Snuffing out crime in Leeds

With the generous help of The Friends of Leeds City Museums, we have recently purchased a silver snuff box. We already have several in the museum collection, but this one stood out – not for its decorative qualities – but because it was owned by J. Hainsworth.

Hainsworth was a police inspector in Leeds, having been appointed by the Watch Committee. He is referred to in Leeds trade directories relating to 1837, 1839, 1842 and 1843. To the modern citizen, this is nothing new or exciting – we have police all over the city. The difference with Hainsworth and his contemporaries is that they were the original police. The Leeds City Police force was first formed in 1836, with as few as 20 day officers and a chief constable. The force disappeared in 1974, when it underwent a merger to become part of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police.

By 1841, the Leeds City Police had reached 133 officers. The book ‘The Leeds Police 1836-1974’, lists for 1841 “the arms, accoutrements, clothing and other necessaries for the Day Police”:

“1 Constable’s staff, 1 pair of handcuffs, 1 walking stick (note, this is paid for by the Constable himself), 1 dark blue top coat, 1 blue dress coat or body coat, 1 black stock or collar and clasp, 1 box of Crumb’s yellow, 1 button brush, 1 oil cape case, 2 pairs of shoes per annum, 1 pair of blue pantaloons, 2 pairs of white drill pantaloons, 1 hat, 1 armlet to denote when on duty (note: the armlet is not worn by the Inspector but only by the Sergeants and Policemen), 1 printed book on instructions, 1 leather waist belt, 1 pair of white cotton gloves, 1 button stick”

Most items on the list are familiar, but others such as Crumb’s yellow are more of a mystery. We have not found out exactly what it is, but are leaning towards a cleaning substance as it is listed next to the button brush. There were also 40 cutlasses available if needed, but these were more for appearances than everyday use.

A 1974 postcard from when the Leeds City Police were merged with other forces.  It represents a policeman from the period 1836-1860.

The sorts of incidents dealt with by Hainsworth have been recorded in the local press. Not every crime was recorded in this way, but the occasional report appears in the Leeds Mercury or other local papers from the time. For example, this piece, taken from the Northern Star and Leeds General Advertiser, April 27th 1839, goes under the heading of Sunday gambling:

Three young men were brought up at the Court House, on Monday, charged by the churchwardens of the parish with having been found gambling on the previous day, in a lane in Burmantofts. Inspector Hainsworth stated that one of them, on his approach, drew a knife from his pocket, with which he threatened to stab any one who should lay hands on him. They were reprimanded by the Bench, and liberated on entering into their own recognizances for their good behaviour for six months.”

Whilst there are undoubtedly familiar aspects to this statement, there are some obvious differences. Nowadays, football matches are just one of the many organised sports played on Sundays, with people being able to bet as they are any other day of the week, and I doubt that any criminal would be let off on a good behaviour bond for threatening a modern police officer with a knife.

As well as small incidents like the one above, there were far more serious issues that Hainsworth and his colleagues would have had to deal with – for instance in August 1842, they had to deal with the Holbeck and Hunslet Chartist Riots. Around 1,600 special constables were sworn in to assist the regular police, alongside soldiers from the Yorkshire Regiment and 17th Lancers and even horse artillery. They had to contend with a mob travelling from one mill to the next, where violent disturbances quickly followed.

Events came to a head when Chief Constable Read managed to beat most of the mob to a mill on Dewsbury Road, and locked a few inside the mill whilst ensuring the others could not get in. A large number of the special constables then caught up with the mob where the Riot Act was read, the crowd told to disperse and 38 people were arrested. Sentences for those convicted ranged from being bound over to keep the peace, to being deported for several years.



An example of a police sword from the museum collection - probably a little after Joseph Hainsworth's time as it was used in the 1889 Gas Riots.



Overall, some aspects of modern policing would be unrecognisable to their predecessors such as Hainsworth, but in some ways the challenge remains the same – maintaining law and order and keeping the people of Leeds safe and riot free.

Written by Nicola, researched by our placement student Hollie Scott from Leeds Trinity University College.


Ellen Terry centre stage again in Leeds



Ellen Terry as Portia (Merchant of Venice),
sketched by Jim Dodgson (Kester),
a member of the Leeds Savage Club.
This was probably during her 1902 tour.

 The renowned Shakespearean actress Ellen Terry (1847-1928) visited Leeds many times during her career and performed with her stage partner Henry Irving at the Leeds Grand Theatre on many occasions.

We have a number of items in the Leeds museum and gallery collections relating to this great actress and they feature in the new "Performance" exhibition now open at Abbey House Museum (until December 2012).  The display includes a beautiful cream silk dress which was reputedly designed for Ellen Terry and was worn by the actress K.L. Langstaffe when playing Desdemona in 1898.  It was originally made by a top London dressmaker, Alice Mason of 4 New Burlington St. and has been lovingly conserved by Jacqueline Hyman of Heritage Science Services (http://www.heritagescienceservices.com/).   Jacqueline says that she felt a personal connection to the dress as she was working on it because her great-grandfather had owned a theatre in Leeds and actually knew Ellen Terry, naming Jacqueline's grandmother Ellen in her honour.


Textile conservator Jacqueline Hyman
making final adjustments to the Ellen Terry
dress for display at Abbey House.



Leeds Grand Theatre, New Briggate, Sept. 8th 1881,
Henry Irving and Ellen Terry's performance of "Hamlet"



Medallion of Ellen Terry, 1936 (plaster)
by Albert Toft (1862-1949)



Miss Bradley's tea set - a tale of factory work and marriage

Trawling through the industrial collection's accession registers this morning, I have managed to unearth the hidden story behind one of the many unprovenanced decorative Victorian tea services we have in our stores.

The story highlights the fact that although women and girls may have formed a good percentage of the workforce in many industrial mills and factories, they were not supposed to continue to work once they married.

Miss Emma Bradley (the donor's grandmother) worked for John Barran & Son Ltd. as a tailor and machinist until her marriage.  It was the practice of the firm to retire female workers when they married and this tea set was the firm's gift on this compulsory retirement.

John Barran was a pioneer in the manufacture of ready-to-wear clothing.  He started of as a traditional tailor in 1842 but soon expanded his business on an industrial scale, taking advantage of new technology such as the sewing machine.  In 1856 he had a factory with 20-30 sewing machine and in 1858 he introduced the use of a bandsaw to cut cloth.  By the 1870s he had 2,000 machines and by 1904 he employed 3,000 people.

Wool cuttling machine for folding cloth from John Barran & Sons Ltd,
on display at Leeds Industrial Museum (Armley Mills)

Female Learners Certificate of Employment
 issued by John Barran & Sons Limited, Leeds
to Amy Evelyn Brown in 1912. 
On display in The Leeds Story, Leeds City Museum

These shoes were made for walking...

Shoes are a necessary part of our lives and have been for thousands of years. The earliest known shoe found in Minnesota, US is over 8,000 years old! Early shoes were made for their practicality. The wearer was not particularly concerned with how well the shoes complimented their outfit, the drier their feet were kept was of far more concern.

As time wore shoes began to take on greater importance as they indicated the level of a person’s social and economic status. They were the ultimate accessory to compliment one’s outfit and changed almost as frequently as they do today. The more elaborate and decorative the shoe, the more their practicality and ability to be worn easily diminished. From medieval men’s ‘poulaines’, shoes with such long pointy toes that laws needed passing to limit their size to the ‘platforms’ of the 1970s, shoe styles have significantly varied.

Black synthetic platforms bought in 1974 for £10.99 and worn by a 16yr old Leeds girl

During the seventeenth century the development of a proper heel and arched sole became the shoe fashion ideal. In France during the reign of Louis XVI (1638-1715) high heels became very popular for men. Having shapely legs became a dominant fashion feature for both men and women and having beautifully decorated shoes to accentuate those legs was of the up most importance.

Female silk brocade shoes with pattern, 1730-1740

By the nineteenth century shoes began to differentiate between left and right. Before that shoes had been made as ‘straights’. The fashion mood became more sober and women’s shoes had more subdued colours. The feet were expected to look small and delicate as befitting ‘gentle birth’ and women were encouraged to ‘pinch their feet into small shoes’. During this time shoes also began to be mass produced in factories rather than in small shoemakers’ shops meaning that cheaper shoes were more widely available. Outdoor sports also began to have an impact on the types of shoes produced.

Black patent leather slip on shoes with blue silk embroidery, 1865-1875

Moving into the twentieth century, the wars dictated the fashion of shoes. During WW2 the ‘peep toe’ shoe, considered frivolous and potentially dangerous was banned until the end of the war. The subcultures that appeared in the 1970s such as punk greatly influenced shoe fashions and shoes were produced that reflected this.

Leeds Museums’ collection has examples of shoes made by famous designers such as Walter Steiger and Vivenne Westwood. As well as high street names like Dolcis and Bally. These shoes were bought and worn by Leeds inhabitants.

Red satin shoes made by Dolcis, 1960

Walter Steiger evening shoes bought for dancing, 1980-1985

Nowadays shoes come in many varieties to go with the changing seasons, different outfits and all kinds of activities. How many pairs of shoes do you have?

By Georgie Cash

Make Do and Mend

Or make do on rations

In 1938, on the eve of the Second World War, fashion critics were returning from Paris with exclaims that ‘Paris has decreed a new women’ who would be ‘veiled and gloved and corseted’. It seemed that tight-lacing was about to return to the world of fashion, replacing the tubular and more practical styles of dress that had swept it away in the 1920s. But the outbreak of World War II in 1939 cut Britain off from Parisian Haute Couture and halted such transformations in fashion.

Shortages in materials made it necessary for strict regulations to be applied to all production. ‘The Utility Clothing Scheme’ was launched by the government in 1941, with the aim to save 15% of domestic fabric production. The use of zips was no longer allowed as the metal was needed for arms production – some cosmetics manufacturers even began re-filling lipstick cases because of metal shortages! Buttons were limited and skirt hems rose as the Scheme specified fabric widths and lengths. Turn-back cuffs, patch pockets and hoods were banned completely as a part of a ‘no fabric on fabric’ rule. An Order in 1942 even deemed it unpatriotic and illegal to spend time embellishing clothes for sale!

The Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers (ISLFD) - a group of designers and couturiers including House of Worth, Molyneaux, Hardy Amies and Lachasse - was established in 1942 to work with the Board of Trade. Under the war-time restrictions, the ISLFD created 32 clothing designs for mass-production. The garments had to be hard wearing and practical. The emerging tailored, slim silhouette, with square shoulders and a pronounced waist echoed the cut of military uniforms. The CC41 label was applied by manufacturers as a guarantee that the garment met the strict conditions for design and production.

All clothing – Utility Clothing included – fell under the coupon rationing system which was introduced in June 1941. People were given 66 coupons per year, but by 1945, this was reduced to as few as 36. To purchase a suit you needed 18 coupons, and a dress would need 12. With coupons limited and stockings in short supply, many women began to go bare legged, some even painting or drawing lines on the back of their legs to imitate a stocking seam!

Money was still needed to pay for goods alongside the coupons, and some people were simply too poor. This encouraged a ‘make do and mend’ attitude. Women were encouraged to follow the example of “Mrs Sew and Sew”, a character featured in advertisements and propaganda to promote the recycling of textiles. There were also other ways to express fashion; through brightly coloured headscarves, bold hairstyles and elaborate hats (which remained un-rationed).

Shortages continued even after the war ended in 1945, but fashion was already breaking away from war-time styles. In 1947, Christian Dior’s revolutionary first collection was hailed as the ‘New Look’, its signature silhouette characterized by a long, full skirt and a tiny waist. Dior purposefully broke away from war time restrictions, his creations famously using up to twenty yards of fabric. Rationing finally came to an end in 1949, paving the way for a very fashionable fifties! Utility Clothes, are now recognised for their high quality, and you can see examples of those that have stood the test of time at Leeds Museum Discovery Centre.



By Shauni Sanderson

“Did I tell you I was a train driver in Africa…?”

Noticing that the subtitle title of the blog is “Exploring the secret histories of the collections” I thought you might be interested in some of the on-going stories an object collects through its life whilst in the collection but outreaching into the community.

Last year I began running series' of reminiscence sessions at Wheatfields and St. Gemma’s Hospices in North Leeds. I am always taken off guard by the seemingly never-ending ability of objects to get people talking, not just about museums-approved stories but offering the most amazing personal details and memories of past adventures.

Once we get past the initial assumption that the “lady from the museum” (always makes me look round for the lady!) is here to deliver an in-depth lecture on 13th Century Bell Ringing or the complex mating rituals of the common fig wasp, we can get down to the business of “here’s something you might find interesting…did you ever…?” – insert open-ended / humorous question here. People to date have generally contributed willingly - apart from the man who told me it was none of my business after I phrased a question poorly (serves me right for prying).

Unlikely objects which have precipitated good stories have included a 1970s skateboard, alongside which I asked a question about dangerous things people used to do when they were younger. I was bombarded with tales of tree climbing (and falling), rope swinging, “bogey” making (apparently nothing to do with nasal nastiness but making a steerable go-kart out of old pram wheels) and the seemingly ancient Yorkshire pastime of “chumping”.

One gentleman told me with great relish about his group of mates who were paid by a local farmer to gather firewood for the November bonfire. Every year they deliberately piled the wood just a little too close for comfort to the gentleman farmer’s barn wall thereby necessitating another payment to get the pile moved to a safer distance! When asked if the farmer ever got annoyed at this quite transparent money-making venture, the man replied, “Well, he kept paying us!”

During a session on the topic of food and drink, I pulled out a “can opener” from the mystery box of outreach dreams and unwrapped it explaining that it was from our “customs collection” and was made from the tooth of a hippopotamus. I was pontificating about how a whole hippo had died to make what really amounted to quite a pathetic kitchen implement only to be interrupted by a strident voice telling me that I’d got it wrong.

I assured the gentleman that I probably, most certainly was wrong and, offering it as a glaring example of my ignorance, I told the group that my real reason for visiting was in order to fix my highly inadequate “southern” education by soaking up any pearls of wisdom offered by the generous souls I meet. What I actually said was “Well, that’s what it says on the box but I’m not from round these parts so what’s the real answer?” - only to be roundly informed that it was, of course, a can piercer the kind of which one might use to puncture air holes in a can of evaporated milk in order to drink it (apparently a nice thing rather than a punishment) or pour it on your pie.

Imagine then a discussion about people’s cream / custard / condensed milk preferences, tales of hiding food from stern and eagle-eyed dinner ladies, “scrumping” in orchards, making home-made toffee apples out of the caramelised dregs of sugar cane in the corner of a farmer’s field and serving a pint of ale in one powerful pull of the pump (the tiny lady who contributed this little gem spoke so proudly) and then a voice cutting through it all with:

“Did I ever tell you about the time I ran over a hippopotamus with my train?”

The low murmur of conversation around the room disappeared. We searched the room for the speaker who turned out to be the gentleman who had spent the majority of the previous hour drifting in and out of sleep (quite normal for all my sessions).

Tea cups were rattling - a sure sign that I was soon to pack up and leave - but I just got time to hear about the long, heavy cargo trains he had driven across vast areas of sparsely populated, post-war East Africa. He’d seen the beast straddling the tracks too late to stop and the resulting “knock” hadn’t derailed the engine but had left the creature looking “not very clever”. Dead of course - mercifully by the sounds of it!

I feel truly privileged to have heard such an excellent tale! And how bizarre that it was inspired by an object which had been brought to start conversations about people’s food and drink memories.
Seeing the gentleman holding the hippo tooth, telling his tale to an astounded audience and the gentle smile of a good memory remembered was priceless. Call it stolen, call it borrowed but his story has become part of my set of stories I can use to engage people’s interest in the objects I use for outreach. And all good stories should be retold!...

Scraping away the Past

As a recent graduate of Archaeology, I was very grateful for the opportunity to work with the prehistoric collections at Leeds Museum Discovery Centre. During my time here I have catalogued hundreds of flint and stone tools attributed to the the Middle Palaeolithic right through to the Bronze Age. That's over 25,000 years of human history from all over the world. I find it fascinating that over 95% of our lives as modern humans has been lived in the prehistoric period and yet there is still so much we don't know about this major part of our history.

After spending a few weeks looking at Palaeolithic flint hand axes, knives, arrowheads and scrapers (25,000-10,000 BC), I looked at some later artefacts from the Neolithic period (4,000-2,500 BC), and what did I find? More flint knives, arrowheads and scrapers! What struck me most was that, although technology had clearly improved, the types of tools being produced were more or less the same, and fulfilled the same purpose.

The artefact I am choosing to present here grabbed my attention for two reasons. Firstly, it has a unique shape, and secondly, it gives us an insight into life in Neolithic Britain and helps to dispel some common assumptions. The object is a Neolithic scraper from the Yorkshire seaside town of Bridlington (accession number LEEDM.D.1964.0011.005). It was donated to Leeds Museum in 1917 by James Edward Bedford and is a part of a collection of over 300 flint scrapers, arrowheads and knives from Bridlington.

This type of scraper is called a spokeshave, and would have been used mainly for woodworking to fashion tools such as arrows and spears. Scrapers have been used since the Middle Palaeolithic and were made by making a thick row of scars across a flake or blade in order to create a thick, wide angled edge. When the object became blunt they were re-sharpened until they were too small to use, and then discarded.

Spokeshaves would be used to hollow out wood or bone, and remove bark from wood. They could also have been used for hide working, where hides were scraped to remove meat and tendons from the bones of animals.

The Neolithic period is known for the 'Neolithic Revolution', when people first started to move from a hunter-gatherer way of life to a sedentary lifestyle , occupying year-round settlements and domesticating animals to become the first farmers. But this transition was not instantaneous, illustrated by objects like this. Tools like scrapers were multi-purpose, very portable and easily re-used, suiting a mobile hunter-gatherer society. This object is part of a huge collection of portable Neolithic tools collected from Bridlington, hinting at a permanent settlement here. But research presented by Professor Julian Thomas suggests that Bridlington may have been a place where people continued to return to cyclically or sporadically, perhaps to exploit local resources of stone and flint.

Ultimately what this small piece of flint has taught me is that spokeshaves (scrapers) were a very useful bit of kit for hunter-gatherers. We can infer that people in the Neolithic weren't ready to give up their mobile way of life just yet, and in fact farming probably took around two thousand years to spread across Britain, making the Neolithic the last major flint tool-making period.

Author: Amy Davies, Leeds Museums and Galleries Intern 2011