Shocking Bodies E-Book

Iwan Rhys Morus

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

For the Victorians, electricity was the science of spectacle and of wonder. It provided them with new ways of probing the nature of reality and understanding themselves. Luigi Galvani's discovery of 'animal electricity' at the end of the eighteenth century opened up a whole new world of possibilities, in which electricity could cure sickness, restore sexual potency and even raise the dead. In Shocking Bodies, Iwan Rhys Morus explores how the Victorians thought about electricity, and how they tried to use its intimate and corporeal force to answer fundamental questions about life and death. Some even believed that electricity was life, which brought into question the existence of the soul, and of God, and provided arguments in favour of political radicalism. This is the story of how electricity emerged as a powerful new tool for making sense of our bodies and the world around us.

Leseprobe

For my wife Mandy and son Gwilym Dafydd

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In between other projects I have been working on this book for quite a long time. During that time conversations with a great many people have helped deepen my understanding of the history of Victorian science and culture. I am particularly grateful to Will Ashworth, Graeme Gooday, Jeff Hughes, Rob Iliffe, Bernard Lightman, Jim Moore, Richard Noakes, Simon Schaffer, Anne and Jim Secord and Andy Warwick. Some of the research was carried out with funding from the Wellcome Trust and I am grateful to the Wellcome trustees for their generosity. Much of the final writing took place during a year’s leave, for which I thank Aberystwyth University and the AHRC. I also thank my editors, Lindsey Smith and Christine McMorris of The History Press, for their work on this book. The book is dedicated to my wonderful wife Mandy. It is also dedicated to our son Gwilym Dafydd, who since his arrival half way through that year of writing has been doing his level best to distract his father from finishing the job.

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Prologue

PART I

TOM WEEMS

one

Tom Weems’ Body

two

Galvanising Britain

three

Galvanic Fashions

four

Body & Soul

five

Dissecting Tom Weems

PART II

ADA LOVELACE

six

Knowing Ada

seven

Electric Universe

eight

Galvanic Medicine

nine

Ada’s Laboratory

PART III

CONSTANCE PHIPPS

ten

Lady Constance’s Pain

eleven

Electric Frontier

twelve

Machinery of the Body

PART IV

MR JEFFERY

thirteen

Introducing Mr Jeffery

fourteen

Electric Entrepreneurs

fifteen

Measure for Measure

sixteen

Harness on Trial

PART V

BACK TO THE FUTURE

seventeen

Back to the Future

Bibliography

Copyright

PROLOGUE

The Victorian age was full of shocking (and shocked) bodies. Throughout the nineteenth century, electricity was the stuff of life – and death. When people thought about their own bodies – how they worked, what the relationship was between body and soul, how the relationship between the sexes worked, or ought to work, even the politics of individual rights and obligations – they turned to electricity as a way of making sense of difficult questions. So electricity helped the Victorians to understand their own bodies – but their bodies helped the Victorians understand electricity too. We do not usually think about physics and bodies in the same breath, or at least not the messy, shambolic, everyday bodies we carry around with us. The bodies of physics, if it has any, are abstract, heavenly, ideal. This means that when we write histories of physics they tend to be disembodied too. Even when they are histories of great men (and they often are) they are histories that concentrate on minds, not bodies.

So what would a history of physics that took bodies seriously look like? This book is an effort to find out. In it, I try to find out how physics affected people’s bodies – and how their bodies affected physics – throughout the nineteenth century in Britain. I try to show that Victorian physics was indeed corporeal and that by looking at the bodies of physics we can get quite a different idea of where science belonged in nineteenth-century culture, why it mattered, and to whom. I try to show that we cannot really understand physics without taking bodies into account, but also that we cannot really understand Victorian bodies without paying attention to the physics going on around and with them.

Looking at things from this sort of perspective allows the historian to try writing the history of Victorian physics from below. In just the same way that economic, social or political historians now tend to avoid history written from the perspective of the powerful, and try to recover the aspirations and experiences of the crowd, I think we need to look at nineteenth-century physics with a different kind of eye. I have chosen four bodies, scattered across the century, and I want to try and understand what physics – and electricity in particular – did to and with those bodies. The bodies themselves are windows into the culture of Victorian electricity seen from an unusual angle. They take us from the political turmoil of the nineteenth century’s opening decades to the frenzied consumerism of the century’s end. By looking at these bodies and their fates I want to try to recover something of how electricity came to permeate nineteenth-century and Victorian culture, what it represented to those that encountered it and how it changed their lives. This means looking for and finding Victorian electricity in some sometimes unexpected places. Electricity throughout the nineteenth century was forever getting away from its producers, however mightily they laboured to keep it under control.

If there is a single thread that runs through all four sections of the book, it is the emphasis on electricity as a science of wonder. One of the reasons that looking at electricity through the lens of individual bodies is so illuminating is that electricity really was a very corporeal science, embedded and embodied in spectacular performances of all kinds throughout the Victorian age. Electricity was all about show for the Victorians and their immediate predecessors. Electricity was striking because it was spectacular. Electricity was thrilling and seductive. Nineteenth-century encounters with electricity could be intimate, titillating and flamboyant. In many ways electricity was dangerous exactly because it seemed so corporeal. You could feel electricity shuddering through your body or see it lighting up the sky. If no one agreed what electricity really was, everyone agreed that it was powerful stuff. This could make materialist messages even more seductive and leave some men of science struggling to control their electric creations. Electricity and electricians did not attract their audiences by appealing to their reason, they appealed by attracting their senses instead. Electricity simply was the science of showmanship to most Victorians, and those who thought otherwise had to struggle very hard indeed to disembody this most vital of fluids.

The book’s first body belongs to Tom Weems, an illiterate labourer who does not, I am afraid, survive the chapter’s opening pages. Weems’ body provides a way of raising the lid off the bubbling cauldron that was early nineteenth-century electrical culture. Electricity during the years of war with revolutionary and Napoleonic France was dangerous stuff – and it was its very corporeality that its many enemies regarded as its most dangerous feature. Several decades away from being a Victorian himself, Weems’ body belongs in this primarily Victorian survey simply because it is impossible to understand Victorian electrical bodies other than against the backdrop of the century’s early decades. Later generations of men of science would set their faces firmly in stubborn opposition to what seemed to them the excessively sensationalist science of their Enlightenment predecessors. Their electricity would need to be carefully sanitised, and we can see this process starting in Sir Humphry Davy’s reaction to some of the experiments described in this section. But the events, arguments and experiments surrounding Tom Weems’ body also show how difficult it was to get away from sensationalist science. Electricity remained firmly corporeal, which meant that the battle would need to be fought all over again by the Victorians.

The next body belongs to Ada Lovelace, Lord Byron’s only daughter and ‘Soul of my thought’, as he put it in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. This might seem an unlikely location for a battleground over electricity’s future, but that is exactly what Ada’s body became, for a while at least. By the early years of Victoria’s reign, electricity remained for many of its practitioners and its audiences a very bodily business. Electricity was in many ways tangible – a mysterious fluid that might be invisible and unknown but whose effects were directly felt; intimately corporeal and sensationally spectacular. This was going to be one of electricity’s paradoxes throughout the Victorian age. It was invisible, ethereal and no one really knew what it was, but at the same time its effects were unambiguously physical and thrillingly visual. Indeed it was just this quality that made electricity such a useful and ambiguous cultural resource. Whilst natural philosophers like Michael Faraday laboured hard to make electricity disembodied and reputable, Ada Lovelace’s example demonstrates just how difficult that task would be. Ada’s view of electricity as a corporeal agent, and her understanding of electrical science as a route towards bodily self-knowledge, was radical and transgressive for many reasons – but most importantly because of who she was. She was trying to frame a feminine view of electricity at odds with the perspective of scientific gentlemen.

Twenty years or so into Victoria’s reign electricity – as the third body shows – was still stubbornly corporeal. This third body belongs to Constance Phipps, the largely forgotten daughter of politician and diplomat the second Marquess of Normanby. Her story and her short life give an insight into electricity and its operations in the mid-Victorian world of female invalidism. But it also provides some insights into the culture of electricity at its most titillating. Electricity wielded by self-styled authorities was a powerful tool to bring awkward bodies to heel. As electricity’s tentacles started encircling the globe, the human body itself provided new ways of talking about the developing telegraphic world. The telegraph was ‘the nervous system of Britain’, after all. At the same time, the telegraph provided a whole new electrical vocabulary for talking about nervous order and disorder. Electrical showmanship was also at its most spectacular during this mid-Victorian heyday, and electricity provided a feast for the senses as well as a set of tools for keeping sensation carefully disciplined. Increasingly, electricity represented and promised the future to the Victorians. The electrical future was a world of spectacle and power in which electricity was both intimately corporeal and universal in its possibilities. For the young Constance Phipps, though, the final place of electricity was the sickroom.

The final body – belonging to the otherwise utterly anonymous and invisible Mr Jeffery – demonstrates how corporeal electricity had thoroughly become part of late Victorian consumerism by the 1890s. The future was for sale in the pages of middlebrow magazines and popular journals aimed at a new, literate and confident readership. Electricity – and the electricity of the body in particular – was central to these late Victorian imagined futures. It was also for sale. Electrical health had become a commodity and the back pages of those popular weeklies were crammed with advertisements extolling the virtues of electrical cures. Jeffery was far from the only customer attracted to these nostrums, but he was the only one (as far as we know) whose disputed cure ended up in court. The Victorian age’s final two decades also became the time of scientific measurement. The new breed of specialist physicists prided themselves on their culture of precision. As we shall see, Jeffery’s alleged electrical cure generated a culture clash in the courtroom between the promoters of this new discipline of accurate measurement and the vendors of the body electric. The 1890s also ushered in another new technology of bodily electricity, with the inauguration of the electric chair. Electricity now really did seem to offer both life and death.

Throughout the Victorian age, electricity’s links to the body, and its role as a conduit for bodily sensation, were on show in a whole range of different places – some predictable, others rather less so. Shocking bodies could be found in dissecting rooms, in anatomical theatres, in sickrooms and hospitals. Electricity’s connections to the body were on show in popular galleries of science and on city streets. The body itself became a laboratory for investigating the mysterious fluid. Even as the legal showdown between the salesmen of the healthy electrical body and the new arbiters of electrical propriety played itself out in the courtroom, the places where electrical sensations could be experienced were multiplying. Electricity’s intimate connection to the body was proving extremely hard to sever. Therefore, if we want to understand how electricity was experienced by most Victorians who encountered it, and how it infiltrated Victorian culture, then we can only do so by understanding its bodily connections. Electrical culture and electrical ways of thinking are inherited by us from the Victorians; as such, understanding shocking bodies is an important part of making sense of our own contemporary relationship with electricity as well. Many of the connections that were forged then are still with us now.

Victorians thought that electricity symbolised everything that was positive about their century of progress. It was the ultimate symbol of man’s ability to dominate and control the powers of nature; with electricity it seemed that you could do almost anything. During the Victorian age electricity was even seen to replace God as the ultimate tool for explaining humanity’s place in the universe. For some, saying life was electrical was much the same thing as saying there was no such thing as a soul, and therefore no such thing as God. Later on in the century, the slogan was an invitation to buy new commodities like electric belts or corsets that could revitalise a flagging body. We are still intimately aware of electricity’s relationship with our bodies – its possibilities and dangers. Margaret Thatcher took electric baths and Cherie Blair wears magnetic crystals to enhance her aura. This awareness is why we worry about living too close to overhead power lines or about mobile phone masts built next to our children’s playgrounds. The Victorians’ faith in electrical progress and their fascination with bodily electricity tells us some important and surprising things about their culture. Our contemporary worries about electricity’s impact on our own bodies should tell us some important things about our culture too. And if we want to understand our fears, we need to understand their cultural history.

PART I

TOM WEEMS

ONE

TOM WEEMS’ BODY

Trudging across the featureless Cambridgeshire landscape on a summer’s day in 1819, Tom Weems could hardly have expected ever to take part in such a peculiar scientific ceremony. Scientific ideas and activities of any kind would almost certainly have been completely alien to an ordinary working man like him. Natural philosophy (the study of nature, as opposed to moral philosophy, the study of man) was very much the business of social elites at the beginning of the nineteenth century. A taste for polite knowledge was the mark of a cultured and sophisticated gentleman (or, more rarely, gentlewoman). They were the ones who flocked to public lectures on the latest discoveries, read about them in newspapers and in the pages of popular journals, or discussed them in clubs and in fashionable salons.1 Any talk about the separate cultures of art and science would have seemed very strange indeed to an early nineteenth-century gentleman. Familiarity with both was taken for granted. Science was a source of genteel entertainment; experiments were expected to be sensational. They were meant to appeal to the senses as much as to the intellect. The latest scientific discoveries provided topics for cultured conversation in much the same way as did the titbits in the Gentleman’s Magazine.

Indeed natural philosophy – and the new science of galvanism in particular – preoccupied many political radicals at the turn of the century as well. For them, science, by revealing the true character of nature’s laws, would reveal the extent to which England’s laws and government fell far short of nature’s requirements. The social order, said the radicals, was meant to mirror the order of nature with its checks and balances to keep everything on an even keel. The laws that governed nature were meant to govern society as well. If society seemed out of step with nature, then only decisive political action could restore the balance. Such political radicals though, however much they might declaim about the rights of the ordinary working man, still lived in a very different world from that of common labourers like Tom Weems.2 Men like John Thelwall or William Godwin were fascinated by the latest discoveries in galvanism – the science of electricity and the body – because they thought such discoveries demonstrated that the soul was material and that there was no need for God. It is perfectly possible that Tom Weems, on the other hand, had never so much as heard of electricity, until he murdered his wife.

Weems strangled his young wife, Mary Ann, on Friday 7 May 1819 as they walked across the Cambridgeshire countryside from Godmanchester, near Huntingdon, on their way towards London. It might look to us at first glance like just another sordid early nineteenth-century crime of passion – grist to the mill for hack writers grinding out cheap and lurid gothic melodramas – but its consequences led Tom Weems on a journey into the very heart of science. Science of any kind was a long way removed from the everyday experiences of an ordinary country working man like Tom Weems for a number of reasons. For a rural worker at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the main preoccupation was making sure that there was money enough to find something to eat and a roof for the night. Weems almost certainly could not read or write – and would have had little use for such accomplishments even if he had the rudimentary skills. His life would have been almost entirely taken up by sheer hard, gruelling labour for very little pay. There was certainly little spare time available to ponder the relationship of body and soul and its implications for the state of society.3 His concerns were of a more immediate and urgent kind.

The Cambridgeshire countryside through which Tom and Mary Ann travelled that Friday morning was going through its own momentous changes. A series of enclosure acts during the first two decades of the century had led to the closing off of common land, cutting off many of the rural poor from a vital resource. As an overwhelmingly agricultural county, Cambridgeshire had done quite well out of the Napoleonic Wars. High prices had filled the coffers of the landowning gentry and led to an increase in the amount of land being farmed. But the end of the war brought a catastrophic drop in prices and an agricultural depression. Tempers flared as landowners returned to the tried and tested methods of squeezing the tenantry when their own belts looked like they needed tightening.4 There was a major riot in the fenland town of Littleport, between Cambridge and Ely, on 18 June 1816 which spread to Ely itself a day later. Troops were called in and blood was spilt in the ensuing mayhem before order was eventually restored at the point of a bayonet.5 Rumbling discontent was to continue well into the 1820s. Five of the rioters were hung and many transported. One of the judges on that occasion, Mr Justice Burrough, was to be back in Cambridge again three years later, with Tom Weems in the dock before him.

The town of Cambridge itself, where Weems was dragged before the Cambridgeshire Assizes on Monday 3 August, was only slowly undergoing its own transformation during the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Up until the end of the eighteenth century, Cambridge had changed little, if at all, from the claustrophobic market town on the edge of the Fens that it had been when the university arrived almost half a millennium earlier. It still retained its maze of dirty, narrow and badly-lit streets, along with housing that appeared in a state of permanent semi-collapse. The enclosure acts eventually provided space to expand beyond the medieval boundaries, and the first decades of the nineteenth century saw some belated attempts at civic improvement.6 Cambridge was famous then, as it is now, for its university. The university colleges were the town’s most prominent features; dominating the town’s skyline, they owned most of the land and property too. This meant, of course, that any improvement could only take place with the consent of the colleges who, by and large, were more inclined to consult their own comfort and convenience than that of the townspeople. They remained bastions of conservatism and ingrained privilege.7

The town’s political culture – as well as its geography – remained firmly under the thumb of the university, which jealously guarded the ancient rights accorded it by charter. The result was that the town, like the university (at least the majority of college fellows), was overwhelmingly Tory. Only a tiny proportion of the townsmen were resident freemen with the right to vote – and those not in the university’s pocket belonged to the dukes of Rutland instead. Town and gown resentment simmered. One of the reasons the town corporation opposed the provision of street lighting for so long was that they feared better visibility would simply make it easier for potential assailants to see each other in the dark of night. There was deep animosity towards corporation and university alike amongst the disenfranchised citizenry, along with a ready ear for radical agitation. All this made for a dangerous combination of barely repressed anger in town and county, matched by a twitchy belligerence on the side of the authorities. This was not a good time to be on the wrong side of the law, for any reason. The Littleport riots had demonstrated how quickly and how easily things could get out of hand, and how savage those charged with maintaining order could be in their efforts to do so.

Tom and Mary Ann’s tragedy had begun about a year or so earlier, when they were married in the parish church of Goddington in Bedfordshire.8 Things had started badly. Weems had been forced into the marriage by the parish officials after Mary Ann claimed that she had been made pregnant by him. They separated immediately after the ceremony and appear never to have lived together. Matters were not, presumably, much helped by the eventual revelation that Mary Ann had never in fact been pregnant at all. Weems left the district and found himself work as a mill-hand in Edmonton – then a village in Middlesex – whilst Mary Ann returned to her family in Godmanchester. About a year after the shotgun wedding Weems set out for Godmanchester, to all appearances in an effort to persuade his recalcitrant bride to return with him to Edmonton. Mary Ann seems to have agreed cheerfully enough to her husband’s proposition, as they set out early on the morning of Friday 7 May on the long walk towards London. They were spotted in a field near the little village of Wendy by a woman named Susannah Bird, who was on her way to the market town of Royston. On her way back towards Wendy that evening, she was surprised to see Weems on his own on the road. She approached him, asking what had happened to the young women she had seen with him that morning. Her suspicions were raised by Weems’ evasive manner, and Susannah sounded the alarm. Mary Ann’s body was found in the field where she had last seen them together. She had been apparently strangled with one of her own garters.

With hue and cry raised against him, it was not long before Weems was brought in. A coroner’s jury was promptly sworn in and sat until the early hours of the following Saturday morning before bringing in a verdict of wilful murder against Tom Weems. The coroner committed Weems and he was duly hauled off to the county gaol in Cambridge to await his fate with the coming of the biannual Cambridgeshire Assizes at the beginning of August. Mary Ann’s remains were returned to Godmanchester. Her body was put on show in the window of a local public house to assuage the curiosity of her former neighbours and ghoulish strangers alike. She was buried in the local churchyard, although her ghost is still reputed to haunt the tavern where her body was exhibited. The stone that was put up over her grave carried a stern warning to its readers:

As a Warning to the Young of both Sexes This Stone is erected by public Subscription over the remains of MARY ANN WEEMS who at an early age became acquainted with THOMAS WEEMS formerly of this Parish this connexion terminating in a compulsory marriage occasioned him soon to desert her and wishing to be Married to another Woman he filled up the measure of his iniquity by resolving to murder his Wife which he barbarously perpetrated at Wendy on their Journey to London toward which place he had induced her to go under the mask of reconciliation May the 7th 1819.9

The twice-yearly visits of the Assize courts were important dates in the social calendar, for Cambridge as for any other provincial county town on their circuit. They were highly ceremonial and public affairs, often with the presiding judge and court officials parading through the town streets – all pomp and circumstance – accompanied by civic dignitaries in the full panoply of their positions. This was a theatrical age for which the public trappings of power were a serious business.10 Not only were the Assizes themselves an important social gathering, they were the occasion for other jollifications as well. Assizes provided an excuse for balls and soirées, where town and country toffs would let their hair down and party together. There were opportunities for meeting up with old acquaintances and for making new ones. The well-to-do could catch up with the latest fashion and keep abreast of the most recent political news and gossip. On an occasion like this there might even be talk about the latest scientific controversies. For Weems, sweating it out in Cambridge gaol, the Assizes were a less pleasant prospect. With the Coroner’s verdict against him already, he can have had little doubt of the fate that waited for him.

Assizes courts followed their own particular practice. Indictments were, as a rule, read out twice. Once in private before a Grand Jury, and then again in public before the Petty Jury if they considered the charge worth pursuing. The judge played an active part in the proceedings, intervening to cross-examine witnesses and direct court officials, and they were rarely long, drawn out affairs. The judge on this occasion, Mr Justice Burrough, had plenty of experience to guide him through the process. Celebrating his seventieth birthday that August, he had been one of the hanging judges at the trial of the Littleport rioters a few years previously.11 He had suitably tough views on sentencing, even by early nineteenth-century standards. From 1800 the death penalty was increasingly commuted to transportation – except in cases of wilful murder. Mr Justice Burrough, however, was not much given to such leniency. His reply only a few years later to Lord Palmerston – when that noble lord had the temerity to suggest that justice might occasionally be tempered with mercy – was telling: ‘My Rule is that where a man is convicted of a Capital Offence attended with Circumstances of Wanton Cruelty, never to extend favour to the convict.’12He was not about to do so this time either.

Predictably enough, the trial did not detain Mr Justice Burrough for very long.13 John Beck testified to having carried the prisoner in his chaise for part of his journey, and that Weems had told him he wanted to get rid of Mary Ann so he could marry another woman in Edmonton. Susannah Bird gave her evidence of having seen Weems and Mary Ann together on the road and, with others, described the gruesome finding of the body. Constable Jackson gave his account of Weems’ apprehension. Maria Woodward was then called to describe how she had become engaged to Weems at Edmonton, having been led by him to believe he was a single man, and informed the court how Weems had told her he was going home to Godmanchester to get some money before returning to Edmonton to marry her. Finally – and damningly – Mr Orridge, the Cambridge gaoler, described how Weems had confessed the crime to his father and sister when they visited him and described the exact method of the murder: ‘I grasped my hands round her throat, pressed her windpipe with the thumbs, and exclaimed “Now I’ll be the death of you”, and held her in that position for about 5 minutes’, before tying one of her garters around her neck (to make sure, presumably) and hiding her body in a ditch.14 It took the jury just five minutes to find him guilty, too.

Mr Justice Burrough duly ‘passed the dreadful sentence of the law, and ordered him for execution on Friday the 6th instant and his body to be delivered to the surgeons for dissection’.15 A sentence of death is certainly what Weems would have expected to receive, having been found guilty of murder. The further penalty of post-mortem dissection would, however, have been an additional blow. In the early nineteenth century dissection was the final insult that the law could inflict upon the bodies of executed criminals, and was quite explicitly intended as an additional expression of judicial outrage. It extended the physical punishment that the law could impose beyond death itself. In a culture where many took the idea of physical resurrection quite literally, it was a sentence that might seem to remove even the last hope of salvation from the condemned, involving as it did the complete disassembly of the body. Executions like these provided, in fact, the only legal source of bodies for anatomical dissection available in early nineteenth-century England, as in much of the rest of Europe. The dissections were public and often highly ceremonial affairs, with local bigwigs as well as students and medical men coming along to see medicine doing its bit in maintaining the authority and dignity of the state.16

Tom Weems had his day the following Friday. A few minutes after twelve o’clock, he was hung from the gateway of Cambridge’s county gaol in front of a large and enthusiastic crowd. His behaviour as he was led to the scaffold was ‘consistent with his awful situation, and he met his ignominious fate with firmness’.17 His body was left hanging for an hour before being taken down. His corpse was then bundled on to a cart and transported down Castle Hill from the gaol, through the town and to the Chemical Lecture Room in the Botanical Garden. It was accompanied by an entourage of sheriff’s officers and constables. This was not just a matter of ceremony – friends of the executed often tried to steal the body on such occasions in an effort to prevent the ultimate horror of public dissection. No one came to Weems’ rescue though, and he was soon lying on a slab in the lecture room, waiting for the anatomist’s attentions. On this occasion there was one departure from the usual course of events at such happenings. Weems’ remains were first to be examined by James Cumming, Professor of Chemistry at Cambridge University, using a ‘powerful galvanic battery’. The room was packed for the occasion, with ‘nearly all the medical gentlemen in Cambridge’, as well as ‘several of the most respectable inhabitants of the town and county’.18

They had come as witnesses to a very unusual experiment. Weems’ body was going to be galvanised in an attempt to see if it was possible to return him to life. Cumming set about his task with systematic zeal. First of all:

wire was applied to a small incision in the skin of the neck over the par vagum, and the other to one made between the 6th and 7th rib; when at each disturbance of the battery, the chest was disturbed in a manner similar to a slight shuddering from cold; the period of the shuddering corresponding with the number of plates struck by the operator in the last trough.

Afterwards, the:

par vagum was laid bare, and one of the wires passed under it; the other was placed in contact with the diaphragm, through an incision made deeper than the last between the 6th and 7th ribs. The contractions were evidently stronger than in the last experiment, and to all appearances confined to the same set of muscles – Not the smallest action of the diaphragm was perceptible.19

Cumming was trying to make Weems’ corpse breathe again by exciting the par vagum nerve that ran from the brain to the heart, lungs and digestive organs. The idea was that electricity would replace the nervous fluid (the vis nervosa) that regulated a living body.

Cumming then moved on to galvanise other parts of the body:

wire was placed under the supra-orbitary nerve, the other remaining under the par vagum; at each discharge of the battery, it produced considerable action of the muscles of the face, and more particularly on the side of the face to which it was applied, though not expressive of any of the mental affections of life; it might more properly be called a convulsive twitching.

Moving on to other parts of the man’s anatomy, a wire was:

passed under the ulnar nerve at its seperation from the axillary plexus, the electric circuit was completed by bringing the other in contact with the radial nerve at the wrist. The flexor muscles of the arm and hand were thrown into strong action, the arm being drawn up, and the fist closing with considerable force.

This was more like what the experimenters were looking for. Finally, the wires from the battery were placed:

in contact with the spinal marrow between the 3rd and 4th cervical vertebrae and the tibial nerve, in its passage behind the inner ankle. A more extensive, though less vigorous effect followed this exhibition of the galvanic influence than in any of the above-mentioned experiments; most of the muscles of the trunk and extremities answered feebly the discharges of the battery.20

Cumming was a relatively fresh incumbent of Cambridge’s chair of chemistry, having succeeded Smithson Tennant to the professorship following his unexpected death in 1815, only a couple of years after being awarded the chair. Cambridge chemistry had a slightly longer history, however. There had been an established chair of chemistry since 1702 and the Chemical Lecture Room in the Botanic Garden – where the experiments on Weems’ corpse took place – had been there since 1786. The galvanic battery that Cumming used on this occasion had been made especially for Tennant. Cumming himself was, nevertheless, making something of a name for himself as a galvanic experimenter and must have relished the chance Weems provided him. It was a golden opportunity to make his mark as a daring and controversial experimenter. Galvanism was a political, theological and intellectual minefield – and Cumming was no doubt hoping that he would be able to use his Cantabrigian authority to stamp out some of the philosophical heresies that surrounded the subject. He was, after all, a churchman as well as a chemist. That very year he had been appointed to the rectorship of the parish of North Runcton, near King’s Lynn, an appointment that he would hold in conjunction with his Cambridge professorship. Theologically orthodox, he certainly had no time for wild galvanic heresies.21

Thomas Verney Okes, the surgeon who took over to carry out the anatomical dissection of Weems’ body once Cumming had finished with the battery, was something of an opportunist too. He had made quite a name for himself a couple of decades previously in the sensational case of Elizabeth Woodstock. Woodstock, a farmer’s wife from Impington, just north of Cambridge, had leaped to national notoriety after surviving for eight days after falling from her horse and being buried in a snowdrift. Okes, the doctor who attended her once she was eventually discovered by a passing shepherd, published a pamphlet describing her ordeal and his treatment of her with mutton broth, wine and opium.22 Elizabeth did not survive his ministrations for long, however, dying later that same year. The rumour was that strong drink had been the cause of her accident as well as her premature passing. With all that behind him, Okes by the 1810s had managed to acquire a reputation for ‘steady judgement and practical skill’.23 By the time of his encounter with Tom Weems, he was a prominent Cambridge medical man, married with an enormous family and an extensive and lucrative practice built around his house in Trinity Street. Until two years previously he had been a surgeon at the town’s Addenbrooke’s Hospital, before passing that plum position on to his son.24 Weems probably looked like a prime chance to jump on the bandwagon of publicity yet again.

During the course of this very public series of gruesome experiments on that August afternoon in Cambridge, Cumming, Okes and their assistants had made full use of Smithson Tennant’s large galvanic battery. In front of the capacity crowd that had gathered, crammed into the Chemical Lecture Room, they had worked their way systematically through Weems’ body, trying to reproduce the motions associated with life. They had started by trying to make him breathe again and after that, moved on to try and stimulate facial expressions before finishing by attempting to make his arms and legs move around. Why were they doing this? What reasons did they have to suppose that a dose of electricity could bring a dead body back to at least the superficial appearance of animation? As we shall see soon enough, they were scarcely the first to try this. To make sense of their efforts and get a proper sense of just what had happened to Tom Weems’ body, we need to pan back a little and see how this curious Cantabrigian experiment fitted into the broader scheme of things. We will need to leave Weems on the slab for a few chapters whilst we delve into the history and the politics of galvanism during the first few decades of the nineteenth century in Britain. When we eventually come back to Weems’ body in the final chapter of this part of the book, we will see that there was nothing random about this episode. The experimenters on that August afternoon had some very specific goals in mind.

By the second decade of the nineteenth century, galvanism had already acquired a dangerous history and a dodgy reputation. It was at once the plaything of fashionable dilettantes, the hope of radical firebrands and the bête noire of conservative ideologues anxious to stamp out anything that seemed to smack of atheism, materialism and all such French connections. Playing with galvanism really did mean playing with fire. Barely a couple of decades previously the Anti-Jacobin had been busily and hilariously lampooning galvanists, along with chemists and other ne’er-do-wells, as dupes of the revolutionaries.25 As the war with France was still a very recent memory, that kind of jibe remained fresh and painful. For Tories in particular, messing with galvanic piles was as bad as dancing with the devil. To rub salt in the wounds, Byron’s Don Juan, published less than a year earlier, had also poked fun at the way ‘galvanism has set some corpses grinning’. For the Cambridge experimenters, however, Weems’ body offered the chance of making a name for themselves; it could also be turned into the perfect blunt instrument with which to beat radicalism over the head. What they really wanted, perversely, was for their experiment to fail – and that is exactly why it provides us with such a useful window through which to survey the early nineteenth-century galvanic scene.

Notes

1Roy Porter, Enlightenment (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2001); Patricia Fara, An Entertainment for Angels (London: Icon Books, 2002).

2Iain McCalman, Radical Underworld (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988).

3John Rule, Albion’s People (London: Longman, 1992); Pamela Horn, The Rural World (London: Hutchinson, 1980).

4Martin Daunton, Poverty and Progress (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995).

5Charles Johnson, An Account of the Trials of the Ely and Littleport Rioters, in 1816 (Ely: C. Johnston, 1893).

6Michael Murphy, Cambridge Newspapers and Opinion, 1780–1850 (Cambridge: Oleander Press, 1977).

7Peter Searby, A History of the University of Cambridge, vol. 2, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).

8‘A Shocking Murder’, TheTimes, 17 May 1819, p. 3.

9The inscription can be found on Mary Ann Weems’ tombstone in the graveyard of St Mary’s church, Godmanchester.

10Peter King, Crime, Justice and Discretion in England, 1740–1820 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Douglas Hay, Albion’s Fatal Tree (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1988).

11For Judge Burrough see his biography in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography at: www.oxforddnb.com.

12James Burrough to Lord Palmerston, 10 March 1822, in Harry Hopkins, The Long Affray (London: Secker & Warburg, 1985).

13‘Cambridge Assizes’, TheTimes, 9 August 1819, p. 2.

14Ibid.

15‘Trial for Murder’, Cambridge Chronicle, 6 August 1819.

16Ruth Richardson, Death, Dissection and the Destitute (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987).

17‘Execution of Weems’, Cambridge Chronicle, 13 August 1819.

18Ibid.

19Ibid.

20Ibid.

21For Cumming see his biography in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography at: www.oxforddnb.com; and William Brock, ‘Coming and Going: the Fitful Career of James Cumming’, in Mary Archer and Christopher Haley (eds), The 1702 Chair of Chemistry at Cambridge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).

22Thomas Verney Okes, An Account of the Providential Preservation of Elizabeth Woodstock, who Survived a Confinement Under the Snow of nearly Eight Days and Nights (Cambridge: 1799).

23Review of Thomas Verney Okes, ‘An Account of Spina Bifida, with Remarks of a Method of Treatment proposed by Mr. Abernethy’, in the London Medical and Physical Journal, 1810.

24Arthur Rook, Margaret Carlton & W. Graham Cannon, The History of Addenbrooke’s Hospital, Cambridge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).

25Jan Golinski, Science as Public Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).

TWO

GALVANISING BRITAIN

In successive editions of the Opticks – the second of his two famous books of natural philosophy, first published in 1704 – Isaac Newton introduced lists of ‘queries’ in which he asked questions about the nature of the universe. In one of these queries (query twenty-four, in fact) Newton speculated about the relationship between mind and matter. ‘Is not Animal Motion perform’d by the Vibrations of this Medium,’ he asked, ‘excited in the Brain by the power of the Will, and propagated from thence through the solid, pellucid and uniform Capillamenta of the Nerves into the Muscles, for contracting and dilating them?’1 When Newton asked a question like this, it was usually as a roundabout way of saying what he really thought. And for many of his readers throughout the eighteenth century, what Newton thought had all the certainty of gospel truth. If the man who had made sense of gravity thought something, then that was the way things were. The medium Newton had in mind was the ether – a subtle fluid that filled all of space. By the middle of the century, some natural philosophers speculated that electricity might also be an aspect of this universal medium (as Newton had similarly hinted). There was a link there to be made, licensed by no less an authority than Newton himself, between electricity and the operations of life. From that kind of perspective, it looked as if electricity might turn out to be a promising tool for addressing the abiding Enlightenment preoccupation with the ways minds, nerves and bodies worked; how thoughts got translated into actions; and what bodily mechanisms could tell us about the state of society.2

Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century natural philosophers produced electricity by rubbing a variety of substances, or ‘electrics’, such as amber and glass. When they were rubbed in the proper way with a piece of cloth, usually leather or something similar, these electrics were known to develop the power to attract or repel light objects like feathers or scraps of paper.3 By the beginning of the eighteenth century, some of Newton’s philosophical followers, such as Francis Hauksbee and Jean Théophile Desaguliers – the son of an émigré French Huguenot – had developed electrical machines that could produce this mysterious power in larger quantities. These machines typically consisted of a glass globe or cylinder, mounted on a wooden frame and arranged so that it could be rotated by turning a handle. When a cloth or even the operator’s hands were held against the glass as it rotated, electricity was produced. In 1729 the English natural philosopher Stephen Gray made the startling discovery that it was possible to make electricity’s presence felt some distance away from the original source. He identified a class of substances, including metals (which eventually came to be called conductors) through which electricity could be communicated away from its source. One of these substances was the human body. One of Gray’s favourite ways of demonstrating his discovery was to suspend a small child in the air with one of their feet in communication with an electrical machine. When the machine was operated, the child was electrified and could attract or repel small pieces of paper with their hands.

For followers of Newton, electrical experiments like these had a very serious purpose. They were the building blocks not just of a new natural philosophy, but also of a new theology. As Newton would have it, the phenomena of heat, light, electricity and magnetism were expressions of the active powers of God in nature. Newton’s God was not some absentee landlord who had switched on the lights and then left the building. He was immanent in the universe – always there and always active. The powers of nature were not properties of matter, far from it; matter without those powers was dull and inert. These powers were added on to matter by God. They were His way of keeping the universe going. Newton had, in some ways, seen himself as being a sort of priest of nature, and many of his disciples also saw themselves in the same way, charged with the task of making God’s powers visible. God (and Newton) had given them the task of producing ‘ocular demonstrations’ of ‘that Fam’d Power in Matter, concerning which so much has been said, and so many noble and useful Discoveries have been made; Attraction, I mean, the Grand Principle which holds the whole Corporeal World together’.4 Even John Wesley was impressed and left one such electrical machine performance wondering ‘how a thin Glass Bubble, about an Inch Diameter, being half filled with Water, partly gilt on the outside, when electrified gives as strong a Shock as a Man can well bear?’5 In fact, Wesley was so impressed that he went on to become a major advocate of the medical use of electricity.6

Demonstrations like these of the mysterious powers of electricity were very popular in fashionable eighteenth-century circles, though possibly for reasons sometimes less refined than those of the founder of English methodism and the more strait-laced Newtonians. There was a vogue for popular scientific lecturing in coffee houses and fashionable salons, and electricity was perfectly suited for the kinds of spectacular demonstrations that accompanied these lectures. Soon there was fierce competition to produce ever more eye-catching shows that could draw in crowds of ‘ladies and the people of quality, who never regard natural philosophy but when it works miracles’.7 Better machines and new instruments like the Leyden jar – which could be used to store electricity and release it in large quantities – were the direct outcomes of this race for striking new demonstration devices. Joseph Priestley could not help but wonder:

[what] would the ancient philosophers, what would Newton himself have said, to see the present race of electricians imitating in miniature all the known effects of that tremendous power, nay, disarming the thunder of its power of doing mischief, and, without any apprehension of danger to themselves, drawing lightning from the clouds into an private room and amusing themselves at their leisure by performing with it all the experiments that are exhibited by electrical machines.”8

Electricity could make Enlightenment ideas visible, but that, by the middle of the century, was double-edged.

Electrifying the human body often took centre stage in these displays of electricity’s powers. Stephen Gray’s experiments with the poor charity boys of Christ’s Hospital suspended in mid-air are a case in point. They were living testimony that the electrical fire could be channelled through the human body. In another famous experiment, the German performer Georg Matthias Bose announced a spectacle he called beatification, in which a glowing halo could be made to appear above the head of a selected member of his audience. The secret of how to produce effects like beatification were jealously guarded and a cause of much contention, whilst other displays of electricity’s powers were a little easier to reproduce. The Venus Electrificata was one particularly popular pièce de résistance. In this experiment, one of the more attractive female members of the audience would be invited to sit on an insulated stool and asked to hold a chain connected to an electrical machine. As the machine – and therefore the young woman – was charged, nothing appeared to happen. The gentlemen present would then be challenged to kiss the young lady. When one of them tried to take up the challenge, sparks would quite literally fly from one pair of lips to the other.9

One of the mid-eighteenth century’s more innovative electrical performers was the Abbé Nollet. He was born Jean Antoine Nollet in 1700 to a peasant family and educated for the Church. By 1728 he had become a member of the Société des Arts, devoted to promoting new inventions. Thanks to his contacts there, he soon succeeded in getting his foot firmly in the door of France’s philosophical elite, and by the 1750s he was one of the country’s most fashionable scientific lecturers. Nollet had been inspired by Bose’s German experiments. As he wrote excitedly to a friend in April 1745, he had heard Bose could electrify a man to such a degree that his ‘hair … became luminous, which he jokingly calls beatifying electricity; that sparks from his fingers killed flies; that drops of his blood looked like drops of fire in the dark’.10 He promptly set out to repeat the German experiments and before long was outdoing Bose with the scale of his demonstrations. Famously, Nollet entertained his king with a demonstration of electrical power in which a line of 180 royal guardsmen jumped simultaneously into the air when they received the shock from a battery of Leyden jars. On another occasion, he performed the same trick on a line of 200 Carthusian monks. It was a performance finely calculated to appeal to the absolutist monarch.

These kinds of extravagant demonstrations by Gray in England, Bose across the Rhine and Nollet in Paris, made it clear to the discerning eighteenth-century public that there was a particularly close connection between electricity and the body.11 The issue seemed established beyond doubt when the Bolognese physician Luigi Galvani announced to the world in 1791 that he could produce electricity directly from animal tissue. Galvani had been experimenting on frogs’ legs. According to legend, Galvani’s wife Lucia (herself the daughter of Domenico Gusmano Galeazzi, Galvani’s former teacher, patron and Professor of Physics at the University of Bologna) had been preparing the frogs’ legs for her husband’s dinner whilst a thunderstorm raged outside. Galvani happened to notice that the frogs’ legs twitched convulsively with each lightning strike. Intrigued, he investigated further. He found that when a frog’s leg’s nerve and muscle were connected through a metallic circuit, the leg twitched. Galvani took this to be evidence of the existence of a distinct form of electricity, which he dubbed ‘animal electricity’; similar but not identical to the common electricity derived from electrical machines and Leyden jars. Galvani argued that the brain was the source of this animal electricity, which was then conducted through the nerves to the rest of the body and stored in the muscles in the same way that ordinary electricity was stored in a Leyden jar.12

Galvani’s claims promptly came under attack from a fellow Italian, Alessandro Volta, Professor of Physics at the University of Pavia. Volta had little time for ignorant medical men (as he took Galvani to be) dabbling in electrical experiments. His first assumption when he heard of Galvani’s claims was that they were nonsense. After repeating the experiments, however, he found that the phenomenon Galvani described was real enough. Volta wanted nothing to do with any mysterious ‘animal electricity’ and set out to debunk Galvani’s explanation. He claimed that the source of the electricity lay not in the frogs’ legs, but in the metal strips that were used to complete the circuit. Galvani had noted that two different kinds of metal were needed to make the experiment work and Volta concluded that it was the contact of these two metals that was the real source of electricity. All the frogs’ legs did was act as a conductor. The argument between the two savants raged back and forth for most of the following decade. After Galvani’s death in 1798 others took up the cudgels on his behalf. Volta seemed to have the last word in 1800 when he announced to the world the invention of a new piece of apparatus that seemed to demonstrate his theory beyond question: the voltaic pile was made of copper and zinc discs in contact, each pair separated by cardboard soaked in acid, and it produced a steady stream of electricity.13

Volta seemed vindicated because his pile produced electricity without the presence of animal tissue. To rebut him, Galvani’s followers needed to produce electricity from flesh without the presence of metals. They proceeded to do this with some style. In August 1802 a trio of Turinese experimenters, Giulio, Rossi and Vassalli-Eandi, reported on the results of some experiments carried out on the corpses of recently executed criminals in the city. To confound their enemy they needed to find ways of demonstrating, conclusively, the continuing sensitivity of human flesh to electricity, and also show that it was itself a source of electricity. They reported how, by ‘arming the spinal marrow by means of a cylinder of lead introduced into the canal of the cervical vertebrae, and then conveying one extremity of a silver arc over the surface of the heart, and the other to the arming of the spinal marrow’, they managed to successfully produce some ‘very visible, and very strong contractions’ of the corpse’s heart. They made a point of emphasising, in case their readers missed the crucial point, that the ‘experiments, as seen, were made without any intervention of the pile, and without any armature applied to the heart’.14 To all appearances, the electricity producing these contractions had somehow emanated from the corpse itself.

Galvani’s nephew, Giovanni Aldini, took the challenge even further, embarking on a grand tour of the war-torn continent to defend his uncle’s philosophical reputation against Volta’s calumnies. He followed Volta to Paris in August 1802 to show off his experiments before the First Class of the National Institute (the Republican successor to the Royal Academy of Sciences). Using the heads of decapitated oxen he demonstrated to the sceptical savants – who had, after all, just welcomed Volta into their midst and awarded him a gold medal at Napoleon’s behest – that electricity could indeed be produced from animal bodies.15 One spectator left the demonstration ‘charmed and transported with admiration at the simplicity of the means which nature employs in its phenomena that seem to us the most complex’. It seemed to this willing convert that galvanism accounted for ‘a great number of the phenomena of the animal and vegetable kingdoms’. He agreed with Aldini that nerves and muscles were organised as galvanic piles, and that they were arranged in animal bodies in such a way that ‘they discharge, in regard to each other, the same functions as the different metals the contact of which excites a permanent current of the electric fluid; which is the most valuable discovery for which we are indebted to the pile of Volta’.16