission of the overseer, telling them where he could be found.

The overseer, Mr Burness, worked as a leather-cutter or shoemaker. The Nevilles – Margaret being carried in her mother’s apron as the latter walked – duly arrived at his workshop and asked leave to stay. He looked at Margaret, and told her to get back to Wandsworth:

“Do you think I’d give leave for this woman to lodge you, and your baby so bad as it is? No, indeed, go away with you.”

Bridget cried, “I am afraid my child will die in my apron – what am I to do in that case?”

“I don’t care where you go, so long as you don’t stop here.” retorted Burness. (As this was relayed to the coroner, the people present cried, “Shame, shame.”)

Bridget tried to remonstrate with the overseer, but she shouted, “Do you want to insult me in my own house? I won’t give you leave, so be off with you.”

The Nevilles were then made to leave, but, having been given the local magistrate’s name – Mr Crighton, a former poor law guardian – by the last lodging house landlady, there proceeded a tragic tour of houses in search of him.

They then went to another lodging house, where the lady who opened the door told them that the “gentleman upstairs” had warned her if she took them in, and “the child should die during the night, she would have to bury it at her own expense.”

The lady gave the Nevilles a shilling, and told them the magistrate’s correct address. But the footman there refused to let them in, saying the magistrate only let him take messages to him once a day, and that time had already gone.

They then traipsed back to the last lodging house owner. She said, “I am very sorry, but I cannot let you remain, as if the child dies the parish officers will call me to an account for doing so.”

The Nevilles were in despair. They had spent all day going back and forth, trying to find anyone who would help them, or give them accommodation where they could look after their sick toddler. What were they to do?

In a final, desperate, move, they went into the Prince of Wales public house in Turnham Green. Once under the gaslight, Bridget peeked into her apron to see how Margaret was, only to see her child’s dead face reflected in the gloomy light.

Margaret had died whilst her parents had been desperately seeking help, and for the past half an hour, Bridget had been unknowingly carrying her corpse around in her apron.

The pub landlord, a Mr Battersbee, soon realised what had happened, and did what nobody else had done – he helped. He called the Chiswick overseer, a builder named Mr Adamson, who immediately admitted the family into the Chiswick workhouse, and put them before a warm fire, giving them food and drink.

The coroner’s jury was clear on what the problem was.

They said the failure to help the Nevilles was an effect of the “boasted New Poor Law system”, where “poor things were now turned out of even the common lodging-house, by order of the overseers, who would let them die in the street.

“The poor now could get no relief, but that was not the worst of the matter; they must not even ask for relief under pain of being sent to prison.”

They added that,

“Poverty was not the only crime to which the poor were subject, as sickness appeared now to be one also.”

Both coroner’s jury and the press found that although Margaret had died from the inflammation of her chest, if she had had sufficient care and attention earlier, she could have survived. Therefore, the ‘inhumanity’ of the overseer had contributed.

The jury stated that the Brentford overseer should have had the humanity to admit the family to the workhouse, and that in failing to do so, he had shown ‘great neglect’ in refusing shelter or help to them.

But that did not help the Nevilles, who had lost a daughter in their desperate search for charity and compassion.

Source: The Champion and Weekly Herald, 12 February 1837