The Quack Doctor

When Nancy Harborough took her sick child to a local celebrity doctor in 1844, she probably didn’t expect to receive advice worthy of Matthew Hopkins two centuries earlier. As it was, the whole sad episode ended up in court, and as the Hull Packet put it:

The facts of the case speak but little indeed for the boasted ‘march of intellect of the nineteenth century’.

The doctor, Sago Jenkinson, is a shadowy figure who seems to have enjoyed sudden and brief fame in 1840s Hull. He gained a reputation as ‘The French Doctor’, although in a later court case (not the one that concerns us here) he said he was not French and couldn’t even speak the language. He was, he claimed, a Muslim from Constantinople – and this must have gained some credence, for one of the local names for him was ‘Dicky Mahomet’. One anonymous person, however, piped up in court to say that Jenkinson was the son of a woman from Drypool who used to hawk greens in the streets.

An imagined quarrel

Nancy Harborough’s consultation with Jenkinson at the Noah’s Ark in Witham did not result in him sending her home with a dangerous potion. Instead, he (allegedly) told her that the child did not need medicine but would be cured if she did as he suggested. He informed her that she had quarrelled with a neighbour. She did not recall doing anything of the sort so he told her to come back when she remembered.

Jenkinson’s consultations were so packed with people that it was difficult for Mrs Harborough to see him again. But she persevered, and when she next consulted him he asked her to come back in an hour with details of the supposed argument. Presumably preoccupied and frightened about her child’s condition, Mrs Harborough clutched at straws and managed to dredge up a memory about the child bickering with the offspring of one unsuspecting Mrs Sharp.

Drawing blood from a witch

Jenkinson allegedly told Nancy Harborough that Mrs Sharp must have ‘overlooked‘ the child and put an ‘evil hand‘ on it – in other words, ‘witched‘ it. In order to relieve the symptoms, Mrs Harborough must draw blood from the witch with a pin or – better still – a worsted needle.

Nancy Harborough was concerned that if she went ahead, Mrs Sharp might bring the law against her. She did not carry out the proposed assault, but did mention to her neighbours the doctor’s strange advice. When her child sadly died, the neighbours thought something was up. Mrs Sharp, described by the local newspaper as ‘a decent looking woman, about thirty-five‘, found herself ostracised by the community and the subject of unpleasant pranks. She discovered what was going on when a local shopkeeper pointedly said ‘Ah, that poor child is dead; nobody can hurt it now.‘ Mrs Sharp elicited an explanation and went on to instruct her lawyer to threaten Mrs Harborough with prosecution for slander. Mrs Harborough’s best option was to try to bring the ‘doctor’ to court.

Exceedingly dirty in his person

The Hull Packet no doubt wanted to entertain its readers by denigrating the defendant, so its description of Jenkinson must be taken with a pinch of salt, but it is nevertheless quite amusing:

The prisoner, who was exceedingly dirty in his person and linen, and who had on a grey shoddy surtout and a Prussian cap decorated with a rim of gold lace, has an emaciated appearance, and seemed when brought into court to have been indulging in spiritous liquors.

Witchcraft, and such like tomfoolery

While the court did not exactly approve of Jenkinson’s activities, it decided that the case was too silly to continue with. Magistrate Mr Atkinson said it was clear Jenkinson had endeavoured to incite Mrs Harborough to a breach of the peace. He was surprised, however, to discover that anyone still believed in witchcraft these days and ‘blamed the woman for her simplicity, as well as the man for his duplicity.’  Atkinson hoped that the publicity of the case would stop people ‘giving credence to the notions of witchcraft, and such like tomfoolery.’ Sago Jenkinson was discharged and the whole thing blew over.

Nancy Harborough was the only one left suffering – the loss of her child was a tough price to pay for her lack of education and her desperation to find someone who might help her.

It’s time for a round-up of the latest blog posts on early modern history, and I’m pleased to be hosting the 60th edition of Carnivalesque. If you’re interested in hosting a future history carnival, please visit the site and get in touch with Sharon or Julie.

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Let’s dive in and begin with witchcraft, political machinations and the ‘Scottish play’. Lee Durbin at Marginalia looks at the tempestuous life of Francis Stewart, 5th Earl of Bothwell, who allegedly asked witches to predict when his cousin, James VI of Scotland, would die.

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If you’re having trouble with the occult, you might need to try an exorcism, but make sure everyone knows what they’re doing. Roy Booth at Early Modern Whale reports on fake exorcisms in 16th-century Lancashire, where a priest’s attempts to fool an audience were thwarted by his clumsy accomplice.

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A more practical side to superstition appears in Emily Brand’s discussion of early modern midwifery, which shows how the folklore and rituals surrounding childbirth could give the mother and her relatives a sense of control. Mary Toft, the famous rabbit-woman of Godalming, features too.

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At the scientific end of the midwifery spectrum were the great anatomists William Hunter and William Smellie, but less well-known is illustrator Jan van Rymsdyk, who did the astonishing anatomical drawings that accompanied their work. Medical photographer Øystein Horgmo at The Sterile Eye tells us about this rather mysterious character.

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Some earlier anatomical art appears in the form of ‘fugitive sheets’, a 16th-century method of layering drawings so that the viewer could lift the flaps and discover the wonders of the human body. The Wellcome Library Blog highlights an early printed reference to these materials.

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While we’re on an anatomical theme, if I may be so bold, I’ll plug my latest podcast here at The Quack Doctor. It gives a tour of Benjamin Rackstrow’s Museum of Anatomy and Curiosities, a macabre collection that occupied 197 Fleet Street during the second half of the 18th Century.

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But this edition of Carnivalesque is not all gruesome stuff! Dainty Ballerina talks about some popular sports of the 17th century – including whole-village football matches and ‘running upon the ice in Scrick-Shooes.’

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Then we have an artistic interlude, with Carlyn Beccia giving a detailed biography of Renaissance portrait-painter Sofonisba Anguissola over at Raucous Royals.

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Lucy Inglis at Georgian London has done a series of podcasts looking at the symbolism in Hogarth’s A Harlot’s Progress. The link leads to the first one, but be sure to download the whole series of six. Rumour has it we can look forward to The Rake’s Progress soon too.

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Also commenting on the issues of his day was one of the earliest news illustrators, Frans Hogenberg, whose broadsides depicted the major political and military events of the 16th century. Rag Linen shows some examples of his striking work.

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There’s plenty more journalism to be had at Mercurius Politicus, where Nick Poyntz describes the newsbooks of the 1640s, their editors – including ‘Beelzebubbs Ban-dogge’ Henry Walker – and contemporary definitions of news.

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The Gentleman Administrator reviews Neil Gaiman’s graphic novel Marvel 1602, a re-imagining of Marvel superheroes in a 17th-century setting. But there’s someone missing, and who better than The Gentleman Admin himself to introduce Wolverine to the early modern milieu? (Don’t miss part 2 either).

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Sarah Redmond at LOL Manuscripts! features some advice for dutiful wives, and reminds us that the long ‘s’ is the minuscule letter that just keeps on giving.

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And finally… We might be blogging about history, but the spectres of some historical figures have lately joined the blogosphere too. Sir Joshua Reynolds says exactly what he thinks about Tracey Emin, and D C Read reveals how posterity has treated him with CHILLINGe NEGLECKT.

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Thank you to those who sent in nominations. The next Carnivalesque is an ancient/medieval one, venue to be confirmed, so keep an eye on www.earlymodernweb.org.uk/carnivalesque for details.