This Day in History: 9 October — The Deceptive Perfidy (1912)

On 9 October 1912, Richard Courtney, a 50-year-old seaman, stood before the Old Bailey charged with attempting to break and enter the shop of Harry Manfield & Co., and another premises, with intent to steal.

The charge was read aloud in the formal, almost liturgical tone of the court:

Clerk of Arraigns: “Richard Courtney, you stand indicted for that you did, on or about the eighth day of October, feloniously attempt to break and enter certain shop premises with intent to steal therein. How say you — guilty or not guilty?”
Courtney: “Guilty, sir.”

The admission silenced the public gallery. In 1912, a guilty plea was both rare and oddly respectable — a sign that the accused would not waste the court’s time. Yet the judge still sought to hear the facts.

Prosecutor: “The prisoner was found loitering near the door of the firm of Harry Manfield & Company, at an hour when the place was long closed. Marks were found upon the lock. When challenged by the constable, he made no attempt to flee.”
Judge: “And the instrument used?”
Prosecutor: “A small chisel, Your Lordship. Found in his pocket.”
Judge: “Have you anything to say before I pass sentence?”
Courtney: (quietly) “No, sir — only that I meant no harm by it.”

The judge’s voice softened slightly.

Judge: “Mr. Courtney, you are a man of fifty years, and one who has seen honest work upon the seas. It is most unfortunate that you should end a working life thus. You will be imprisoned for six months, second division.”

And with that, the briefest of trials was done.

Why this mattered

This small exchange captures a turning point in London’s criminal history. Gone were the days of pickpockets and highwaymen; by 1912, it was the urban tradesman’s shop — locked, insured, and gaslit — that bore the brunt of desperation.

Courtney’s sentence of six months, second division reflected the Edwardian belief that punishment could still be humane. Second-division prisoners avoided the treadwheel and the hard labour that earlier convicts endured, yet the stigma of the dock would follow them as surely as the sound of the judge’s gavel.

It was a short case, but a very human one — a weary sailor, an unlocked door, and the long shadow of temptation in a city of endless windows.

Source

R v. Richard Courtney (t19121008-15), trial at the Old Bailey, 8 October 1912, sentence 9 October 1912. Verdict: Guilty (plea). Sentence: Six months’ imprisonment (second division).
Old Bailey Proceedings Online

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Thought of the Day: The Paradise of Ignorance

If ignorance is bliss, social media must be paradise.

The Sage has spent many hours observing the great digital debate hall that is social media. After careful study, he’s concluded that it’s less a forum for knowledge and more a theme park of overconfidence — where facts queue patiently while opinions ride the rollercoaster.

In this modern “paradise,” everyone is an expert, logic is optional, and humility has been permanently banned for violating the algorithm’s community guidelines. Yet, somehow, amid the noise, the Sage finds serenity — proof that true wisdom may lie in knowing when not to scroll.

It’s a reminder that bliss is not ignorance itself, but the ability to occasionally log off and make a proper cup of tea instead.

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Advice of the Day: Printing Problems

Advice: Never run out of loo roll by installing a printer in the bathroom.

The Sage prides himself on being a man of innovation — and occasional plumbing disasters. His latest revelation solves one of life’s oldest anxieties: running out of toilet paper. Simply connect a high-speed printer, load it with A4, and let technology take care of your hygiene needs.

Admittedly, there are… complications. Paper jams are now far more personal. Ink cartridges become a matter of health and safety. And explaining this system to guests can lead to emergency plumbing visits and lifelong confusion. But, as The Sage says, progress always comes with smudges.

It’s a perfect reminder that wisdom and madness often share the same bathroom.

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Quote of the Day: Bea Lurt on Certainty

Quote: “Those who are always certain tend to be wrong at higher volume.”
— Bea Lurt

Bea Lurt had little patience for the overconfident. This quote skewers the modern obsession with certainty — the louder people insist they’re right, the more likely they’re not even close. Her humour lies in that perfect balance between cynicism and truth: wisdom whispers, arrogance shouts.

Her philosophy reminds us that doubt isn’t weakness; it’s awareness. The people who question themselves tend to grow, while those who never do simply repeat their mistakes — but louder, and often on social media. Bea’s observation is both timeless and timely, a gentle nudge to turn down the volume and think twice.

As The Sage might note: “Confidence without competence is just karaoke wisdom.”

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Thought of the Day: The Boil of Contentment

Thought: The secret to happiness is low expectations and a reliable kettle.

The Sage has long maintained that true enlightenment begins in the kitchen. Grand ambitions are all very well, but it’s the small certainties — a good brew, a warm mug, and a kettle that doesn’t pack up mid-boil — that keep life bearable.

By lowering expectations, The Sage argues, you become immune to disappointment. Expect little, and even a working appliance feels like a spiritual awakening. Expect too much, and you’ll spend your days shouting at the Wi-Fi and resenting the weather.

This thought reminds us that joy isn’t found in luxury or success, but in the comforting hiss of water meeting tea leaves. Happiness, in other words, is best served with a spoonful of realism and a splash of milk.

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Advice of the Day: Revolving Fitness

Advice: Save money on gym memberships by installing revolving doors at home.

The Sage believes that true fitness doesn’t require fancy equipment, motivational playlists, or Lycra that costs more than rent. His solution? Simply install a revolving door in your hallway and get your cardio every time you try to leave the house.

It’s an ingenious system: endless movement, minimal progress — just like real life. You’ll burn calories, confuse the postman, and never technically be late again. Sure, guests may struggle to visit, and the cat might need therapy, but that’s a small price to pay for such an innovative home workout plan.

The Sage insists that enlightenment often comes through repetition — and what could be more repetitive than a door that never stops spinning? Besides, it’s the only exercise that guarantees you’ll end up exactly where you started.

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Quote of the Day: Bea Lurt on Pretence

Quote: “Better to admit your faults than dress them in borrowed competence.”
— Bea Lurt

Bea Lurt has always championed the honest chaos of human imperfection. In a world obsessed with appearing capable, she reminds us that pretence is just poorly applied wallpaper — impressive from a distance, but peeling at the corners when you look too closely.

Her words echo her lifelong philosophy: that true confidence comes from owning your mistakes, not hiding them under someone else’s expertise. Bea believed that failure is far less embarrassing than fakery — because at least failure can lead to improvement. Pretence, on the other hand, tends to lead only to awkward PowerPoint presentations and smoking printers.

This quote captures Bea’s unique blend of humour and humility. It’s a reminder that authenticity may not always impress, but it always endures — and usually gets better reviews.

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This Day in History: 7 October — The Silk Handkerchief Job (1806)

On the bustling streets of London on 7 October 1806, pockets were a battleground. Among the carriages, chatter, and hawkers’ cries, William King reached deftly into the coat of George Pritchard, drawing out a silk handkerchief valued at a shilling. A minor fortune to some, and proof of guilt to others.

The theft was swift, the handkerchief soft, and the law merciless.

King was caught not long after, his pockets searched by a sharp-eyed constable who found the silk still folded and faintly scented. When the case came before the Old Bailey later that month, the courtroom filled with the usual cast of London’s minor tragedies — the victim, the constable, the thief, and a public hungry for justice.

The Trial at the Old Bailey

The indictment read with its customary precision:

“William King was indicted for privately stealing, on the 7th of October, from the person of George Pritchard, one silk handkerchief, value one shilling.”

Pritchard described how he’d been walking through the City when he felt the faintest tug at his pocket. Turning, he saw King’s hand withdraw — and the flash of silk vanishing into the thief’s coat.

Pritchard: “I seized him directly, crying out ‘Stop thief!’”
Constable: “I came up and searched him — found the article upon him, and he could give no account of its ownership.”

King offered little in defence beyond the weary protest of his kind:

King: “I picked it up off the ground, sir.”

The jury, unmoved, returned a verdict of Guilty, and the judge delivered the sentence with ritual brevity:

“To be transported for seven years.”

That phrase — seven years — carried its own weight in the courtroom air. It meant exile, not death; a living punishment sent across oceans to New South Wales.

Why it Mattered

In the early 1800s, London’s pocket-picking epidemic was one of the most common offences at the Old Bailey. Handkerchiefs, watches, and purses were the currency of survival for the city’s poorest.

A silk handkerchief was both fashion and fortune — proof of gentility and a day’s wage for those desperate enough to steal one.

William King’s conviction tells a larger story about Georgian London: a society where petty theft could send a man halfway round the world, where small crimes filled great ships, and where transportation became Britain’s unlikely solution to overcrowded prisons.

The fate of King himself is lost to time — but the handkerchief, the shout of “Stop thief!”, and the sentence of seven years live on in the fading ink of the Old Bailey’s record.

Source

R v. William King (t18061029-47), tried at the Old Bailey on 29 October 1806, for privately stealing a silk handkerchief from George Pritchard on 7 October 1806. Verdict: Guilty. Sentence: Transportation for seven years.
Old Bailey Proceedings Online

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This Day in History: 6 October — The Night of the Stolen Fowls (1793)

On the evening of 6 October 1793, someone slipped into a London yard and made off with a squawking fortune: eleven tame hens and two cocks. In a city where poultry were both pantry and livelihood, this wasn’t a prank; it was a blow to the family purse. Within weeks, a suspect, William Peters, stood before the Old Bailey to answer for it, and the court heard how a bundle of birds had become a full-blown felony.

The case was tried on 30 October 1793, one of many thefts that crowded the autumn sessions of the Central Criminal Court. The indictment, neat as a ledger, listed each victim in feathers: “eleven live tame hen fowls and two live tame cock fowls”. In an age where every chicken was property and every property sacred, such precision turned squawks into evidence.

The crime and the chase

Witnesses told a familiar story. The owner, one John Young, swore that all thirteen birds were safely roosting when he retired on the night of 6 October. Come morning, the yard was empty, the gate ajar, and the feathers scattered like confetti. A neighbour recalled hearing the soft thump of a coop door and the muffled sound of panic — the kind only chickens make when destiny arrives in a sack.

By breakfast, the culprit was already trying his luck in the market. A poulterer testified that a man matching Peters’s description appeared before dawn, offering to sell a mismatched clutch of fowl at a price too good to be honest. When questioned, the vendor had no name for his “master” and no patience for details. The poulterer’s suspicions, combined with the constable’s timing, led to an arrest later that same day.

The trial at the Old Bailey

In court, Peters — described as aged sixty — faced the charge with the stoicism of a man who had seen London’s darker corners. The prosecution stressed the date (“the sixth day of October”) and the exact number of birds, hammering home the chain of possession. Chickens, the jury was reminded, were not trifles; they were property with a pulse.

The evidence was straightforward: the stolen birds, the attempt to sell them, and the owner’s identification of his flock. Peters said little in his defence — perhaps out of fatigue, perhaps wisdom. The jury deliberated briefly.

The clerk wrote the outcome in the standard hand of Georgian justice:

“GUILTY (Aged 60). Imprisoned twelve months in the House of Correction and fined one shilling.”
— Old Bailey Proceedings, 30 October 1793.

It was a merciful sentence by the standards of the time. Just decades earlier, a poultry thief might have faced branding or transportation; now, imprisonment and a token fine sufficed to mark the offence and spare the gallows.

Why this mattered

London in the 1790s was a city of hungry mouths and narrow chances. For working families, a handful of hens could mean the difference between subsistence and starvation. To steal them was not only theft but an assault on self-sufficiency. The Peters case sits among thousands like it — tiny crimes that fed the machinery of justice and revealed the fragile economics of the poor.

For historians, the record is a small masterpiece: a date, a name, a sentence, and a handful of birds — the ordinary made eternal in ink.

Epilogue

William Peters’s twelve months in the House of Correction would have been far from gentle. Labour, coarse food, and confinement awaited him. His one-shilling fine, if unpaid, might be docked from prison labour earnings. Yet his story outlived him, preserved among the countless voices of London’s forgotten petty offenders — where every cluck, every theft, and every verdict still echoes through time.

Source

R v. William Peters (t17931030-47), trial of William Peters for stealing eleven live tame hen fowls and two live tame cock fowls, 30 October 1793.
Old Bailey Proceedings Online

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This Day in History — 2 October 1822

Henry Rumbold & the Stolen Tea Kettle

A humble kettle, a heavy price.

🍵 The Crime

On 2 October 1822, Henry Rumbold was indicted for stealing from William Lawrence:

Such goods were basic to daily life but costly for a working family. A kettle was not just a household item, but the heart of the hearth.

🏛️ The Trial

At his trial on 23 October 1822, the evidence was plain: the kettle and pot were traced to Rumbold’s possession. His defence carried little weight.

The indictment was read:

“Henry Rumbold, you stand indicted for feloniously stealing, on the 2nd of October, one copper tea kettle and one pewter pint pot…”

The jury needed little convincing.

⚖️ Verdict & Sentence

  • Verdict: Guilty.
  • Sentence: Transported for seven years.

For a kettle and a pot valued at just nine shillings, Rumbold was condemned to leave England, most likely bound for Australia.
(Old Bailey Proceedings, Punishment Summary, Oct 1822)

🧠 Why It Matters

  • Harsh proportionality: Minor thefts often carried exile.
  • Daily goods, severe loss: A kettle symbolised warmth and daily routine; its theft was both practical and emotional.
  • The transportation machine: By the 1820s, transportation was the standard punishment for property crimes — the colonies were built on such sentences.

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