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Whatever Happened to Patience Kershaw?

I am grateful to Ian for bringing to my attention the case of Patience Kershaw, a girl whose testimony to the Antony Ashley-Cooper's Children's Employment Commission (Mines) has been adapted and set to music, performed by many including The Unthanks:
It’s good of you to ask me, Sir, to tell you how I spend my days
Down in a coal black tunnel, Sir, I hurry corves to earn my pay.
The corves are full of coal, kind Sir, I push them with my hands and head.
It isn’t lady-like, but Sir, you’ve got to earn your daily bread.

I push them with my hands and head, and so my hair gets worn away.
You see this baldy patch I’ve got, it shames me like I just can’t say.
A lady’s hands are lily white, but mine are full of cuts and segs.
And since I’m pushing all the time, I’ve got great big muscles on my legs.

I try to be respectable, but sir, the shame, God save my soul.
I work with naked, sweating men who curse and swear and hew the coal.
The sights, the sounds, the smells, kind Sir, not even God could know my pain.
I say my prayers, but what’s the use? Tomorrow will be just the same.

Now, sometimes, Sir, I don’t feel well, my stomach’s sick, my head it aches.
I’ve got to hurry best I can. My knees are weak, my back near breaks.
And then I’m slow, and then I’m scared these naked men will batter me.
But they’re not to blame, for if I’m slow, their families will starve, you see.

Now all the lads, they laugh at me, and Sir, the mirror tells me why.
Pale and dirty can’t look nice. It doesn’t matter how hard I try.
Great big muscles on my legs, a baldy patch upon my head.
A lady, Sir? Oh, no, not me! I should’ve been a boy instead.

I praise your good intentions, Sir, I love your kind and gentle heart
But now it’s 1842, and you and I, we’re miles apart.
A hundred years and more will pass before we’re standing side by side
But please accept my grateful thanks. God bless you Sir, at least you tried.
The original testimony is gripping.
My father has been dead about a year; my mother is living and has ten children, five lads and five lasses; the oldest is about thirty, the youngest is four; three lasses go to mill; all the lads are colliers, two getters and three hurriers; one lives at home and does nothing; mother does nought but look after home.

All my sisters have been hurriers, but three went to the mill. Alice went because her legs swelled from hurrying in cold water when she was hot. I never went to day-school; I go to Sunday-school, but I cannot read or write; I go to pit at five o'clock in the morning and come out at five in the evening; I get my breakfast of porridge and milk first; I take my dinner with me, a cake, and eat it as I go; I do not stop or rest any time for the purpose; I get nothing else until I get home, and then have potatoes and meat, not every day meat. I hurry in the clothes I have now got on, trousers and ragged jacket; the bald place upon my head is made by thrusting the corves; my legs have never swelled, but sisters' did when they went to mill; I hurry the corves a mile and more under ground and back; they weigh 300 cwt.; I hurry 11 a-day; I wear a belt and chain at the workings, to get the corves out; the getters that I work for are naked except their caps; they pull off all their clothes; I see them at work when I go up; sometimes they beat me, if I am not quick enough, with their hands; they strike me upon my back; the boys take liberties with me sometimes they pull me about; I am the only girl in the pit; there are about 20 boys and 15 men; all the men are naked; I would rather work in mill than in coal-pit.

(The Commission comments: This girl is an ignorant, filthy, ragged, and deplorable-looking object, and such an one as the uncivilized natives of the prairies would be shocked to look upon.)
The Ashley Commission reported in 1842 so presumably took evidence in late 1841 and early 1842. The 1841 census records a 15-year-old Patience Kershaw living with her mother and eight siblings in Plough Croft Lane, Northowram, near Halifax, Yorkshire. The oldest of the boys is 20 rather than 30, but one of the sisters is named Alice and the youngest is four. All of the children except the youngest are recorded as working. So I think we have her; given other evidence that we will come to, I think the 1841 census got her age wrong, the Commission got the age of her oldest brother wrong, and one of her five brothers was staying elsewhere on census night.

The 1851 census records her age as 26. Now she is living in Ovenden, 6 km from Northowram, with 35-year-old William Horsfall. Both of their professions are given as wool combers.

In the 1861 census her age is given as 37. Now her profession is given as House Servant and her status as Lodger, still living in Ovenden but now with 42-year-old Henry Shaw, a saddle cover weaver, and his three children; the 14-year-old boy and 11-year-old girl are working, the 5-year-old is not. We can make our own guesses about Patience's relationship with Shaw.

Edited to add: Over on Facebook, Carmen Chaproniere points out that the household listed immediately before William Horsfall and Patience Kershaw in 1851 is a Henry Shaw, with his wife 25-year-old Ellen, 11-year-old sister-in-law Alice Horsefield, and three small children. However, I find this same family a bit further north in Denholme in the 1861 census, with a few more children in the meantime. There's another Henry Shaw, aged 32, living in Ovenden in 1851 with his wife Maria, brother Edward, and children Sam (4) and Sarah Jane (1), which exactly fits the chap living with Patience ten years later. And there are unfortunately lots of Maria Shaws born around 1826 who died in and around Halifax between 1851 and 1861.

On 15 March 1869, Patience Kershaw, age given as 43, is buried in the graveyard at Stanley, near Wakefield, about 30 km east of Ovenden and Northowram. She had been an inmate of the West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum when she died.

It's not a long story, but it is a sad one.

There's another Patience Kershaw in Lancahire, who lived from 1825 to 1889, but Kershaw was her married name so I don't think she can be a viable option.

Edited to add: These documents are not difficult to find, and unsurprisingly I am not the first or even the third person to hunt them down. Denise Bates has one extra data point: Patience was admitted to the Halifax workhouse in 1867, two years before she died in the asylum near Wakefield. She also has another line about her from the Secretary of the Commission:
A deplorable object, barely removed from idiocy. Her family receiving £2 19s 6d a week.
It’s entirely possible that Patience had a learning disability, but was clearly able to express herself well.

Edited to add, again: Digging a bit deeper, William Horsfall died in 1858 and is buried in St. Mary's Churchyard in Halifax. As for Henry Shaw, he married Hannah Snowden in 1864, three years after he was recorded living with Patience, and three years before she went to the Halifax workhouse.

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Did you know that most of England accepted the heir to the French throne as its rightful king in 1216-17?

The myth that England has not been successfully invaded since 1066 requires a certain amount of special pleading - most notably in the case of a Dutch prince expelling the legitimate king in 1688, but also in terms of the significant numbers of non-English forces involved with Henry VII, Edward IV and Henry II as they came to power.

A less well-known edge case is the French invasion of 1216. This was part of the ongoing conflict between King John and his barons; after he attempted to weasel out of Magna Carta, signed the previous year. The Barons appealed to Prince Louis of France, later King Louis VIII the Lion, to take power, and on 21 May 1216, 800 years ago today, he landed in Thanet. King John fled from London to Winchester, and Louis advanced to the capital where he was (the chronicles say) welcomed by the citizens and proclaimed king. Winchester fell soon after and John fled north; barons joined Louis rapidly (including the King's half-brother, William Longespée, the Earl of Salisbury), giving him control over most of southern England.

It's quite likely that Louis would have won if John had lived to pursue and lose the war (and he did tend to lose wars). But in October he unexpectedly died in Newark of dysentery at the age of 49, and was buried in Worcester cathedral, nowhere else being conveniently under Plantagenet control. (This was shortly after the royal treasure went astray crossing the tidal pools of the Wash.) John's heir was the nine-year-old Henry III, and the popular William Marshall, Earl of Pembroke, became regent. Marshall rapidly moved to offer the Barons concessions that John would not or could not have offered, including re-issuing Magna Carta ("but the boy-king really means it this time, unlike his dad"); he was a known factor, and the barons started switching back again. Louis was running out of money, and his invasion was formally condemned by the Pope; he proceeded to lose a couple of decisive battles on land and at sea, and eventually under the 1217 Treaty of Lambeth was paid to go away.

This was only 150 years after the Norman Conquest. France and England could easily have ended up united under a single king, with England a dependency; French would have been consolidated, rather than deprecated, as the official language of the state; Anglo-Norman elites would have concentrated much more on their family and property links with France (which were disrupted in our timeline by the consequences of John's losing his continental territories); probably there would have been less attention paid to Scotland and Ireland as a result. Often time travel stories are written about killing off a historical celebrity in his or her prime; a really mischievous time-traveller would provide antibiotics to King John in 1216 and save his life, thus ending the Plantagenet dynasty and causing major disruptions to world history.
I just want to note that filigree10 has persuaded me to alter my post about Fantasy and the Easter Rising. I had noticed that the account of how Lord Dunsany was injured was rather different from James Stephens' eyewitness account of how "Sir Horace Plunkett's nephew" was injured, but I assumed that Dunsany was embellishing his account; how likely could it be that his uncle, Sir Horace Plunkett, had two nephews who were both injured during the Rising?

But of course Sir Horace was a man of many talents, and many nephews, and it was indeed the case that the incident involving Lord Dunsany - injured by the rebels - was entirely different from the incident involving Thomas Ponsonby of Kilcooley - injured by the British in a friendly fire incident. So I have corrected my account, with thanks to filigree10.

Ramillies

A decent spring day today, and I took B out for an excursion to the battlefield of Ramillies which is about half an hour's drive from where she lives.

Ramillies? I first came across it in a tune called "Darby Kelly about a drummer in the Peninsular War whose grandfather had fought for Marlborough a century earlier. That told me very little except that it was linked with Blenheim, which I had heard of because there's a palace named after it. But in fact it was a hugely important battle, both for its time and for its winner.

The War of the Spanish Succession (1701-1714) has a tremendously dull name, and it certainly didn't figure much in my (Belfast Catholic) history books. But it has some claim to being the real First World War, fought in the Americas as well as in Europe. At stake was the question of whether or not the heir to the throne of France, the most powerful country in Europe, would also be allowed to inherit Spain, and the Spanish possessions of most of South America, making France the most powerful country in the world. (Spoiler: after over a decade of war, the French prince was allowed to rule Spain but had to disclaim his potential French inheritance.)

Part of the price of peace for the Spanish was to hand the Spanish Netherlands, ie what we now call Belgium, to Austrian rule where it remained until the Revolution later that century. That was basically a recognition of fact; the anti-French Grand Alliance had controlled most of Belgium since about halfway through the war - specifically, since the Allied victory at Ramillies on 23 May 1706, where Marlborough crushed a French force of almost the same size and then spent the following weeks conquering almost all of Belgium, which the Allies then held for the rest of the war. (It was then given to the Austrians as a consolation prize.) Had Marlborough not won at Ramillies, Spanish rule here would surely have continued, and Belgium would have missed out on the relatively benign Austrian governorate of the eighteenth century.

The immediate consequence for the Duke of Marlborough was that his reputation, which had been in the mud ten years before but considerably restored by victory at Blenheim in 1704, was firmly established. As a direct response to his victory at Ramillies, Parliament legislated that his titles and estates should be made perpetual upon his heirs, male or female. As his only son had died, aged 17, in 1703, this meant that the title of Marlborough and Blenheim Palace would continue in the family through his daughters. Later descendants include Winston Churchill, grandson of the Seventh Duke.

So I went to Ramillies to try and see what if anything I could find of this historic event. There's a vast amount at Waterloo, including a very impressive visitor's centre which I strongly recommend; but I have to say I came away from Ramillies with very little. I could not even find the modest memorial plaque apparently placed in 2007 for the tercentenary. I had hoped at least to get a then-and-now contrast of contemporary pictures with present-day photographs. Here's one which I found on Wikipedia though without attribution:


Alas, the picture is complete fiction. The church spire at Ramillies is at the south end of the nave; the Duke could not have been in a position with the church at the angle depicted until after the battle was over, because the French controlled the west side of the village until the end of the battle (which is how it got its name). I took a picture from the corner of Rue du Village to prove the point:


One can reasonably decry the commercialisation of historical sites, but the fact is that the only information I found at Ramillies was about a local scrap in the First World War, not the world-shaping conflict of two centuries earlier:


Anyway, the day was not a loss. B and I had a nice drive in the countryside, and I was particularly delighted with the Gallo-Roman tumulus of Hottomont, which was also the base of the French commander Villeroy for most of the battle. The trees that have grown up since then obscure the view from the top, but the 11.5 metre high tumulus itself is very pleasing. I climbed it, which is probably the best exercise I got all weekend.


Still, it's odd that I could find literally no written record on the ground of the battle. Perhaps, with B in the car, I was not looking hard enough?

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