PERSPECTIVE UKNORTH
People and their profiles: dukes, archbishops, actors, writers, monks, oddbods, the garish, the gregarious - here they are in single file, chosen by chance, by inclination, or by necessity ... and all reflecting, one hopes, the essential, but indefinable, spark that makes one human being interesting to many. Geoffrey Mather
On a wing and a prayer
The intermittent hysteria over air travel, particularly in America where they seem to gain positive intelligence about something or other but not enough to arrest anybody, reminds me of two things:
Events in a Northern church in 1827; and -
Strange goings on in a textile mill in 1787.
If this relationship seems remote, bear with me.
Some 300 people - "good and loyal" in an account of the time - gathered at the church to respect the memory of the late Duke of York. The church was not well lighted and 38 candles gave it a gloomy appearance.
The Rev. William Gray had proceeded in the service as far as the Psalms when down fell, not the gallery, nor the organ, nor the pulpit, but a small piece of plaster from under the gallery into a pew where some females (sorry, Germaine) were sitting.
"An electric spark could not have produced a more instantaneous operation," declared a Bolton newspaper. "Imagination pictured the whole edifice as tumbling about their ears. They screamed and did all the etceteras which women in a state of alarm (whoops! sorry again, Germaine; I am merely quoting) will do. Locks, bolts and bars under such circumstances became mere straws. The pew doors were burst open. A general rush for safety was the immediate consequence and as the window was the most convenient aperture for some, they sallied through it, but the man who first breached it (ok, Germaine?) cut his hand in the attempt."
Now we are getting somewhere. Fasten seatbelts at this point.
"A detachment of the 36th Foot was in the gallery and Captain Cairns, who was sitting at that side of it, opposite to his men, hearing this extraordinary confusion, made nothing of pews, forms, or seats, but gallantly cleared all, placed himself by the side of his men and valiantly drew his sword and ordered them to fix bayonets."
I am not jesting here. Captain Cairns and me are in deadly earnest.
"The carabineers also drew their swords and the church presented the appearance of being in a state of defence against a mighty vendetta attack.. The confusion kept increasing. Those in the gallery rushed to the stairs, down which they went as swift as shot, tumbling over each other in the most grotesque and ludicrous manner imaginable."
A stout gentleman (right, Germaine?) cried, "Oh my children, my children. Let me come out. I have got two little children at home."
He had a wife, too, and the account goes on, "it would appear that in the conglomeration of his ideas, he forgot her."
The clergyman, meanwhile, stuck heroically to his desk, unmoved, and with the most significant signs and gestures urged the congregation to be quiet as the church was in danger. Hats, bonnets and shawls suffered in the general wreck and many an exchange was made. The bayonets were returned to their sheathes eventually, the valiant captain resumed his seat, and the service was, at length, resumed.
Now - does that strike a chord sufficient to be heard in Washington? Or am I being fanciful. Maybe I am. I make no claims. I could be terribly wrong. A man who would put a bomb in his shoe, then wear it, is not likely to get far in a discussion on logic.
But in case I am not too fanciful, let us consider the second strange event of 1787.
It is described in a freshly-minted and incredibly well researched book* - 14 years in the making - by a retired journalist named Chris Aspin..
A girl in a mill had a live mouse dropped down her dress as a joke. She had great fear of mice and "was immediately thrown into a fit, and continued in it, with the most violent convulsions, for 24 hours." The following day, three more girls were similarly afflicted and later, six more.
The story got about that here was a disease released from a newly-opened bag of cotton and the workers refused to carry on. So the owners of the mill sent for a Dr. St. Clare, who must have been wise indeed.
Meanwhile, the hysteria took hold at a factory two miles away. The symptoms were: anxiety, strangulation and very strong convulsions, some lasting from between 15 minutes and 24 hours.
The outbreak ended as unusually as it began.
For Dr St Clare arrived with "a portable electrical machine and by electric shocks, the patients were universally relieved without exception." The best effects were "obtained by causing them to take a cheerful glass and join a dance." Trouble ended.
If he did not get twenty golden guineas for his services, I would be disappointed.
But to the present: I am not suggesting that the present hysteria is imagined. There have been sufficient deaths around the world to show that the threat is real, and apparently, permanent. It is, however, a question whether imagination has heightened it to a degree that goes beyond logic. I do no more than suggest that there might be more subdued ways of dealing with it.
Specific flights delayed with vast amounts of publicity. Fighter planes at the wing tips. The thought of "friendly fire." Officials being specific about intelligence without being specific enough. All of it given enormous publicity. Not very good, is it?
A friend discussed locked cabin doors with pilots. One described a theoretical problem:
"All my passengers and their luggage have undergone rigorous security checks. I've got my door locked and a hostess calls me on the intercom and says 'There is a man here who has put a biro into my ear and says he is going to bang it into my brain if you don't follow his instructions'"What would you suggest I do?"
Tough, isn't it?
Not the sort of question I, or anyone I know, would care to answer.
Perhaps Dr St Clare would have had an immediate solution. But he is long gone.*The Water-Spinners, a new look at the early cotton trade, by Chris Aspin (£33.50 in hardback, £24.95 softback, plus postage from Helmshore Local History Society, 4 East Street, Helmshore, BB4 4JT)
Geoffrey Mather © 2004
3 February, 2009