Today marks the 65th anniversary of the National Health Service. During the Second World War, concerns for the sustainability of voluntary hospitals (already subsidised by the government before 1945) contributed to the proposal of a comprehensive health service, open to all members of the community and free at the point of use.
One of these voluntary institutions was the York County Hospital, which opened in 1740. The following images are taken from the hospital’s Final Report (reference: YCH 1/2/21), published on the eve of its transfer into the NHS on 5th July 1948.
The report also includes some group photographs of the nursing staff, administrative team and the medical board – as well as a picture of its royal patron, HRH The Princess Royal!
Although the report begins with reflections on the work of the hospital as a voluntary organisation, it ends on a note of hope, looking forward to a future within the National Health Service.
Happy Birthday, NHS!
Health archives at the Borthwick Institute
We hold a large number of records relating to health, comprising the archives of the hospitals and other services managed by the NHS in York, running from the mid-eighteenth century to the present day. As well as the archive of York County Hospital, we also hold records for the many smaller hospitals which were inherited by the NHS after 1948.
Written by Francesca Taylor, National Archives Trainee.
Hello! My name is Francesca Taylor, and together with Kerstin Doble we are the new dynamic duo of National Archive Trainees here at the Borthwick, specialising in interpretation and online engagement. We’ve been here since the beginning of April 2013 and our job over the next year will be to digitise early modern church visitation records from the 16th and 17th century that are tucked away here in the archives. These digitised records will then be made available online for everyone to see and make use of.
Courtesy of BT Archives
So far, it’s been a busy few months, as we have been filling our brains with all things archives (an area totally new to both of us – I come from an archaeology background and Kerstin coordinated and installed exhibitions at the Tate Gallery) and getting our heads around palaeography (learning how to read old handwriting) in preparation for our main project. We have also been busy filling up our schedule with training events and conferences so that we make sure we get the most out of our year here. So when we saw an advert for the BT Digital Archives Conference at Coventry University we jumped at the chance.
The BT Archives are a unique resource. Recognised by both UNESCO and Arts Council England for its significance, it provides a 165 year history of the development of telecommunications and its impact on society not only in Britain but internationally. As part of a joint project between Coventry University, BT and The National Archives, they have catalogued, digitised and developed a searchable online archive of almost half a million photographs, images, documents and correspondence. We therefore thought it would be useful for us to see how another organisation had digitised and presented its archives online – perhaps it would also give us ideas!
We weren’t disappointed. Held in the impressive-sounding Serious Games Institute in the Innovation Village of Coventry University, it was great to hear not only from those directly involved in digitising the records but from the academics and researchers who had already made good use of them. There were presentations from a range of people giving us a detailed insight into the process of and equipment used in digitisation as well as how all of this data would be presented on the website. They have decided to use a ‘mosaic’ design as an engaging way for people to browse the archives through tiles of images, as well as the usual search functions. It really emphasised how important front-end web design would be for us in order to attract people to dip into our records.
Most interestingly to us, presentations from a range of academics working in design, linguistics, business and computing highlighted how the archives have been useful teaching tools outside of history departments (one speaker even demonstrated how photographs from the archives had been used as teaching material for undergraduate sports therapy students). It is a demonstration of how potentially useful our digitisation project records could be to an ever wider audience than we imagined… plenty of food for thought!
This week we continue our Tuke themed blog posts with a look at some of the poetry found in the collection, written by one of our work experience students, Rebecca. You can catch up by reading Part I here.
Studying personal documents from the early nineteenth century, I inevitably found myself looking out for glimpses of major political events; the Napoleonic Wars in particular. I found there to be surprisingly little. I suppose it’s one of those ‘topical silences’ – letters are going to be about the personal and the everyday, not the grand and international. It’s not like I ever wrote about the Iraq war in my letters of the last decade. But I have to say that a selection of comedic poems was not somewhere I expected to find my first reference to Bonaparte (TUKE/2/1/13/1/3). It makes sense though, and it’s a really fun read. The kind of tongue-in-cheek mockery and teasing bravado reminds me of the theme song to Dad’s Army; who do you think you are kidding, Mr. Bonaparte?
TUKE/2/1/13/1/3
I understand Bonaparte, you still think to come
To frighten Old England with the beat of your drum
But take my advice, & never come near us,
For if you land here you’ll have reason to fear us,
If you ever mix with us, to eat up our bread,
We will lull you to sleep with a potion of Lead
We need stop neither Harrows nor ploughs to find men,
Should we meet in the field you’ll find fifty for ten,
For our Bricklayers lads & our wool-combers Boys,
With our guns can play better than yours with Toys
Yes our very Thimbling tribe can all with great skill,
Use their daggers for their daggers as swords a henchman to kill,
Believe me friend Bonney you’ll be left in the Lurch
Whenever you try to demolish our Church;
At the end of your life you will find I speak truth,
And wish for the Solitude you passed in your youth,
So Huzza to old England if ‘ere you dare come,
For we fear neither you nor the beat of your Drum
All the bells in our steeples shall merrily ring
And our young men & maidens will joyfully sing,
The fame of brave Britons to you is not new,
So we’ll use no more ink but to bid you adieu.
Rebecca found other interesting poetry snippets in the collection, like these written by Favilla Copsie:
The poem (below) was written by Favilla Copsie (née Scott), probably in 1807, and is mentioned in letters from her sister Mary Maria Tuke (née Scott) (TUKE/1/6/1/6/24) and her son James Favil Copsie (TUKE/1/37/1/9/7, TUKE/1/37/1/9/8).
TUKE/1/35/1/8/8
Favilla evidently enjoyed writing poetry, and we have a selection of her other poems, which often take the form of everyday correspondence. They’re wonderful to read;
‘my dearest James I use this Ink // to let you see on you I think… first I must thank you for your thimble // which make my needle run quite nimble’
‘my Dear Cousin Esther do you go to the Ball // tho I hope before that you will give me a Call’
Little gems like this which seem at once so alien and so familiar made the week’s work experience really absorbing.
To read more about our student volunteers’ work with the Tuke archive, please see Growing Up Tuke and Views of York.
Between April 15th and April 19th 2013, the Borthwick enlisted the help of a team of Work Experience students to help us work through the large collection of Tuke material that we hold. Part of their remit was to pull out interesting documents from the collection to form a series of blog posts.
This week we look at contributions from Sara, Ceri, and Stephanie.
We are a group of students currently undertaking a work experience placement at the Borthwick Institute of Archives in York. Over the past week we have been re-cataloguing the vast Tuke family archive consisting of letters, maps, photographs, silhouettes, finance and other personal items – including hair.
The Tuke family were a notable Quaker family in York in the 18th and 19th centuries. They were active in the local community, and were involved in areas such as pioneering new mental health treatment, founding a Quaker school, a tea and coffee business, and other charitable work.
The week has given us a great insight into what it would be like to work in archives. If anyone is interested in working in this area, they should be aware that opportunities are offered twice a year for York University students to work at the Borthwick for a week.
Sara found a great piece on teenage heartache…
One of the greatest joys of working through this collection was the opportunity to glimpse into the personal lives of members of the Tuke family (perhaps the archival equivalent of peering over the hedge). The Tukes’ private declarations of love, fear, and indignation make them people, rather than personages, and human, rather than historical. A prime example comes from the correspondence of William Murray Tuke (1822-1903). In 1837, he received a letter that any 15-year-old would dread: his girlfriend was breaking up with him.
TUKE/1/30/2/2/1. Letter from Y.Y.Y. to L.N., William Murray Tuke. 28 October 1837
Though Y.Y.Y. is unidentified, L.N. is a codename for the young William. ‘My dearest L.N.’, Y.Y.Y. begins, and then she gets straight to the heartbreaking point: ‘I have long thought that as we are both too young to think about such things and yet too old to be so foolish as I now think we have been for the last two or three years [. . .] I do not wish to risk my future happiness by continuing our present correspondence’. Once you see past her handwriting and eloquence, you realize that Y.Y.Y.’s concerns are both modern and strikingly teenaged: ‘I love you as much as ever I did’, she says, but ‘I know your affections may perhaps be fixed upon another person much more worthy of your love than I am’.
With a bit more sleuthing, Y.Y.Y. might be identified and the nature of her relationship with ‘L.N.’ elaborated. For now, this letter remains a mysterious and poignant peek into the heart of an adolescent. In 1846, nine years later, William Murray Tuke married Emma Williams, yet he kept this letter until his death. Perhaps Y.Y.Y.’s naïve words remained with him throughout his long marriage: ‘I shall not forget you as being my first love.’
Ceri found a number of sketches and insights into the everyday life of the young Daniel Hack Tuke…
This week has given me the chance to follow an individual from early life all the way to a bearded old age. This was one of the great delights for me; Daniel Hack Tuke proved to be the most interesting character and my favourite Tuke of the week after reading his youthful doodle-laden letters to his older brother William Murray Tuke from c. 1841.
A sketch from TUKE/1/32/1/4/14
His sketches of the family during Hebrew lessons (TUKE/1/32/1/4/14) or gathered at tea (TUKE /1/32/1/4/22) brightened up the letters with a mixture of colourful imagination but also morbid curiosity; tucked in with the collection was a small card with a woodcutting and the details of a hanging at York castle. (TUKE/1/32/1/4/25).
A sketch from TUKE/1/32/1/4/22
The letter about Daniel flying his kite was not dissimilar to how a child today would sheepishly admit to a misdeed. The quote “I have been flying my kite to day but is at present in a tree, not in our premises” (TUKE/1/32/1/4/19) partnered with the simple ink sketch provides a poignant childhood memory which was good to keep in mind when reading his later more grown-up correspondence. This collection, in particular, was filled with animated anecdotes and was an entertaining insight into the whimsical childhood activities of this prominent figure of the Tuke family.
Stephanie also found some interesting childhood letters, this time from James Favil Copsie…
TUKE/1/37/1/8/3
One of the nicest things about working with original documents is that you are continually reminded of the humans behind the stories that are eventually consolidated into historical narratives. The documents take you away from the general and encourage you to empathise and engage with individuals’ tribulations. This experience will probably be what I will remember best from my week working with the Tuke Collection, my complete immersion in the Copsie family’s lives. Seeing James Favil Copsie transition from a child first living away from home, profusely thanking his parents for the cakes and apples they sent him to an apprentice, falling off the Sunderland Pier and spending time with his friends, to becoming a businessman, working in coffee and tea businesses and even considering setting up a mustard business, was fantastic. His childhood letters were by far my favourite though, especially one in which he discussed the breaking off of an engagement (see the quote below), as his childlike honesty contrasts with the more polite and ceremonial letters regarding marriage in other parts of the collection.
“I am glad to hear Miss Rodhams match is broke off. I remember having dear sister Favilla say that she said she would marry at the age of sixteen or before. I did expect it would be a poor match as a person of fortune and sense would not have her who knew nothing, she is not handsome nor learned nor yet very industrious. So that if any would chase her it would be only for money.” (TUKE/1/37/1/8/3)
The 15th May 2013 is the 60th anniversary of the Borthwick’s official opening. To mark the occasion we have added a small ‘vintage’ showcase – made for the Borthwick in 1953 – to the current “Best of the Borthwick” exhibition.
In here, we have put a little display about the opening day. This includes a couple of photographs of the occasion – not the glossy colourful and posed publicity shots we’d have today, but black and white snaps taken by an unknown photographer, showing a rather stiffly formal occasion.
The Borthwick was opened by HRH the Princess Royal, Countess of Harewood. A veritable galaxy of berobed VIPs took part in the opening ceremony, including the Chancellor and Vice Chancellor of the University of Oxford, the Lord Mayor of York, the Archbishop of York, the Deputy Keeper of Public Records, and many senior academic historians.
The official opening of the Borthwick Institute in 1953.St Anthony’s Hall, original site of the Borthwick Institute
The Borthwick was then, of course, at St Anthony’s Hall, one of York’s mediaeval guildhalls, which was home to the Borthwick up to the end of 2004 when it moved to campus.
The press coverage was extensive. Banner headlines such as: “Making York World Centre of History” and “National as well as Local Importance” hint that this was more than just the opening of an archive office.
Why was the Borthwick so important? And why is it ten years older than the rest of the university, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year?
The Borthwick represented a major step in York’s aim to develop academic study within the city – something which it was hoped would eventually lead to the founding of a university.
Oliver Sheldon
A campaign for a university at York had begun in earnest in 1946, led by Oliver Sheldon, a director of Rowntrees and one of the co-founders of York Civic Trust.
His masterly direction of publicity and support led to a petition from York to the University Grants Committee in 1947. At that point York was turned down, but told that if it could show evidence of academic activities its case might one day be reconsidered.
As a result, academic plans were developed by the Academic Development Committee of York Civic Trust: first for summer schools in archives and in architecture, which began in 1949, followed, it was hoped, by academic institutes at some future date. But when in 1949 Oliver Sheldon suddenly heard that the Archbishop of York’s plan to house his rich and extensive diocesan archive at the Minster Library had fallen through – and a large grant from the Pilgrim Trust might be on offer – he moved quickly to develop an alternative archive scheme.
Out of this the Borthwick was born: a home for the Archbishop’s archive, which would be available for scholars, and a building which would provide an HQ for all York’s academic ventures.
Tragically, Sheldon died unexpectedly in 1951 before the Borthwick was opened, but his vision was carried on by the Academic Development Committee, and after 1956, by the York Academic Trust. These bodies were run by men of great ability and vision, most notable of whom was John Bowes Morrell, a towering and important figure in the history of both the city and the university (the university library is named after him).
Canon J.S. Purvis
In 1963, the efforts of this group of York citizens bore fruit when the university opened and the Borthwick became one of its founding departments.
Since then, the Borthwick has developed in all sorts of ways. In the autumn, there will be a larger ‘Borthwick at 60’ exhibition, to tie in with the 50th anniversary celebrations of the University. This will include more about Sheldon and about the Borthwick’s first director, Canon J.S. Purvis. Purvis was an archivist, teacher, scholar, artist, poet and author of the text for the revived York Mystery Plays of 1951.
Until then – note that the ‘Best of the Borthwick’ exhibition has now been extended until mid September!
Oh, and why are we called the Borthwick? Come and see our exhibitions and find out!
This blog post was written by Dr. Katherine Webb, Archivist at the Borthwick Institute and author of Oliver Sheldon and the Foundations of the University of York (2009).
To find out more about the Borthwick’s holding, have a look at our Best of the Borthwick post.
On April 10th 1733, a man leapt from the top of the steeple of Pocklington parish church. He was Thomas Pelling, the Flying Man. A rope had been attached to the top of the tower, with the end wound into a windlass near to the Star Inn on Market Street. Straps had been inserted into iron rings on the rope and wrapped around his chest and one leg, leaving his arms and one leg free for balance, and he was wearing a set of wings designed to make him look like a bat.
An eccentric choice of activity, perhaps, but flying men were a popular form of entertainment at the time. It is likely that Thomas Pelling was in Pocklington to exhibit as part of a large fair or market. Unfortunately for Thomas Pelling, as he began his descent the rope became too slack. He called out for the windlass to be tightened but his instruction was misunderstood and the rope was loosened further. The Flying Man plummeted onto the battlements at the east end of the chancel and fractured his skull. He died two days later, and was buried at the exact spot he fell.
Transcript:
[1733] April ye 16th: Thomas Pelling from Burton Strather in Lincolnshire a Flying Man who was killed by jumping against ye Battlement of ye Choir when coming down ye Rope from ye Steeple.
The 1730s experienced a craze for rope dancing, walking and sliding. William Hutton in his History of Derby wrote “No amusement was seen by the rope; walls, posts, trees, and houses, were mounted for the pleasure of flying down: if a straggling scaffold pole could be found, it was reared for the convenience of flying.”
Unfortunately, accidents during Flying Men shows were not unusual. In the same year as Thomas Pelling’s untimely fall, in December, a flying man flew from the top of the castle at Newcastle-upon-Tyne into Baileygate. He escaped without injury, but afterwards decided (for reasons best known to himself) to try flying a donkey down as well. The Newcastle Courant reported that “several accidents happened – for the weights tied to the ass’s legs knocked down several, bruised others in a violent manner, and killed a girl on the spot.” The fate of the donkey is unknown.
There were also close escapes: a ‘sailor’ who flew from Greenwich church suffered injuries so severe that they caused false reports of his death; and a showman pulled down part of Chesterton steeple in September 1732 – on that occasion he was prevented from continuing with his act.
One of Britain’s most famous flying-men was Robert Cadman or Kidman who became famous in the 1730s as “the famed Icarus of the rope”. He slid head-first down ropes attached to some of the highest steeples and towers in England on a grooved wooden breast-plate (for an idea of what this looked like, see Hogarth’s Southwark Fair from 1733, in which he makes a surprise appearance). In 1735 he too brought down a steeple, at Bromham in Wiltshire, although he suffered only minor injuries when, as a result, he crashed into a tree. He couldn’t escape the danger of his career for ever, and eventually he was killed during a flight from St Mary’s Shrewsbury on 24 January 1740. It was reported later that “he found the rope too tight, and gave the signal to slacken it: but the persons employed, misconceiving his meaning, drew it tighter. It snapped in two… and he fell amidst thousands of spectators.” This is a mirror-image of the accident which killed Pocklington’s own flying man. Robert Cadman is commemorated by an ornamental plaque at the church where he died.
So, Thomas Pelling was simply one of a number of men using a popular carnival act to earn his way. But the story of Pocklington’s Flying Man has been retold many times over the centuries since his death. The intriguing monument still evident in the church catches the attention of successive researchers, and Pelling has become a local legend. With the advent of Pocklington’s Flying Man Festival, returning for the ninth year this weekend, there is renewed interest in the tale, and the man.
I haven’t been able to establish anything more about Thomas Pelling than his remarkable death. It has been suggested that he might have been a former sailor or waterman. Such men were used to perilous rope climbs and descents. Robert Cadman was a steeplejack, an occupation which would have given him a good head for heights and a fearlessness in the face of long falls in an age long before harnesses, hard hats and health and safety. However, rope-dancing was a profession in its own right at the time, with formalised training agreements. Marcel Laroon’s The Criers and Hawkers of London records a Middlesex apprenticeship dispute in 1671 between the “spellbinding Jacob Hall” who promised to teach his pupil “the art of music, dancing, and vaulting on ropes”, and a disgruntled father who claimed his son had been abandoned by his tutor. Was Pelling then a professional Flying Man, rather than a down-on-his-luck working man risking his life out of desperation?
It would be interesting to consult the parish records for West Halton in Lincolnshire (to which Burton Strather belongs) to see if anything more can be discovered about Thomas Pelling. Was he ever married? Did he have any children? Did he leave family behind in Burton Strather when he hit the road, who waited and waited for his impossible return?
To write this post, I have tracked the story of the Flying Man of Pocklington back through various documents in the parish records of Pocklington, held here at the Borthwick Institute. These sources include Some notes on the history of Pocklington Church by Canon Graham Christie, 1976 (PR POCK 47), Pocklington Parish Church: Guide for Visitors, 1924 (PR POCK 46) Guide to All Saints Church, by the Very Revd Henry Stapleton, 2002 (PR POCK 140), and Alexander Leadman’s history of Pocklington church, published in the Yorkshire Archaeological Journal in 1896 (PR POCK 166). It is clear that the earlier sources in this list have informed the later, but I haven’t been able to find a record of the story in our records which predates Dr Leadman’s.
It’s probable that the story would have been recorded in the newspapers of the time, which had a liking for the gory or unusual. The York Courant was publishing in the early eighteenth century although the Borthwick only holds microfilmed copies up to the 1720s. A full run of the newspaper is available at the York Explore Centre in the city.
If anyone has any information about earlier records of the Flying Man stories – or if you have found Flying Men in other parts of the country – please let us know!
Followers of our Twitter feed, and keen visitors, may have noticed a new exhibition which has gone into the space outside our offices on the second floor of the Borthwick.
This new exhibition, Best of the Borthwick, was designed by our archival trainees for 2012/13, Zoe and Amy, who have now finished their placement at the archives.
You can read a little bit about their time at the Borthwick, and their approach to this project on this National Archives blog post, written by Amy.
The exhibition comes at a really important time for us. Whilst celebrations and projects quite rightly focus on the University of York’s 50th anniversary, 2013 also represents the 60th anniversary of the Borthwick Institute. How fitting, then, to have a display showing off the best selections from our many holdings.
The exhibition displays items from the Retreat Hospital, the Mount School, our probate collection, Theatre, Film and Television collections, the confectioners Rowntree’s and Terry’s, and the Ecclesiastical and Church Court records. Included in this are items from the archive of Sir Alan Ayckbourn, the Cause Paper records (of which many are now available for free online), case notes for a patient of The Retreat, extracts from a Mount School pupils’ diary, and a will written in verse, amongst other treasures.
The Borthwick Exhibition Area
One of the major aims of the project was to create an exhibition that could be reused in the future. As such, all of the ‘original’ documents displayed in the cases are, in fact, surrogates. This made the job no easier for our trainees or Conservation team, however. Each item has been printed, trimmed, and boarded to represent the original document as accurately as possible.
The Best of the Borthwick Exhibition will run until May 31st 2013 and can be found on the top floor of the Raymond Burton Library and is viewable free of charge.
If you’ve got any feedback, or would like to talk about any of the documents on display, please visit us in the searchroom, leave a comment on this blog post, or send us a tweet.
Although many people think of football as a nineteenth-century invention, this was simply when different versions were codified into the modern sports (for example, rugby football at Rugby School in 1845). In fact, football can be traced back to the middle ages and beyond and was often a violent and dangerous sport. The Oxford English Dictionary cites an early mention of football in Scotland where, in 1424:
The king forbiddes þt na man play at þe fut ball vnder þe payne of iiijd.
Clearly, he wasn’t envisaging a quick kick-about in the park with a fine like that.
Our example of medieval football comes from 1565/6, and is an entry from High Commission Act Book 2 (HC.AB.2). In it, a group of young men are punished for playing football in York Minster:
Transcript:
Officium dominorum contra Christoferum Dobson, Ricardum Leache, Georgium Bargeman, Christoferum Fordonne et oswaldum atkinson
[On Wednesday 13th February 1565/6 in the consistory place in York Minster between 9 and 11 in the morning before John Rokeby LLD, Thomas Eynns Esq, and Thomas Lakyn MA, notary public Edward Fawcett] [Dobson Leache Bargeman Fordonne and Atkinson appeared] …that they have plaied at the foote ball within this Cathedrall churche of yorke to which objection they awnsweringe confessed that the foote Ball was Broughte into the church by the said Dobson thereupon the said oswald atkinson did take the same Ball[e] frome hime in the said said churche and there was but one stroke striken at the same in the church aforesaid wherefore the said Commissioners did order that the same Oswald Atkinson shalbe sett in the stockes by the churcheside upon sonday nexte at nyne of the clocke before noone and ther to sytt in the same stockes by the space of one hole houre and at the houre ende be tayken furthe and laid over the said stockes and have sex yertes with a Byrchen rod upon his buttockes and that christofer Dobson shall have likewise sex yertes upon his buttockes with a birchen rod and that will[ia]m gibsonne JohnWhytfeild and John Scott the vergers and Richard Sinerthwaite and Peter Pecket shall se this order executed in manner and form as is aforesaid.
Incidentally, large community football matches were a common way of celebrating important Christian festivals like Shrovetide, Easter and Whitsun in the mediaeval period… but I wouldn’t recommend an attempt to reinstate football in the Minster this Sunday, even if I doubt the publishment would be as painfully humiliating as that which befell Oswald Atkinson and Christopher Dobson four hundred years ago.
