Chapter I: Typhus and Other Continued Fevers (7)

In the last thirty years of the 18th century the accounts of fever in England became more detailed as to its circumstances, and more numerically precise. I shall accordingly bring together all that I can find relevant to fever in London, Liverpool, Newcastle and Chester, and thereafter in those towns, such as Manchester, Leeds, and others in the North, which were specially touched in their public health by the movement known as the Industrial Revolution.

Typhus Fever in London, 1770-1800.

In the London bills of mortality the item of fevers diminishes steadily during the latter part of the 18th century, the deaths from all causes diminish, the births come nearer to the number of the deaths, and in three years of the last decade they exceed them. This statistical result is doubtless roughly correct; but the bills were becoming more and more inadequate to the whole metropolitan area; and even for the original parishes which they included they have not the same value for fever in the later period as they had for plague at their beginning[236]. On the other hand, from about the year 1770 we begin to have more exact medical accounts of fever in London, which are not indeed numerically exhaustive, but good as samples of what was going on. Whatever improvement there was in the prevalence of typhus fever touched the richer classes. The Paving Act of 1766 is credited with having improved the health of the City, and there were many new streets and squares being built in the west end that were, of course, free from typhus. It is to these desirable residential quarters that the eulogies of Sir John Pringle[237], Dr John Moore[238] and others apply. The slums of London were as yet unimproved, and but little known to the physicians. Lettsom, who was one of the first of his class to visit among the poor in their homes, has much to say of typhus fever; but he is emphatic that it was nearly all an infection of the poor. “In the airy parts of this city,” he writes in 1773, “and in large, open streets, fevers of a putrid tendency rarely arise.... In my practice I have attentively observed that at least forty-eight out of fifty of these fevers have existed in narrow courts and alleys.” The same is remarked by Currie for Liverpool, by Clark for Newcastle, by Percival and Ferriar for Manchester, by Haygarth for Chester, and by Heysham for Carlisle.

The quarters of the rich had gradually become detached from those of the poor. I have shown this more especially for Chester, where the old walls made a clear division; but it was general in the second half of the 18th century[239].

Medical practice lay mostly among the richer classes; the physicians knew little of the state of health in the cellars and tenement-houses of large towns. Those physicians who did know how much typhus fever there was in these purlieus had to enter a caveat against the incredulity of the rest. Dr Currie of Liverpool, whose facts I shall give in their place, protested that he was not exaggerating; a protest the more necessary that a contemporary of his own, Mr Moss, a middle-class practitioner, who wrote a book specially on the medical aspects of Liverpool, declares that fever is “rare” in that city, while Currie was treating from his dispensary a steady average of three thousand cases of typhus every year. In the same years, in February, 1779, a physician to the army, Dr John Hunter, who had commenced practice in Mayfair, found on visiting in the homes of the poorer classes in the west of London cases of fever for which he had no other name than the gaol or hospital fever of his military experience; it was so much a novelty to him, apart from campaigns or transport ships, that he gave an account of his discovery of domestic typhus to the College of Physicians[240]. At length he found so many cases steadily winter after winter that he had them sent to the infirmary of the Marylebone Workhouse. The practitioners who knew most of the sicknesses of the poor were such as Robert Levett, Dr Samuel Johnson’s dependant, who lived with the doctor in the house in Gough Square. Levett had been a waiter in a Paris coffee-house frequented by the medical fraternity, and had acquired a taste for and perhaps some knowledge of the healing art. He made his modest living by the small fees or articles of food and drink which his poor patients gave him. He had only to issue from the back of Gough Square by the courts and alleys behind Fleet Street, and he would find in the region between Chancery Lane and Shoe Lane hundreds of families seldom visited by a physician or by a qualified surgeon-apothecary. The good Levett was only one of a class. There had always been such humble medical attendants of the poor in London. An Act of the third year of Henry VIII. was directed against them at the instance of the privileged practitioners; but the regular faculty is said to have proved in the sequel both greedy and incompetent, and after thirty years there came another Act, couched in terms that the bluff king himself might have indited (31-32 Henry VIII.), which asserts those qualities of the profession in so many words, and establishes the right of any subject of the king to practise minor surgery and the medicine of simples upon his or her neighbours. That Act is still part of the law of England, and under it Levett exercised a statutory right, perhaps without knowing it[241]. There were many other regions of courts and alleys all round the City on both sides of the water, which must have been medically served by such as Levett, if served at all. It was there that typhus was found and at length clinically described by competent physicians, among the earliest of whom was Lettsom.

The General Dispensary in Aldersgate Street having been started in 1770 with one physician, Lettsom was chosen additional physician in 1773, and threw himself into the work with great zeal[242]. In the first twelvemonth he saw many cases of fever, as in the following table:

_Lettsom’s practice in Fevers at the Aldersgate Dispensary._

1773

Febris April May June July Aug. Sept. Oct. Nov. Dec.

hectica 2 2 4 13 4 2 3 4 9
inflammatoria -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 1 1
intermittens 3 1 7 1 1 1 1 -- 2
nervosa 4 3 4 14 7 11 4 5 1
putrida 14 19 14 25 14 21 34 22 11
remittens 6 10 5 4 3 6 7 3 12
simplex vel -- 2 1 6 2 5 4 5 --
diarium

1774
Total in
Febris Jan. Feb. March 12 months Died

hectica 12 18 13 86 3
inflammatoria 1 -- 2 5 --
intermittens 1 2 2 22 --
nervosa 1 5 4 65 3
putrida 6 7 5 192 8
remittens 13 10 3 82 --
simplex vel -- -- 4 29 --
diarium

The nervous, putrid and remittent fevers, belonging, to the same group, make up the bulk of the fevers. The hectic fevers were almost all of children. The fatal cases of fever were fourteen, the fatal cases in all diseases for the year having been forty-four. What these putrid, nervous and remittent fevers were, will now appear from some of Lettsom’s descriptions. Fevers with symptoms of putrescency were marked by nausea, bitter taste, and frequent vomiting, by laboured breathing and deep sighing, offensive breath, sweats offensive and sometimes tinged with blood, almost constant delirium, the tongue dry, the tongue, teeth and lips covered with black or brown tenacious foulness, thrush and ulceration in the mouth and throat, the urine with a dark sediment, the stools excessively nauseous and foetid, and blackish or bloody, the eyes horny or glassy, with the whites often tinged of a deep blood colour, spots on the skin like fleabites, or larger haemorrhagic vibices, bleeding from the gums, nose or old ulcers, hiccup near death, often a cough through the fever. Lettsom’s treatment consisted in good liquors, Peruvian bark, and above all fresh, or “cold” air: “When it is considered that putrid fevers originate in close unventilated places, the introduction of fresh air seems so natural a remedy that I have often admired its aid should have been so long neglected[243].” Accordingly he persuaded the poor people to open their windows, and dragged the sick out of doors as soon as it was safe to do so; the effects, he says, were wonderful. His fifty-one cases are most valuable illustrations of the perennial fever in the crowded parts of London:

Case 1 is of a man aged forty who had occasion to visit a miserable
crowded workhouse in Spitalfields. He was instantly seized with such a
nausea and debility as induced him to keep his room as soon as he got
home. At the end of a week Lettsom found him in “the true jail-fever,
or, what is the same, a true workhouse-fever.” He had involuntary
stools and leaping of the tendons, and took more wine in a week than
he had done for many years.

Cases 2 to 12 were of several families in one house in a court in Long
Lane, Aldersgate Street, who had been infected by a discharged
prisoner from Newgate. Other cases follow, where the infection was
caught from visiting the sick. In Case 17, Lettsom applied blisters
“owing to the importunity of the friends,” but without advantage. Case
30, on 26th October, 1773, was of a family of six persons near Christ
Church, Lambeth, father, mother, boy of seventeen, child of two
(slight attack) and two maids. Other localities were courts off
Whitecross Street, Jewin Street, Little Moorfields, Chiswell Street,
and St Martin’s-le-Grand. Case 43 was of a woman, aged thirty, in
Bunhill Row; she attended a relation who died of a putrid fever, and
was herself attacked; her eyes were bloodshot, her skin marbled and
interspersed with a general deep-coloured eruption, her cheeks and
nose mortified. Cases 44-47 were of people in a “very helpless
situation” in Gloucester Court, Whitecross Street.

The year 1773, to which these experiences in a small part of London relate, was one of high febrile mortality, according to the Bills. Two years after, Dr William Grant was moved to write an ‘Essay on the Pestilential Fever of Sydenham, commonly called Gaol, Hospital, Ship and Camp Fever[244],’ which, as he said in his preface, “I often see in this city: and though so common and fatal, appears not at present to be generally understood.” It was, he says, “an indigenous plant, frequent in this city, being produced by close confinement; but it often passes unnoticed, because unknown.” The deaths by “fever” in the London Bills were as follows until the end of the century:

_Deaths from Fever and from all causes in London._

Fever All
Year deaths deaths

1771 2273 21780
1772 3207 26053
1773 3608 21656
1774 2607 20884
1775 2244 20514
1776 1893 19048
1777 2760 23334
1778 2647 20399
1779 2336 20420
1780 2316 20517
1781 2249 20719
1782 2552 17918
1783 2313 19029
1784 1973 17828
1785 2310 18919
1786 2981 20454
1787 2887 19349
1788 2769 19697
1789 2380 20749
1790 2185 18038
1791 2013 18760
1792 2236 20213
1793 2426 21749
1794 1935 19241
1795 1947 21179
1796 1547 19288
1797 1526 17014
1798 1754 18155
1799 1784 18134
1800 2712 23068

There were higher figures in the years immediately before 1771, the years to which the generalities of Fordyce and Armstrong relate. There is a decline in the fever-mortality towards the end of the century; but it is just from the years 1799-1800 that we have an account by Willan of the prevalence and conditions of London typhus, than which nothing can well be imagined worse. The intermediate glimpses we get of typhus in London in the writings of Dr Hunter, physician, and of Dr James Sims, show that the disease was perennial.

“In the month of February, 1779,” says Hunter[245], “I met with two
examples of fever in the lodgings of some poor people whom I visited
that resembled in their symptoms the distemper which is called the
jail or hospital fever. It appeared singular that this disease should
show itself after three months of cold weather. Being therefore
desirous of learning the circumstances upon which this depended I
neglected no opportunity of attending to similar cases. I soon found a
sufficient number of them for the purpose of further information. It
appeared that the fever began in all in the same way and originated
from the same causes. A poor family, consisting of the husband, the
wife, and one or more children, were lodged in a small apartment not
exceeding twelve or fourteen feet in length, and as much in breadth.
The support of them depended on the industry and daily labour of the
husband, who with difficulty could earn enough to purchase food
necessary for their existence, without being able to provide
sufficient clothing or fuel against the inclemencies of the season. In
order therefore to defend themselves against the cold of the winter,
their small apartment was closely shut up, and the air excluded by
every possible means. They did not remain long in this situation
before the air became so vitiated as to affect their health and
produce a fever in some one of the miserable family. The fever was not
violent at first, but generally crept on gradually ... soon after the
first a second was seized with the fever, and in a few days more the
whole family perhaps were attacked, one after another, with the same
distemper. I have oftener than once seen four of a family ill at one
time and sometimes all lying on the same bed. The fever appeared
sooner or later as the winter was more or less inclement, as the
family was greater or smaller, as they were worse or better provided
with clothes for their persons and beds, and with fuel, and as their
apartment was more or less confined. The slow approach of the fever,
the great loss of strength, the quickness of the pulse with little
hardness or fulness, the tremors of the hands, and the petechiae or
brown spots upon the skin, to which may be added the infectious nature
of the distemper, left no doubt of its being the same with what is
usually called the jail or hospital-fever.”

Dr James Sims, who had seen much of Irish typhus in Tyrone in his earlier years, and had removed to London, wrote of typhus among the poor there in 1786, ten years before the more systematic and more circumstantial descriptions by Willan[246].

This fever was exceedingly mortal, several medical men, he had reason to believe, falling sacrifices to it. Sims never saw the cases till the 7th or 8th day, when they were desipient, insensible, with pulse scarcely to be felt and not to be counted, all having petechiae. None had scarlet rash or sore-throat. They sank and died quietly; the strongest cordials did not produce the smallest effect, and blisters in many did not even raise the skin[247].

It is in the year 1796 that we begin to have the full and accurate records by Willan of the prevailing diseases of London month by month as he saw them at the Carey Street Dispensary, situated in the crowded quarter between Holborn and the Strand[248]. His first reference to typhus is as follows:

“In September, also, fevers usually appear which from their
commencement exhibit symptoms of malignancy; being attended with a
brown dry tongue, violent pain of the head, delirium, or coma,
deep-seated pains of the limbs, petechial spots and haemorrhagy. These
fevers become highly contagious, especially when they occur in close,
confined situations, and in houses where little attention is paid to
ventilation or cleanliness. The disease is extended by infection
during the months of October and November, but its progress is
generally stopped by the frosts of December.”

Willan says little more of fever in London until September, 1798, when these contagious malignant fevers became more numerous, both in the city and adjacent villages, than had been known for many years before; also the fever was more fatal than usual, one in five or six dying, whereas one in seven was formerly a very unfavourable death-rate, and one in twenty not unknown. Haemorrhages, aphthae, diarrhoea, starting of the tendons, picking the bedclothes, violent delirium, ending in deafness, stupor, hiccough and involuntary evacuations, were the usual accompaniments of this fever. In the corresponding months of 1799 he recurs to the symptoms of this “malignant contagious fever,” and depicts typhus as clearly as may be. In September, 1799, it was “attended with a dull pain of the head, great debility or sense of lassitude and pains referred to the bones, tremblings, restlessness with slight delirium, a querulous tone of voice, a small and frequent pulse, heat of the skin, thirst and a fur upon the tongue, first of a dirty white colour, but turning in the latter stage of the disease to a yellowish brown. In this form the fever continued thirteen days without any dangerous symptoms, and then suddenly disappeared, leaving the patient, for some time after, languid and dispirited. All the individuals of a family were successively affected with the same train of symptoms; many of them so slightly as not to be much confined to their beds.” In October and November he describes the symptoms of the disease in a more dangerous form. By this fever, he was informed, some houses of the poor had been almost depopulated, the infection having extended to every inmate. “The rumour of a plague was totally devoid of foundation.”

He then describes the state of the dwellings where such fevers occurred--the unwashed bed-linen, the numbers in one bed, the rooms encumbered with furniture or utensils of trade, the want of light and air in the cellars and garrets and in the passages thereto, the excremental effluvia from the vault at the bottom of the staircase. It cannot be wondered at, he concludes, that contagious diseases should be thereby formed, and attain their highest degree of virulence; and he estimates that “hundreds, perhaps thousands” of labourers in and near London, heads of families and in the prime of life, perished annually from such fevers. He denies that his account is exaggerated, and appeals for the truth of it to medical practitioners whose “situation or humanity has led them to be acquainted with” the localities[249].

Typhus in Liverpool, Newcastle and Chester in the last quarter of the 18th century.

Liverpool, in the last quarter of the 18th century, came next in size to London, having a population (in 1790) of 56,000 to the capital’s estimated 800,000. According to a medical author, whose experiences lay among the middle classes, it was everything that could be wished in the way of healthfulness and prosperity; but it had a dark side as well. About 7,000 of the people lived in cellars underground, and nearly 9,000 in back houses, in small confined courts with a narrow passage to the street. “Among the inhabitants of the cellars,” says Currie[250], “and of these back houses, the typhus is constantly present; and the number of persons under this disease that apply for medical assistance to the charitable institutions, the public will be astonished to hear, exceeds three thousand annually.... In sixteen years’ practice I have found the contagious fever of Liverpool remarkably uniform among the poor. Seldom extending itself in any considerable degree among the other classes of the community, it has been supposed that Liverpool was little subject to fever; but this will be shewn from authentic documents to be a great and pernicious error.” At the Dispensary in the year 1780 the cases of typhus averaged 160 per month, the numbers being as remarkably steady from month to month as from year to year. In the ten years from 1 January, 1787, to 31 December, 1796, 31,243 cases of fever were entered on the books of the Dispensary, an average of 3124 per annum[251].

Of 213,305 cases of all diseases at the Dispensary in seventeen years, 1780 to 1796, 48,367, nearly one-fourth, were labouring under typhus. Supposing that these were all the cases of typhus in Liverpool, and that 1 in 15 died, we should have some 150 deaths from typhus in a year. Supposing also that typhus was relatively as common at that time in London, it will follow that nearly all the deaths under “fever” in the bills of mortality might well have been from typhus fever; for London in its several densely populated out-parishes was the fever-quarter of Liverpool a dozen times over[252].

The Newcastle Dispensary was opened in October, 1777, by the exertions of Dr John Clark, who was in correspondence with Lettsom in London[253]. Dr Clark had been in the East India Company’s service, and had seen much of ship-fever and of the fevers of the East. During a visit to his home in Roxburghshire in the summer of 1770, between his voyages, he attended several persons in continued fever. When he settled at Newcastle he saw the worst kinds of contagious fever, in workhouses and “in the sordid and crowded habitations of the indigent.” Putrid fever, or typhus, was by far the most common disease attended from the new dispensary, although less than at Liverpool, the operations of the charity being on a much smaller scale. It was seldom out of Newcastle a whole year; and in some years, as 1778, 1779, 1783, 1786 and 1787 it was unusually rife in particular districts, often attacking whole families. Scarlet fever was epidemic and very fatal in 1778 and 1779, while dysentery attacked great numbers of the poor in the autumns of 1783 and 1785. The following Table shows the principal diseases attended from the Dispensary during the first twenty-three months of its working, 1 Oct. 1777, to 1 Sept. 1779:

_Newcastle Dispensary 1777-79._

Cases Too far
visited Cured advanced Dead

Putrid fever 391 357 9 16
Ulcerated sore-throat 146 125 11 9
Dysentery 72 55 5 4
Smallpox 45 29 5 6

From 1 Oct. 1777, to 1 Sept. 1789, the cases of typhus visited were 1920, of which 121 were fatal. During the winter of 1790 and the spring and summer of 1791 it was prevalent amongst the poor, and was frequently introduced into genteel families and sometimes even into those of the first distinction. That outbreak was supposed to have been generated in the Gateshead poorhouse. For some time its ravages were confined chiefly to the low, ill-aired, narrow street called Pipewell Gate. In September it made its appearance in Newcastle; at first the contagion was easily traced from Pipewell Gate, and afterwards from one house to another. In that outbreak, 188 poor persons were visited from the Newcastle Dispensary, the Gateshead poor having been attended by the parochial surgeon. Clark’s ten cases recorded of the epidemic were all of people in good circumstances. The Dispensary Tables show cases of typhus every year down to 1850, the largest totals being in 1793 (374, 18 deaths), 1801 (435, 20 deaths), and 1819 (368, 14 deaths); and these, we may take it, were but a small fraction of all the cases in Newcastle.

Perhaps the most unexpected revelation of typhus is at Chester, from the time when Haygarth began to write upon its public health in 1772. Chester was then one of the most desirable places of residence in England. Boswell wrote to Johnson, “Chester pleases me more than any town I ever saw.” The old city within the walls was occupied by a superior class of residents, including the cathedral clergy, county families, retired officers and Anglo-Indians, professional men, merchants and tradesmen. It had the best theatre out of London. Squares, crescents and broad streets were replacing most of the old buildings. The six parishes that lay entirely within the walls had a population, in 1774, of 3502, and an annual average death-rate (in the ten years 1764 to 1773) of 1 in 58 or 17·2 per 1000, the central parish of St Peter having a rate of 1 in 62, and the cathedral parish 1 in 87. It passed as one of the healthiest cities in the kingdom, being far before Shrewsbury and Nottingham, to say nothing of the large towns where the burials exceeded the baptisms. But its moderate death-rate over all, 1 in 42 living, would have been much lower but for the four poor suburban parishes, with a population of 11,211, which had a death-rate of 1 in 35. Haygarth gives a deplorable account of them. The houses were small, close, crowded and dirty, ill supplied with water, undrained, and built on ground that received the sewage from within the walls. The people were ill-fed and they seldom changed or washed their clothes; when they went abroad they were noisome and offensive to the smell. Many of them worked on the large farms around Chester, others at shipbuilding and shipping (Chester had then a considerable foreign trade), others at the mills and markets, others at a nail-factory, while others were employed by the tradesmen within the walls. Fever seems to have been perennial among them, the deaths from typhus having been 23 in 1772, 33 in 1773 and 35 in 1774. “In these poor habitations,” says Haygarth, “when one person is seized with a fever, others of the family are generally affected with the same fever in a greater or less degree.” It became rifer than usual in August, 1773, and attacked 285, proving fatal to 28, or to one in ten. It had the common symptoms of malignant fevers produced by human effluvia, and particularly affected the head with pain, giddiness and delirium. It attacked in general the lowest, few of the middle rank, and none (or only one) of the highest rank[254].

Chester had no manufactures. Its population had grown rapidly of late, as that of Liverpool had grown, the poorer classes being the prolific part of the community; but it had no share in the industrial revolution, it did not employ its women and children in factories, and it was in some respects better than Leeds, Warrington, Manchester, or Carlisle. It is a good illustration of a town growing rapidly without manufactures, and of a community divided by the old walls into two quite distinct sections, a rich and a poor. Such had been the drift of things in England apart from the industrial revolution; but it is the latter which furnishes the best illustrations of a poor prolific populace, of a growing struggle, and of the attendant typhus fever.

Fever in the Northern Manufacturing Towns, 1770-1800.

The prosperity of the first two-thirds of the 18th century had been attended with a very small increase of population. From 1700 to 1750 the numbers in England are estimated to have grown no more than from about six millions to six millions and a half. The fecundity of many rural parishes was swallowed up by emigration to the American and West Indian colonies, by the army and navy, and by the great waste of life in London and some other towns. The increase was nearly all north of the Trent, while the old weaving towns of the south-west had actually declined. Gloucestershire, Somerset and Wilts were the most crowded counties in 1700. During the next fifty years, the greatest increase was as in the following rough estimate[255]:

Increase
1700 1750 per cent.

Lancashire 166,200 297,400 78
West Riding of Yorks. 236,700 361,500 52
Warwickshire 96,600 140,000 45
Durham 95,500 135,000 41
Staffordshire 117,200 160,000 36
Gloucestershire 155,200 207,800 34

In the counties where population had increased most, much of the increase was still rural or semi-rural. Defoe describes how the land near Halifax was divided into lots of from two to six or seven acres, hardly a house out of speaking distance from another, at every house a tenter, and on almost every tenter a piece of cloth, or kersey or shalloon. Every clothier kept one horse at least, to carry his manufactures to the market, and nearly every one kept a cow, or two or more, for his family. The houses were full of lusty fellows, some at the dye-vat, some at the looms, others dressing the cloths, the women and children carding or spinning, being all employed from the youngest to the oldest: not a beggar to be seen, nor an idle person[256]. We have no accounts of the health of this population, except Nettleton’s statistics of smallpox in and around Halifax in 1721 and 1722, given elsewhere, and the “epidemic constitutions” recorded by Wintringham at York during the same period, and by Hillary at Ripon.

Before the earliest of the inventions of spinning by machinery, the weavers were gathering to the towns of Yorkshire, Lancashire and other counties north of the Trent. The spinning-jenny of Hargreaves was wrecked by a Blackburn mob in 1768, and a mob wrecked the cotton-mill built by Arkwright at Chorley eleven years later. This was decidedly a time of movement from the country to the towns, a movement which preceded the spinning ingenuity of the sixties and may have been stimulated by the earlier use of the fly-shuttle in weaving.

Much of the country round Manchester, though it doubtless retained those farm-houses, hedgerows, and field paths which come into the idyllic opening of ‘Mary Barton’ more than half a century later, was “crowded with houses and inhabitants,” as Percival says: so populous were the environs of Manchester that every house in the township had been found by a late survey to contain an average of six persons. The proportion of deaths was less than in 1757; but that was chiefly due to the accession of new settlers from the country, which raised the ratios of marriages and births[257]. Manchester had increased from a population of about 8000 in 1717 to one of 19,839 (inclusive of Salford) in 1757. When the inhabitants were next counted in 1773, they were found to be 22,481 in Manchester (5317 families in 3402 houses) and 4765 in Salford (1099 families in 866 houses). According to Percival, who gives these figures, the death-rate in 1773 was 1 in 28·4, the births exceeding the deaths by forty in a year. The poor, he says, were now better lodged, and some of the most dangerous malignant distempers were less violent and less mortal. Manchester, however, was still an unhealthy place compared with the country, especially to young children. Thus, the thirty-one townships in the parish of Manchester contained, exclusive of the city, 13,786 inhabitants (2525 families in 2371 houses), and of these only 1 in 56 died annually (compared with 1 in 28 in the city)--the births being to the deaths as 401 to 246 in the year 1772.

Again, the bleak upland parish of Darwen with a population in the year 1774 of 1850 souls mostly occupied in the cotton manufacture, had, during the seven years before, more than twice as many baptisms as burials (508 to 233), the birth-rate (1 in 25·5) being high and the death-rate (1 in 56) low.

Leeds had a population of some six or seven thousand at the time of the Civil Wars, and lost 1325 in nine months of the year 1645 from plague, all of them the poorer class. A generation or two later, in the time of Thoresby’s ‘Diary,’ it was a centre of the cloth trade; and it appears to have grown steadily throughout the 18th century. In 1775 it had a population of 17,117. We hear from Lucas of an epidemic typhus in it previous to 1779[258]. Eighty persons had died of that fever in one year, and many who struggled through the disease died afterwards of lingering complaints. In two courts or yards (such as might have been the Lantern Yard which Silas Marner found pulled down when he revisited Leeds) forty persons were affected with the fever; some families had received ten shillings a week from the assessment for the poor. As early as 1779 Lucas proposed a house of reception for contagious fever, a proposal which was carried into effect in 1804, after a whole generation of typhus and at a time when there was little fever in Leeds or elsewhere. The infectious fevers, being chiefly confined to the poor, often prevailed, says this writer, for a length of time without exciting much alarm, or without their fatality being attended to; but, he adds about the year 1790, “should a few of the higher rank receive the infection, then the disease is described in most exaggerated terms.”

Carlisle was a good instance of the increase of urban population and the breeding of typhus. In seventeen years, from 1763 to 1780, the inhabitants had increased from 4158 to 6229, many of the immigrants being Scots and Irish with their families. The chief industry was the making of calico, in which the women and children were employed as well as the men. When Dr Heysham surveyed the town and suburbs for his census of 1779, he had “opportunity of seeing many scenes of poverty and filth and nastiness[259]”; and in the bill of mortality for that year he confesses himself astonished that there should be so little fever.

The great outburst of typhus at Carlisle began in the end of March, 1781, with no very obvious special provocation[260]. Upwards of 600 had typhus to February 7th, 1782, at which date 12 or 15 were still suffering from it. The deaths were less than 1 in 10 of all attacked: viz. 2 in May, 4 in June, 8 in July, 8 in August, 7 in September, 9 in October, 8 in November, 6 in December, and 3 in January, 1782, a total of 55. Of this total of fatal cases, 3 were boys, 4 bachelors, and 15 husbands: 3 girls, 2 maids, 22 wives, and 6 widows. Two-thirds of all the deaths were of married people; Heysham saw no case in a child under three years. It affected about a tenth part of the inhabitants of Carlisle (6299), and raged most among the lower class who lived in narrow, close, confined lanes and in small crowded apartments, of which there were a great many in Carlisle, generally going through all the inmates of a house where it had once begun. On seeking to trace the origin of the epidemic, he found that it began in the end of March, 1781, in a house in Richard-gate, which contained about half-a-dozen very poor families. Every window that could be spared was shut up, to save the window-tax. The surgeon who attended some of these poor wretches told Dr Heysham that the smell was so offensive that it was with difficulty he could stay in the house. One of the typhus patients in this house was a weaver, who, on his recovery, went to the large workshop where he worked, and there, it was supposed, gave the infection (in his clothes) to his fellow workmen, by whom new centres of infection were made in various other houses. In August, a young man just recovered from the fever went to his mother’s in the small village of Rockliffe, four or five miles from Carlisle, to get back his strength in the country air; his mother soon took the fever and died, and a neighbour woman who came to her in her sickness likewise caught it and died. These were all the cases known in the village, and they show the enormously greater fatality of typhus in those not inured to its atmosphere and conditions.

The state of population and health at Warrington was peculiar, and is given fully in another chapter. There could be no more striking instance of the growth of what the foreign writers call the proletariat; an old market-town, with a small sail-cloth industry from Elizabethan times, it became a busy weaving town owing to the demand for sail-cloth during the war with the American colonies. The whole population of some 9000 men, women and children, were wage-earners; the women were all the while unusually prolific, and the sacrifice of infant life was enormous, especially by smallpox. We have no particular accounts of fevers; but in the bill of mortality for 1773, the year of a disastrous smallpox epidemic, there were 25 deaths from fever, of which 10 were of “worm fever,” or the remittent of children[261].

By the year 1790, when Ferriar’s accounts of fever in Manchester begin, the industrial revolution had been accomplished, mills were everywhere, and the characteristic hardships and maladies of a prolific working class in a time of slack trade were already much the same as we find them pictured with fidelity and pathos in the pages of Mrs Gaskell half a century after.

But, so as not to exaggerate the ill health of the working class in Manchester at the end of the 18th century, let us compare the births with the deaths according to the doubtless imperfect registers[262]:

_Manchester, Births and Deaths, 1770-91._

Year Births Deaths

1770 1050 988
1771 1169 993
1772 1127 904
1773 1168 923
1774 1245 958
1775 1359 835
1776 1241 1220
1777 1513 864
1778 1449 975
1779 1464 1288
1780 1566 993
1781 1591 1370
1782 1678 984
1783 1615 1496
1784 1958 1175
1785 1942 1734
1786 2319 1282
1787 2256 1761
1788 2391 1637
1789 2487 1788
1790 2756 1940
1791 2960 2286

The mean lodging-houses in the outskirts of the town, says Ferriar, in 1790[263], were the principal nurseries of febrile contagion: some of these were old houses with very small rooms, into each of which four or more people were crowded to eat, sleep, and frequently to work. They commonly bore marks of a long accumulation of filth, and some of them had been scarcely free from infection for many years past. As soon as one poor creature dies or is driven out of his cell he is replaced by another, generally from the country, who soon feels in his turn the consequences of breathing infected air. There was hardly any ventilation possible, many of these old houses being in dark narrow courts or blind alleys. In other parts of the town the lodging-houses were new, and not yet thoroughly dirty; but in these there was a long garret under the tiles, in which eight or ten people often lodged, the beds almost touching. Again, many lived in cellars, sleeping on the damp floor with few or no bedclothes; the cellars of Manchester, however, were better ventilated than those of Edinburgh, and freer from fever. These cellar-tenants were subject to the constant action of depressing passions of the mind. “I have seen patients,” says Ferriar, “in agonies of despair on finding themselves overwhelmed with filth and abandoned by everyone who could do them any service, and after such emotions I have seldom found them recover.” Addressing the Literary and Philosophical Society of Manchester previous to 1792, he pointed out in an _argumentum ad hominem_ that “the situation of the poor at present is extremely dangerous, and often destructive to the middle and higher ranks of society[264].” And again, “the poor are indeed the first sufferers, but the mischief does not always rest with them. By secret avenues it reaches the most opulent, and severely revenges their neglect or insensibility to the wretchedness surrounding them[265].”

In an address to the Committee of Police in Manchester, he instances the following cases:

A family of the name of Turner in a dark cellar behind Jackson’s Row:
they have been almost constantly patients of the Infirmary for three
years past on account of disorders owing to their miserable dwelling.
There are other instances of the same kind in Bootle Street.

In Blakely Street, under No. 4, is a range of cellars let out to
lodgers, which threatens to become a nursery of disease. They consist
of four rooms communicating with each other, of which the two centre
rooms are completely dark; the fourth is very ill-lighted and chiefly
ventilated through the others. They contain four or five beds in each,
and are already extraordinarily dirty.

In a nest of lodging-houses in Brook’s entry near the bottom of
Longmill-gate, a very dangerous fever constantly subsists, and has
subsisted for a considerable number of years. He had known nine
patients confined in fevers at the same time in one of those houses
and crammed into three small dirty rooms without the regular
attendance of any friend or of a nurse. Four of these poor creatures
died, absolutely from want of the common offices of humanity and from
neglect in the administration of their medicines. Another set of
lodging-houses constantly infected is known by the name of the Five
Houses, in Newton Street[266].

The fever in Manchester was not always malignant typhus: sometimes it had the symptoms and low rate of mortality that suggest relapsing fever. Thus, in the winter epidemic of 1789-90, very prevalent in Manchester and Salford, out of Ferriar’s first ninety patients only two died; in some the skin had a remarkable, pungent heat, in others there were profuse watery sweats; women were commonly affected with hysterical symptoms during convalescence, which was often tedious[267]. A certain number of these cases would run into “a formed typhus,” with petechiae and all the other signs of malignity; and in some seasons, as in the distressful year 1794, typhus was the usual form. Two fatal cases in children, examined after death, had peritonitis; “in the one no marks of the disease were discernible within the cavity of the [intestinal] tube;” in the other, the patient was covered with petechiae[268]. These cases of localized inflammation in typhus he compares with Pringle’s cases of spotted fever complicated with abscess of the brain.

The years 1792 and 1793 passed, says Ferriar, without any extraordinary increase of fever patients, although the noxious influences were always present. But in the summer and autumn of 1794 “the usual epidemic fever” became very prevalent among the poor in some quarters of the town, particularly after a bilious colic had raged among all ranks of people. This was a time when work was slack; many workmen enlisted and left their families. In November and December 1794, as many as 156 sent applications to the Infirmary in a week to be visited in fever at their homes.

This was a memorable time of scarcity and distress all over the country, the beginning of a twenty-years’ period of so-called “war-prices,” when farmers’ profits were so large that they could afford to double or treble their rents to the landlords. The history of epidemics comes at this point into close contact with the economic history, which I shall touch on in the sequel, after giving a few more particulars of typhus in England and Scotland generally, previous to the outbreak of the war with France in 1793.

Typhus in England and Scotland generally, in the end of the 18th century.

The introduction of machinery and the building of mills brought typhus fever to places much less crowded than Leeds, or Manchester, or Carlisle.

Dr David Campbell of Lancaster saw much of typhus in that town, and in mill villages near it, in the years 1782, 1783, and 1784. In Lancaster town he saw about 500 cases, of which 168 were in men, with 20 deaths, 236 in women, with 11 deaths, and 94 in children under fourteen, with 3 deaths. At Backbarrow cotton mill, twenty miles from Lancaster, there were 180 cases, of which 38 were in men, with 5 deaths, 11 in women, with 2 deaths, and 131 in children under fourteen, with no deaths[269]. At this mill there was an extremely offensive smell in the rooms, which came from the privy; the doors of the latter, “for indispensable reasons in the economy of these works, where so many children are employed, always communicate with the workrooms.” Every care had been taken to keep the air sweet, but without effect. The offensive smell was in all the cotton mills from the same cause; and in the Radcliffe mill belonging to Mr Peel, the typhus was ascribed to that source, the nuisance having been at length got rid of. Both at Backbarrow and Radcliffe the houses of the workpeople were new, airy and comfortable. In the same years typhus raged with uncommon severity at Ulverston and in various parts of Lancashire, where cotton-mills had been set up[270].

The typhus of Liverpool and Newcastle was reproduced in Whitehaven and Cockermouth on a scale proportionate to their size. Whitehaven, the port of the Cumberland coal-field, was the Newcastle of the west coast, and had a large trade with Ireland. Many of the labourers lived in cellars. Brownrigg’s experiences of typhus fever in it went back to near the middle of the 18th century. The Whitehaven Dispensary was opened in 1783, the occasion for it being thus explained:--

“Previous to the establishment of dispensaries Whitehaven and
Cockermouth were infested by nervous and putrid fever. Many of their
respectable inhabitants became its victims; and among the lower class
of people it prevailed with deplorable malignancy. The present period
happily exhibits a different picture. Notwithstanding our connection
with the metropolis of Ireland, and other commercial places, contagion
rarely appears; or, when accidentally introduced, is readily
suppressed[271].”

The following is the abstract of “contagious fever cases” from the records of the Whitehaven Dispensary from 30 June, 1783, to 9 June, 1800[272]:

Year Cured Dead Total

1783 75 1 76
1784 401 9 410
1785 350 20 370
1786 91 6 97
1787 21 1 22
1788 53 7 60
1789 103 2 105
1790 288 21 309
1791 74 6 79
1792 17 2 19
1793 7 3 10
1794 13 1 14
1795 28 2 30
1796 48 1 49
1797 35 2 37
1798 12 1 13
1799 11 1 12
---- --- ----
Total 1627 85 1712

The year 1790 is indicated as an unhealthy one, by the excess of burials over christenings, also at Macclesfield, where there were 316 christenings to 380 burials, the proportion being usually the other way[273].

Dr John Alderson of Hull wrote in 1788 an essay on the contagion of fever, in which there are no authentic details for Hull: “The calamity itself is the constant complaint of every neighbourhood, and almost every newspaper presents us with an example of the direful consequences of infection”--the reference being to gaols more particularly[274]. Whatever was the reason, there was undoubtedly a great deal of typhus in England in the eighties of the eighteenth century. Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, Wiltshire and Buckinghamshire experienced much typhus from 1782 to 1785, although we have few particulars. “The remembrance of its ravages at Gloucester, Worcester and Marlborough,” says Dr Wall of Oxford, “is still fresh in every mind, where its virulence proved so peculiarly fatal to the medical world.” At Aylesbury, Dr Kennedy survived an attack of the “contagious fever,” to write an account (1785) of the epidemic, which he traced to the gaol (the date, be it observed, is subsequent to Howard’s visitations)[275]. At Maidstone, also, in 1785, the gaol fever was the subject of a special account[276].

At Worcester in 1783 the younger Dr Johnstone caught typhus while visiting the gaol, which was thereafter rebuilt at great expense. A prisoner took it to Droitwich where 14 died[277].

Dr Wall gives clinical details of fifteen cases of typhus treated by him in private practice at Oxford in 1785; one of his patients was an apothecary whose business had exposed him very much to the influence of contagion, as he was much employed amongst the poor in the suburbs of the town and neighbouring villages and in the House of Industry[278]. In the year 1783-85, much of the epidemic fever was of the nature of ague, as described in another chapter. It is not always easy to separate it from typhus; but there is no doubt that both were prevalent together. Thus in the parish of Painswick, Gloucestershire, in the spring of 1785 there occurred both “a contagious fever” and an “epidemic ague,” the latter having left a good many persons dropsical and cachectic[279]. This had been part of an epidemical fever which had raged for some time in the county of Gloucestershire, and is said to have lately carried off a great number of poor. At Norton, within five miles of Gloucester, there lived in two adjoining tenements two families: in one a man and his wife and three children, in the other a man and his wife, of whom only one remained alive on the 1st of March, 1785[280].

The extraordinary failure of the harvest in Scotland in 1782 produced much distress, and with it fever, in the winter following. The Glasgow and Edinburgh municipalities imported grain for the public benefit. Various traces of the scarcity and fever appear in the Statistical Account written a few years after. Thus, in Holywood parish, Dumfriesshire, some fevers were wont to appear in February and March among people of low circumstances living in a narrow valley; and the unusual mortality in the dear year 1782 was owing to an infectious fever in the same cottages. In the regular bills of mortality of Torthorwald parish, Dumfriesshire, the deaths from “fever” fall in the dear years, 1782-3, 1785, &c. In Dunscore parish, in the same county, the burials of 1782 rose to the most unusual figure of 30 (the baptisms being 17), “owing to a malignant fever[281].”

But Scotland was now past the danger of actual famine from even a total failure of the harvest. Some farmers were ruined, and many more were unable to pay the year’s rent; but the very poorest were enabled to find food, one source being “the importation of white pease from America.” From Delting, in Shetland, one of the poorest parishes, the report is: “There is reason to believe that none died from mere want; but there is no doubt that many, from the unwholesome food, contracted diseases that brought them to their graves.”

The following relating to the parishes of Keithhall and Kinkell, Aberdeenshire, in the scarcity following the lost harvest of 1782, is a curiously detailed glimpse of the time:

“Several families who would not allow their poverty to be known lived
on two diets of meal a day. One family wanted food from Friday night
till Sunday at dinner. On the last Friday of December, 1782, the
country people could get no meal in Aberdeen, as the citizens were
afraid of a famine; and a poor man, in this district, could find none
in the country the day after. But the distress of this family being
discovered, they were supplied. Next day the [Kirk] session bought at
a sale a considerable quantity of bere, which was made into meal. This
served the poor people until the importation at Aberdeen became
regular, and every man of humanity rejoiced that the danger of famine
was removed[282].”

We hear most of fevers in the Highland parishes, with their subdivisions of holdings and an excess of population. Thus of Gairloch, Ross-shire, it is said: “Fevers are frequent, sometimes they are of a favourable kind, at other times they continue long and carry off great numbers”--the poor in this parish, upon the Kirk Session roll, numbering 84 in the year 1792, and the aggregate money paid to the whole number averaging £6. 7_s._ in a year, whereas the fertile parish of Ellon, Aberdeenshire, with 40 on the poor’s roll, paid them £43 per annum.

Again, of the fishing village of Eyemouth, it is said: “The only complaints that prove mortal in this place are different kinds of fevers and consumptions; and these are mostly confined to the poorest class of people, and ascribed to their scanty diet.” And of another fishing parish, in Banffshire, Fordyce, including Portsoy, it is said: “The most prevalent distemper is a fever, and that for the most part not universal, but confined to particular districts. It is sometimes thought to arise from infection and communication with other parts of the country; at other times from local situations and circumstances of the people’s houses and habits of living in particular districts[283].”

The beginning of the great French war was the occasion of a considerable increase of fever; although no records make it appear so fatal a time as the years 1783-86. The commercial distress and want of work which began in the autumn of 1792, were intensified by the bad harvests of 1794 and 1795, which followed two harvests also deficient. This was the period of distress and of epidemic fever to which Wordsworth referred in the passage in the first book of the ‘Excursion,’ where he is relating the story of Margaret’s ruined cottage[284].

There is little medical writing upon the epidemic fever of 1794-95; and, in the very district of Wordsworth’s story, the records of the Whitehaven Dispensary bear no traces of a great concourse of patients. There is reason to think that the fever, if slow and weakening, was seldom fatal, that it was _typhus mitior_, and that it was sometimes, perhaps often, relapsing. One glimpse we get of it in the family of the afterwards celebrated Dr Edward Jenner of Berkeley, in the winter of 1794-95. He thus writes to a friend about the visitation of “grim-visaged typhus:”