Remembering Erasmus Darwin (1881-1915)

4th Battalion Yorkshire Regiment, 1914. 2nd Lieutenant Erasmus Darwin is in the middle of the back row.

Monday, 11 November, 1918 was a day of riotous celebration in Cambridge. Rowdy mobs of male students smashed shop windows and threw books and paintings into the street. Later a bull was driven into one of the colleges, and an effigy of the Kaiser was burned on a bonfire in Market Square. Cars roared about the streets all day long, and cheering men and women continued to shout and dance well into the night. On 12 November the Cambridge Daily News reported that ‘the world seemed to have turned upside down’.

Ida Darwin, 65, spent the day quietly at The Orchard, her home on the northern outskirts of Cambridge. From about noon, as she sat on the veranda overlooking her garden, she could hear the sounds of joyful pandemonium breaking out in the town. She wrote to her daughter Ruth that evening to describe how, within an hour of the announcement of the end of the war, ‘the whole town was beflagged and full of all kinds of motor vehicles tearing about regardless of petrol restrictions.’ Her husband Horace Darwin, 67, had been in the office of his Cambridge Scientific Instrument Company on Chesterton Road when he received a telephone call with the news. When he and the other directors came out to tell the workers that the war was over, ‘there was a seething mass of excitement & singing’, Ida told Ruth. ‘D[addy] had to stand on a table & make a speech & announced that the Works would be shut for the rest of the day. They ended with cheers for D…’

Ruth Darwin, 35, was in Reims in eastern France, working at a ‘Foyer des Soldats’, a hostel with a canteen and recreation rooms for convalescing French soldiers. (There were over fifty of such hostels, organized by the British Committee of the French Red Cross and staffed by English women volunteers.) The Darwins’ other daughter Nora Barlow was in London with her husband and four small children. Both Ruth and Nora understood why their mother felt so detached from the cheering crowds in Cambridge that day and the happiness of the end of this long war. Ida described it as ‘the feeling almost of dread of beginning normal life again with the blanks.’

Erasmus Darwin, Nora and Ruth’s brother, had been one of the first to enlist after war was declared on 4 August 1914. He was 32 and worked as a company secretary for an ironworks in Middlesbrough in the industrial north east of England. He had been working hard there for seven years and now was ready for an adventure. ‘You know of course that it simply means we shall be used for police duty, and it will be a kind of prolonged strenuous holiday,’ he reassured Ida. At first the army provided the excitement Erasmus craved. His company slept under canvas until the end of October, and their days were filled with rifle training and revolver shooting. Erasmus enjoyed taking his men out on scouting manœuvres over the Yorkshire moors, and a photograph of him shows him standing in his uniform and squinting into the sun a little self-consciously, as if amused to find himself in a muddy field playing war games with a group of men.

In November 1914 the company was moved from their temporary billets outside  Darlington to another camp forty miles north of Newcastle. Forty thousand troops were stationed there already, and more were arriving every day. Erasmus was convinced that his own company, with its experience and training would soon be sent to the front to fight: ‘We may be in France any day now, more than that none of us know …We were all getting tired of waiting for something to do and now that it has probably come we are glad.’

The reason for so many troops pouring into Newcastle that autumn was the prospect of an imminent German invasion. The Secretary of State Lord Kitchener announced a major alert for 20 November, when the tides and moon were particularly favourable for a sea crossing, and around the country three hundred thousand British soldiers were ordered to be on standby. But by December Erasmus told his parents that ‘the terrors of immediate invasion’ seemed to be wearing off. The winter months that followed in the training camp were cold, uncomfortable, and claustrophobic, with regular outbreaks of meningitis in the poorly sanitised billets. It seemed as if their regiment would never be sent to the front, and he and his fellow officers began to discuss organizing a tennis tournament for the summer.

At last, news came that the Yorkshire battalions should prepare for departure on 18 April. On 14 April Erasmus scribbled a note to his sister Nora in London: ‘No absolutely definite news but it is practically certain that we go on Friday’. Nora doubtless had other things on her mind, as her third child, a boy, was born that Wednesday. The following day, Erasmus received an official summons from the War Office to attend a meeting in London, and was offered a post working for the Ministry of Munitions. Erasmus turned it down, and went to visit Nora briefly to see her newborn son. He sailed with his company to Boulogne on 18 April.

A day after arriving in northern France he wrote to explain to his father that he had been asked to help to organize factories to produce the munitions that were badly needed by the British army. It would have been ‘interesting and important work’ Erasmus wrote, ‘but of course there are plenty of older men who can do it just as well as I can.’ Horace wrote back immediately:

You could not possibly have accepted the W.O. appointment; to have accepted a civil job almost to the day your regiment was ordered for active service seems to me out of the question. It wd. have been very nice for us having you still in England and doing really useful war work, but that is another story… Well good bye old chap, it is such a comfort to us to feel so certain you did right to join the army when you did.

Sadly, Erasmus never got his father’s kindly letter. At 5pm on Thursday 22 April the German army released 6,000 canisters of chlorine gas, a deadly new weapon, along the Ypres Salient. Thousands of French colonial troops died in what became known as the Second Battle of Ypres, and Canadian forces only just managed to hold back the German advance. All British troops available were needed to fill the gaps, so the Yorkshire battalions were ordered to advance to the front line on Saturday 24 April.

Before they set off, Erasmus tried to calm his men by joking that they should pretend they were ‘on a field day’, just like their training exercises on the Yorkshire moors. As they advanced towards the village of St Julien in columns of platoons they were fired on by German artillery and long-range machine guns from the front and on both sides. Erasmus was hit by machine gun fire and died instantly. He and Captain Jack Nancarrow were hastily buried near a farmhouse, in graves that were never subsequently found again.

Nora’s baby, born on 15 April 1915, was named Erasmus Darwin Barlow. Horace Darwin joined the new Ministry of Munitions in May 1915, and during the war the Cambridge Scientific Instrument Company would develop equipment to locate the position of enemy guns, and instruments such as gunsights in aircraft. On 30 April 1915 Erasmus Darwin’s obituary was published in The Times, written by his cousin Bernard Darwin. He wrote that Erasmus ‘had many of the warmest friendships; nor could anyone have been more wholly delightful and light-hearted than he was in holiday mood.’ One of the few holidays his hard-working cousin allowed himself, Bernard wrote, was returning to Cambridge for May Week every year. Erasmus would have loved the exuberant celebrations of Armistice Day 1918.

©Ann Kennedy Smith, all rights reserved. 14 November 2021

Sources: Ida Darwin letters: Add. 9368.1: 6105, Add. 9368.1: 6112: Erasmus Darwin letters DAR 9368.1: 3177-82, Cambridge University Library Darwin Family Papers. https://greenhowards.org.uk/announcement/erasmus-darwin/


 

Archiving the pandemic

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Francis J.H. Jenkinson by John Singer Sargent (1915), Cambridge University Library

‘His long librarianship was uneventful on the whole’ (Gaselee)

In an April blogpost, I described how in 1915 Cambridge University Librarian Francis Jenkinson began work on a groundbreaking project to commemorate the First World War. Throughout the war years he gathered a huge collection of flyers, posters, pamphlets and books in English, French & German to produce as detailed a documentary record as possible of the European conflict. Cambridge residents were invited to take part in the project. “Such flying pieces as those which are dropped from aeroplanes or posted on hoardings would be particularly welcome”, read a 1915 advertisement in the Cambridge Magazine.

The material that was amassed by members of the public and Jenkinson’s worldwide contacts (one librarian was even sent to France to buy material) includes trench journals and pamphlets in German, French and English, produced by soldiers at the front line, magazines from internment camps, official histories and reports and propaganda posters. The collection was carefully preserved at the University Library as the ‘War of 1914-1919 Collection’ or War Reserve Collection, and today most of the material is so fragile that it has to be consulted on microfilm.

Now Francis Jenkinson’s unique archive has inspired a new collaborative project at the Cambridge University Library, which aims to document our experiences during the coronavirus crisis. Called “Collecting Covid-19”it involves the University and the wider Cambridge community in collecting material that will be used by future historians. It is organized by Caylin Smith, the UL’s Digital Preservation Manager, and Jacky Cox, the Keeper of the University Archives. They want to collect all kinds of digital and physical materials, including (but not limited to) videos, photographs, leaflets, journals and diaries. In London the Wellcome Collection is expected to coordinate efforts to collect similar material on a nationwide basis. We are all invited to act as our own archivists, and to store our individual collections safely until the libraries and museums open their doors again.

©Ann Kennedy Smith 3 May 2020

Sources: Stephen Gaselee, ‘Francis Jenkinson, 1853-1923: an address to the Bibliographical Society, 15 Oct. 1923’, Trans. Bibliog. Soc. . N.S.; v. 4, no. 3, Oxford, 1923

More about Francis Jenkinson’s War Reserve Collection here: https://www.lib.cam.ac.uk/collections/departments/rare-books/rare-books-collections/war-1914-1919-collection

‘Collecting Covid-19’ Cambridge University website: https://www.cam.ac.uk/stories/CollectingCovid-19

Francis Jenkinson and the quiet storm

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This blogpost inspired by the Covid-19 pandemic tells the story of how outbreaks of the so-called ‘Russian flu’ from 1889 to 1893 in Britain brought about a personal crisis in the life of Francis Jenkinson, Cambridge University Librarian 1889-1923.

At the end of 1891 Francis Jenkinson, aged 38, had been working at the Cambridge University Library for just over two years. Then in its original location in the Schools building near King’s College, the old library was ‘a chaotic but atmospheric medley of disparate rooms, uneven floors and dark places for which readers could borrow lamps to light their way’ (Whitelock). Jenkinson’s prestigious position of University Librarian was the job he had been born to do. He had been mentored by a previous holder of the post, Henry Bradshaw, and knew the contents of every book in the library; as well as deeply knowledgeable about early printing, Jenkinson was practical and had a warmth and generosity that made him as popular with his colleagues as he was with scholars and students. He had an uncanny, almost symbiotic connection with the library itself. One friend recalled how ‘he would rise from his bed when his subconscious mind told him there was a window left open, and go down in the small hours to shut it’ (H.F. Stewart). But during the darkest part of the winter of 1891-92, Francis Jenkinson seriously considered giving it all up.

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Francis Jenkinson, 1880s

He had taken up the role of University Librarian during a time of great personal sadness. His wife Marian Sydney Wetton had died aged thirty in January 1888, just six months after they married. Marian was one of seven sisters from a musical family who lived in Surrey: her older sister Jennie had married Jenkinson’s friend, the Irish composer Sir Charles Villiers Stanford. After Marian’s death, Jennie and her unmarried sisters remained in close contact with Jenkinson, often dropping in at his home on Brookside, near the Fitzwilliam Museum, to play the piano and sing together. Early in December 1891, Francis confided in his friend Ida Darwin a momentous piece of news. He had fallen in love with Marian’s younger sister Mildred Wetton, a twenty-eight year old governess who worked in London, and they planned to marry.

Ida had met Francis shortly after she moved to Cambridge as a new bride in 1880. Jenkinson was a Trinity College fellow at the time, and supplemented his income by teaching Classics to students at Newnham College, one of the first women’s colleges. He tutored Ida in Ancient Greek and she and Francis became good friends, united by their love of music and gardening as well as literature. Francis was a frequent visitor to the Orchard on Huntingdon Road, where Horace and Ida lived with their three young children.

In early December 1891, love was in the newspaper headlines. Prince Albert Victor, who was Queen Victoria’s twenty-seven year old grandson and second in line to the throne, became engaged to Princess Mary of Teck on 3 December 1891. The royal family heaved a collective sigh of relief. Albert Victor was usually associated with rather more unwelcome publicity, including affairs with chorus girls and his name being linked to the Cleveland Street scandal after a male brothel there was raided by police. What Queen Victoria privately described as Albert Victor’s ‘dissipated life’ began when he was an undergraduate at Trinity College, Cambridge in the early 1880s. It’s not known what Francis Jenkinson thought of him, but one nameless tutor complained that the college’s royal student ‘hardly knows the meaning of the words to read‘ (Magnus, 178). After Albert Victor’s unsuccessful stint in the army and lengthy trips overseas, it was decided that he needed to settle down with a sensible wife, and his distant cousin Princess Mary of Teck fitted the bill perfectly. Their marriage date was set for 27 February 1892.

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Prince Albert Victor, late 1880s

The royal engagement was the good news story that the nation badly needed. That winter the papers were full of reports of a new wave of influenza that was killing people in England in ever larger numbers. This was the second of two epidemics that followed on the heels of the so-called ‘Russian flu’ of 1889-90, the pandemic that killed hundreds of thousands worldwide. In 1890 Winston Churchill, then a fifteen-year old schoolboy at Harrow, wrote a poem called ‘The Influenza’ about it: ‘The rich, the poor, the high, the low/Alike the various symptoms know/ Alike before it droop.’ As Mark Honigsbaum writes in his essay ‘The Great Dread: Cultural and Psychological Impacts and Responses to the ‘Russian’ Influenza in the United Kingdom, 1889–1893’, ‘the Russian flu was extensively documented and seen to spread rapidly between European capitals via international rail, road and shipping connections in a westward progression that was the subject of widespread commentary in both the daily and periodical press.’ According to a report published by the Wellcome Institute, 1892 was characterized by ‘a marked excess of deaths from influenza and pneumonia.’ It was a frightening time for people of all social classes, as the young Churchill was aware.

Ida was worried for Horace and their small children as well as their household staff, as more and more people they knew fell ill. But she was aware that, if word about Jenkinson’s engagement got out, it would cause a scandal in Cambridge that would be as shocking as Albert Victor’s rumoured visits to Cleveland Street. Under the Marriage Act of 1835 it was still illegal in the United Kingdom and colonies for a man to marry the sister of his deceased wife. In his book, Marianne Thornton 17971887: A Domestic Biography (1956) EM Forster wrote about how much unhappiness this law caused, describing it as  ‘yet another example of the cruelty and stupidity of the English Law in matters of sex’ (see my article here). Throughout the Victorian period the issue was hotly debated every year in parliament, but Anglican bishops in the Lords helped to ensure that the prohibition remained until the Deceased Wife’s Sister’s Marriage Act of 1907.

If the law did not change, Francis and Mildred would have to go abroad to marry and would be ostracized if they ever returned to England; any children they might have would be considered illegitimate in the eyes of most Anglicans. Ida was afraid that if others heard of his engagement, Jenkinson might lose his job as University Librarian. The situation would have to be managed in the most inconspicuous way possible. Ida needed to stay at home to care for her household, and so was not able to go to visit Francis as much as she would have liked. So she did the next best thing: she wrote to him, hoping that she could change his mind.

All through December and into January, letters flew back and forth between Brookside and the Orchard. The normally mild-mannered, bookish Jenkinson raged against the Anglican Church and its bishops, while Ida remained calm and sympathetic, soothing him like a feverish child. The only other people who knew about the crisis were two family members who could be trusted to be discreet: his sister Nelly Jenkinson, and his distant cousin Daisy Stewart. Daisy had grown up in Edinburgh but now lived in Grantchester, where she worked as a music tutor. She had been in love with Francis for years, but accepted that he saw her only as a friend. She hated to see him so unhappy.

Why did he behave so recklessly, and risk losing the job he had worked so hard for? I think that the answer might lie in how the repeated flu epidemics affected the way that people thought during this time of national crisis. Jenkinson’s appointment as University Librarian in 1889 had coincided with the ‘Russian flu’ pandemic, which was the first recorded outbreak of influenza in England since 1848. Four million Britons fell ill and 127,000 died. Then another killer wave of flu struck the country in May 1891. Six months later, as the third epidemic reached Cambridge, Jenkinson must have wondered if he would live to do the work that he wanted to do. Overwork and anxiety were considered to be contributing factors in those who caught the flu, and for all his energy, Jenkinson had frequent bouts of illness. In 1890 The Times warned that the influenza’s impact on the imagination was ‘disproportionate to its actual destructiveness’ (Honigsbaum), but the fear that gripped everyone was very real. The number of deaths peaked in London in the third week of January 1892, when it was recorded that over five hundred people died of influenza and pneumonia. The poor suffered most, of course, but no one was safe. Prince Albert Victor became ill with flu symptoms at a shooting party at Sandringham in early January. Pneumonia set in, and he died a week after his twenty-eighth birthday on 14 January 1892.

There would be no royal wedding that year, and the nation went into mourning. In the months following Albert Victor’s death, his younger brother George, the Duke of York, became close to his (almost) sister-in-law. There was no taboo on their love, and in May 1893 they married with Queen Victoria’s blessing. In 1910 he was crowned George V, and she became Queen Mary (the present Queen is their granddaughter). Some twentieth-century historians have rather unkindly suggested that Albert Victor’s early death was ‘a merciful act of providence’ (Magnus, 239) allowing his sober brother and his equally responsible wife to steer the country through the crises of World War One and the depression of the 1920s and early 1930s.

By the middle of January 1892 in Cambridge, there was a gap in the storm clouds for Ida, as her household slowly recovered from the flu. Now she decided to take action. First, she wrote to Mildred, who replied with a subdued note of thanks and promised not to visit Brookside for a while. Then she wrote to Mildred’s older sister Jennie. Her husband Charles Stanford’s mother and two of aunts had died of the flu just a few weeks before, and Jennie herself had been very ill, so it’s likely that Ida did not want to involve them earlier. But now the Stanfords took charge. It seems that they persuaded Francis to give up his plans to marry Mildred, and by February their secret engagement was quietly dropped. The storm had passed, and most of their friends, family and work colleagues never even knew that it had happened.

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Francis J.H. Jenkinson by John Singer Sargent (1915), Cambridge University Library

Francis Jenkinson would continue to work as University Librarian for the next thirty years, until shortly before his death in 1923. His contribution to the library was immense. He sorted and catalogued valuable acquisitions, including 140,000 fragments of the ancient Cairo Genizah and the contents of Lord Acton’s library, and appointed one of the University’s first woman librarians, the Sanskrit scholar and former Girton student, C.M. Ridding. In 1910 he was sent a collection of suffrage posters, which he carefully preserved in the library’s archives. This rare collection was recently displayed at the UL to mark 100 years since some British women got the vote (read more here).

Unusually for the time, Jenkinson was passionately interested in collecting ephemeral matter such as flyers, postcards, and posters. He felt that such “unconsidered trifles” told stories about people’s lives that would be lost otherwise. During the First World War he gathered a huge collection of this so-called disposable literature, and his War Reserve Collection is now an invaluable source for researchers. In 1915 the American artist John Singer Sargent was commissioned to paint Jenkinson’s portrait to mark his twenty-five years as University Librarian, and this beautiful painting still hangs in the library today.

In 1902 Jenkinson married his ‘dear friend’ Daisy Stewart. The couple spent over twenty happy years together, travelling to the Alps with Ida and Horace and marking Mozart’s birthday with a piano concert at Brookside on 27 January every year. Mildred Wetton continued to teach English literature, and eventually became headmistress of her own private school in Kensington. She never married.

In his biography Francis Jenkinson (1926) Hugh F. Stewart reflects that, until his second marriage, his brother-in-law lived a solitary life on Brookside, ‘save for the occasional presence of his sister, or of a sister-in-law, or of a scholar on bibliography intent.’ Perhaps this casual mention of ‘a sister-in-law’ is a quiet acknowledgement of Mildred Wetton’s ephemeral, but important, place in Jenkinson’s life.

©Ann Kennedy Smith (all rights reserved)

Notes: My warm thanks to Frank Bowles, Karen Davies, Carolyn Ferguson, Eve Smith and Jill Whitelock for their help. Any errors are my own.

Online sources (all accessed 2 April 2020):

Karen Bourrier ‘If this be error: marrying the sister of a deceased wife was illegal in Victorian England’ History Today, 11 April 2018, https://www.historytoday.com/history-matters/if-be-error

Stephen Gaselee, ‘Francis Jenkinson, 1853-1923: an address to the Bibliographical Society, 15 Oct. 1923’, Trans. Bibliog. Soc. . N.S.; v. 4, no. 3, Oxford, 1923

Mark Honigsbaum,  ‘The Great Dread: Cultural and Psychological Impacts and Responses to the ‘Russian’ Influenza in the United Kingdom, 1889–1893’, Social History of Medicine, Vol 23, Issue 2, August 2010, Pages 299–319 https://doi.org/10.1093/shm/hkq011

Mark Nicholls, ‘A Reason for Remembering: Francis Jenkinson and the War Reserve Collection’, https://www.jstor.org/stable/41154886?seq=1#metadata_info_tab_contents Jill Whitelock, ‘M.R. James and the ghosts of the old University Library’, Cambridge University Library Special Collections blogpost https://specialcollections-blog.lib.cam.ac.uk/?p=18923

‘Albert Victor, Prince, duke of Clarence and Avondale (1864–1892)’ and ‘Jenkinson, Francis John Henry (1853–1923)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, https://www.oxforddnb.com/

‘Annual Report of the Medical Officer of Health, London 1892’, https://wellcomelibrary.org/moh/report/b18252412/1#?c=0&m=0&s=0&cv=4&z=-0.3124%2C1.3883%2C0.6249%2C0.2439

‘The modern library’ on Cambridge University Library’s website; https://www.lib.cam.ac.uk/about-library/historical-sketch/modern-library

‘Francis John Henry Jenkinson’ memorial on Trinity College Chapel website http://trinitycollegechapel.com/about/memorials/brasses/jenkinson/

‘Mr F.J.H. Jenkinson’, obituary in The Times, 22 Sep. 1923.

Books: Margaret Clifford Jenkinson, A Fragrance of Sweet Memories [Reminiscences of Francis Jenkinson], unpublished memoir, Cambridge University Library; P. Magnus, King Edward the Seventh (1964); H. F. Stewart, Francis Jenkinson: a memoir (1926); Francis John Henry Jenkinson by H.W. S[impkinson], Marlborough , 1923 [1 v.] ; 19 cm. Repr. from The Marlburian, 28 Nov. 1923.

Cambridge University Library Archives: Jenkinson, FJH to Ida Darwin, MS Add 9368.1: 16513 & ff.; letters from Jenkinson, Margaret Clifford ‘Daisy’ (1858-1933) née Stewart to Ida Darwin, MS Add.10286/1/40; from Jenkinson, Eleanor Louisa ‘Nelly’ (1855-1948) to Ida Darwin, MS Add.10286/1/42; Wetton, Mildred to Ida Darwin, MS Add.10286/1/70; Stanford, Jennie to Ida Darwin, MS Add.10286/1/67; FJH Jenkinson’s diaries and letters held at Cambridge University Library.

Finding Ida Darwin

Headway Cambridgeshire’s new exhibition IMPACT! Brain injuries and WW1 has just opened at the Museum of Cambridge (open from 1pm – 5pm each Thursday, Friday and Saturday in September 2020).  I am reposting this blog about my visit to the Ida Darwin site in 2016, when Block 10 was the home of Headway Cambridgeshire, an organization which supports people with an acquired brain injury and their carers.

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Just a mile or two south of Cambridge, after you pass the imposing gates of Fulbourn Hospital, there is a road to the left with a small sign marked ‘Ida Darwin’. It’s easy to miss. Turn in and you’ll find various single-storey prefabricated buildings scattered about a leafy, tree-filled park, including a creche, a ‘Help the Aged’ centre, and clinics specializing in helping young people with mental health issues and their families. Until a couple of years ago, Block 10 was the home of Headway Cambridgeshire, an organization which supports people with an acquired brain injury and their carers. I went there in summer  2016 to meet a group who are researching the life of Ida Darwin, the woman the site is named after.

Ida was born in London in 1854, the daughter of the influential civil servant Lord Thomas Farrer and Frances, a classical singer. She grew up in a world of Victorian culture and privilege. Her father was a keen amateur botanist and a close friend of the great naturalist Charles Darwin, and in 1880 Ida married Darwin’s youngest son Horace, an inventor. They moved to Cambridge, where Horace began a business making equipment for the new scientific laboratories.

In Period Piece (1952) Ida’s niece Gwen Raverat describes Cambridge of the time as “a society which was still small and exclusive. The town of course didn’t count at all.” This was simply not true in Ida’s case. Being in a university town brought her into contact with other women who shared her zeal for education and strong sense of social awareness. Inspired by the social reformer and feminist Josephine Butler, they formed an association to offer support to underprivileged girls who were being drawn into prostitution or suffering neglect or abuse, arranging training and jobs for them as domestic servants and shop-workers.

Darwin’s work with disadvantaged girls led to her growing interest in people with learning disabilities, described as ‘mentally deficient’ or ‘feeble-minded’ in the harsh language of the time. Along with an influential pressure group of scientists and public figures she campaigned for legislation to ensure improved mental disability provision, and succeeded. The Mental Deficiency Act of 1913 was the first act by the British government specifically related to providing improved care for people with learning disabilities, although at first this was mostly limited to segregation in special institutions.

The First World War changed Ida Darwin’s understanding of mental disability and mental health, as she began to understand how the two were closely linked. After her son Erasmus was killed in April 1915, she interviewed soldiers convalescing at the First Eastern Hospital and read articles and books about shell shock, and the ‘talking cure’ pioneered by Dr WHR Rivers, who treated Siegfried Sassoon at Craiglockhart. As soon as the Armistice was signed, she asked Rivers and her friend Dr CS Myers, who coined the term ‘shell shock’ in 1915, to support her idea for founding a civilian outpatient clinic. There, early intervention and counselling by trained medical staff could help to prevent mental breakdown and admission to Fulbourn mental hospital.

In 1919 one of the country’s first outpatient psychiatric clinics opened at Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge. Sadly, it did not last long, due to lack of funding. Instead, Darwin threw her efforts into funding research and organizing new national mental health associations in the 1920s: the National Council for Mental Hygiene and the Child Guidance Council. Together with the Central Association for Mental Welfare, which Ida and Horace helped to found in 1913, these groups formed the National Association of Mental Health in 1946. Today this charity is known as Mind, which celebrates its 75th birthday in 2021.

In 1970 the Ida Darwin Hospital at Fulbourn near Cambridge was officially opened, offering services for mentally disabled children. It was named after Ida Darwin in recognition of her lifelong work in mental welfare. No longer a hospital, it now combines some NHS residential care for young people and their families with other community services. The site has been sold to a private developer and may be turned into new housing; Headway Cambridgeshire was among the clinics that have had to move elsewhere. When the builders move in, the name of Ida Darwin may disappear in the rubble, along with the history of her work.

Ann Kennedy Smith (updated 8 September 2020), all rights reserved.

With thanks to the Headway Heritage group at Headway Cambridgeshire. My article about Ida Darwin and early ‘shell shock’ doctors is in the new History Today, and can be read online here.

Sources: The Darwin Archive at the University Library, Cambridge; Gwen Raverat, Period Piece (Faber, 1952); Ruth Rees Thomas, ‘Ida Darwin 1854-1946’ Focus (magazine of Fulbourn Hospital, Cambridge) summer edition 1970. Please reference as follows: Ann Kennedy Smith, ‘Finding Ida Darwin’, (August 25, 2016) https://akennedysmith.wordpress.com/(Accessed: day/month/year)