In February 1889 a man named Richard Pascoe, known locally as ‘Doctor Dick’, was put on trial in Truro, accused of undertaking abortions for two young women. The ‘respectable’ classes keenly wanted to see him convicted, but the working classes felt very differently. Indeed, the common people of the city were so committed to Doctor Dick that vast crowds turned out to cheer him, death threats were sent to a key witness, and a violent mob attacked his enemies in the street. The establishment was horrified — one concerned citizen proclaimed, ‘Few among us had any idea, until these disgraceful scenes, how perverted popular sentiment had become!’

It is a fascinating story, full of drama, passion and human folly, but these events in 1889 are only the tip of the iceberg. Richard Pascoe scandalised Cornish society repeatedly through his long life and faced the wrath of the law many times without ever really changing his behaviour. Was he a brave hero or a stubborn villain? Were the common people of Truro right to champion him? Or had they been tricked by a rogue and a quack who did harm to desperate women in the interests of making money?

Medical family
Naturally, the best place for us to start is at the beginning. Richard Pascoe was born in Chacewater in 1829, son of William Hamlyn Pascoe, the local ‘surgeon-apothecary’, and his wife Emma (née Yeoman). William’s profession would have ensured the family lived in strange circumstances; such rural medical men occupied an almost unique place in the Victorian social structure, for although they had an education that suggested respectability, they still spent most of their time assisting poor working people, and usually bordered on poverty themselves. The Victorian novelist Ellen Wallace described the position of such a man in one of her stories:

“In a country where wealth is the sole standard of social position, and where talent is comparatively disregarded, the condition of the medical practitioner, and still more, the condition of his family, is far from enviable. He may enjoy the confidence of his patients; he may possibly be admitted to the tables of the higher classes in the neighbourhood; but his family holds an uncertain and slippery position, the most trying to the manner and teasing to the temper that can be conceived.”

This strange combination of semi-respectability and relative poverty must have encouraged a more flexible approach to life than was the case with most educated Victorians. Indeed, William certainly seems to have lived a colourful existence — although noted for his integrity and cleverness he is recorded as having an illegitimate child in addition to his legitimate offspring, and for a serious dependency on alcohol.

It is clear that Richard did not aim for local social advancement, for he trained initially as a carpenter, before leaving Cornwall to make a life in London. This led to some interesting life experiences; it was reported that he worked on the construction of the Crystal Palace in London in 1851, and that while he was there he actually met Prince Albert, who asked him several questions about Cornwall.

Father’s chequered career
Yet while young Richard was off having chinwags with royalty, things were not faring well at home. In 1851 his father was formally accused of manslaughter after he gave a patient a large dose of opium that may have resulted in his death. In court, several witnesses claimed that William Hamlyn Pascoe was drunk at the time, but the defence argued that he was just a man of naturally lively spirits. The judge was sympathetic to the surgeon before him and the jury quickly ruled ‘not guilty’. This reprieve was not to last long, however — a year later he was on trial again, this time facing charges of deliberately instigating a miscarriage.

We should take a moment to clarify how serious an accusation this was. The subject of abortions is still a contentious one today, but in Victorian England there was little room for debate, since ‘respectable’ society considered it to be a truly evil crime. Yet it’s also worth pointing out that the moral standpoint of the wealthy middle classes was not shared by much of the country; for many working-class women, married as well as unmarried, abortions were a necessary (and dangerous) evil.

As with many Victorian social issues, there were two parallel realities — the layer of ‘moral’ society on the surface, and the far more complex reality of how most people actually lived. Normally these worlds barely acknowledged each other, yet occasionally a confrontation was forced and sparks would fly. William Hamlyn Pascoe had the misfortune to be at one of these collision points, and it would not do him any favours.

The jury at Bodmin declared him guilty, and the judge sentenced him to be ‘transported beyond the seas for the term of ten years’. As was usual for transported convicts, William was sent to Pentonville Prison in London (after a few months in Millbank Prison) to serve the first part of his sentence.

Despite the awfulness of this situation, William was also rather lucky. In December 1852 Viscount Palmerston, one of the great Victorian statesmen, became Home Secretary. His first priority was penal reform, and he quickly oversaw the ending of transportation, the shortening of ridiculous prison sentences, and the introduction of a parole system. In the end, William only served four years — two in London prisons and two in a prison hulk moored in Portsmouth Harbour — before he was paroled in 1856 and allowed to come home.

Doctor Dick
How did this affect young Richard? It’s impossible to say, though it seems that father and son remained close and on good terms. After William’s release he went to live with Richard, who had now moved back to Chacewater in Cornwall with his wife Susan and their young children. Indeed, the 1861 census lists William as a ‘surgeon’, and Richard as an ‘assistant surgeon’. Despite his traumatic experience, perhaps William was still carrying out abortions, now with his son’s help?

Whatever the truth may be, our story now leaves William behind as Richard steps into the limelight. It’s in the 1860s that we first start hearing references to his alter-ego, Doctor Dick — an informal, all-purpose medical man. It’s important for us to consider what that really meant, since newspapers at the time described him as a ‘quack’, which carries many connotations. ‘Quack doctors’ were a common feature of Victorian life, and were usually little more than con artists — their focus being primarily on selling dubious substances with outrageous promises at even more outrageous prices. It is reported that Doctor Dick attended market days across Cornwall, which certainly fits with that type — quack doctors were often in attendance wherever there were large groups of people, selling their wares alongside other tradesmen. It’s also reported that Richard was a likeable, charismatic chap who spent a great deal time of the pub — useful traits for a cynical conman.

Yet I’m not convinced that Richard Pascoe was a full-blown swindler. We know that he assisted his father’s medical work, and that after William’s death Richard inherited his medical books and instruments. We also have plenty of evidence that indicates that he was a popular and trusted figure amongst poor working people, which is unlikely to have been the case if he was just a trickster. He later claimed that he was sometimes asked to send prescriptions to Cornish miners working in America and Africa from time to time, which, if he was telling the truth, is quite some achievement.

When all is said and done, the biggest distinction between Doctor Dick and the usual run-of-the-mill quack must surely be his willingness to carry out the riskier side of his father’s work — providing abortions. Given that most such patients had a lot invested in the procedure remaining secret, the vast majority of these cases went undetected by the law, so there’s no way of knowing how frequently he was called upon. Yet, eventually, like with his father before him, the bright light of public and legal attention shone down upon Richard Pascoe, revealing his hidden activities to the world and to history.

In 1879 a woman living in Roche, Edna Chapman, miscarried and became very ill. The miscarriage itself was a shock to the community given that her husband had been out of the country for 15 months, and it soon became known that the miscarriage was no accident. An anonymous tip-off was sent to the police, and an Inspector Colenso visited the deeply unwell woman to see where the truth lay. She admitted what had happened and revealed the name of the individual responsible for undertaking the procedure, and so, with an arrest warrant in hand, Inspector Colenso went to find Richard Pascoe. In the end, he found him in an inn at Perranzabuloe, somewhat ‘worse for liquor’. Then, for some bizarre (read, ‘drunken’) reason Doctor Dick took the inspector to his carpenter’s shop/medical practice and showed him a box containing bottles of the drug (ergot) used to end pregnancies. He then, quite astonishingly, proclaimed that he had ‘cured 2,000 cases of this sort’, which, exaggeration or not, was clearly not a clever thing to say to a police officer sent to arrest you. He did deny to the inspector that he ever used ‘instruments’ in his work, but suspicious wires were later found in his possession.

So, in Truro that November, Richard was formally charged with ‘feloniously using a certain instrument with intent to procure a miscarriage of Edna Chapman’. He did at least have a legal defence; a newspaper reported that ‘Dr. Dick was a well-known character in Perran[zabuloe], and was generally well-liked, so his wife had very little trouble in getting £15 to procure a lawyer to defend him at trial.’ Even so, he was facing an uphill battle — despite initially trying to protect Richard by withholding important evidence, Edna Chapman now revealed everything. She said she had met Richard Pascoe at ‘Smith’s lodgings’ in Truro, where he undertook the physical procedure. He gave her a ‘bottle of medicine’ to ensure that the process was successful, and then requested £5 payment (£626 in today’s money), which was more money than she had on her, so she gave him 20 shillings (£93) instead, and 2 shillings for the bottle. She then revealed to the court that she had also seen him for the same purpose 18 months before.

Despite everything, the case was a close-run thing. The jury found themselves at loggerheads and spent nearly an hour deliberating on their judgement. Eventually, they came to a decision — guilty. The judge sentenced him to five years’ penal servitude, and Richard Pascoe found himself facing virtually the same fate as his father 27 years before. Indeed, he too was sent to Pentonville Prison in London. His wife and ten children were left without their breadwinner.

In the end he only served four years before he was paroled and allowed to return home, though it was clear that his time in prison had been no picnic — he said afterwards that he ‘would rather be hanged than undergo another such term’. Yet despite this it seems clear that once he was home he carried on quite as before. Indeed, it seems his return to informal doctoring was a great success, for he had soon moved from rural obscurity into Truro itself, and was living in a house at 14 Princes Street.

New crimes
In January 1889 Emma Manley was in trouble. She was pregnant, you see — but in no position to carry that burden. Unmarried. A servant girl. What would her employers do when they found out? She lived with them (at 12 River Street, Truro), and there was every chance they would throw her onto the street once her secret was revealed.

She did at least know that there was an escape route for girls in her position — she had even helped her own sister, Rosina, look for it a month before. Together through Truro’s cobbled streets they had tracked down Richard Pascoe. He took the girls to The Seven Stars Inn, and, in a small upstairs room, painfully ended Emma’s pregnancy in exchange for two shillings.

Emma had achieved her aim that day, but as was often the case with abortions at that time, she paid a severe physical price and was consigned to bed for a number of days. This had the unfortunate consequence of bringing attention to her experience, first from the couple that employed her, but then from strangers — religious campaigners who saw themselves as guardians of Truro’s morality and were determined to bring Emma’s experience to the attention of the public and the law.

The consequences would be dramatic. For Emma, for Doctor Dick, and for the city of Truro itself.

In January 1889, a woman named Joanna Donaldson — a Scotswoman, a committed teetotaler, an enemy of ungodly living — had latched onto Emma Manley’s story and was determined to take action. She pushed the police to intervene, and so, on 5 February, Superintendent Angel tracked down Doctor Dick with a warrant for his arrest.

But this time there was an immediate and aggressive upswell of popular support for the amateur doctor, married to a new public willingness to challenge the authorities in his name. This was apparent at a preliminary court hearing on 11 February, held in the police court in the city hall. A huge audience was in attendance (described by one newspaper as a ‘rough element’), who behaved almost like football supporters. When the prosecution detailed the charges, they murmured disapprovingly, and when Richard spoke, they cheered enthusiastically. They even took to booing and hissing Mrs Donaldson.

Richard himself seemed emboldened by all this noisy support; when the prosecution explained that they would leave most of the evidence to a later date, Richard interrupted, sarcastically enquiring, ‘When do you think the case is going to be heard? This year?’ which prompted a cry of ‘Order!’ At the end of the day, when he was being led from the court, a crowd outside were waiting to cheer him, and he responded by proclaiming that the police had no case against him and were making it all up.

Tensions ran high during the following week as all of Cornwall anticipated the main trial on the 16th. When the day finally came an even larger crowd of Doctor Dick supporters assembled outside the court, and as the doors were opened to the public there was a ‘mad rush’ to get a seat. The prosecuting lawyer quickly dropped a bombshell into the room. He explained that they were bringing a second charge against Richard Pascoe as well, for they had learnt that he had also operated on Emma’s sister, Rosina. The defending lawyer, Mr Dobell, protested that he had not been given warning of this second charge, but this did not carry any weight with the magistrates. The trial continued, beginning with Rosina’s case. She took the stand and told her story.

It is hard to imagine how the Manley sisters were feeling that day as they were prompted to reveal all to a febrile courtroom. They were only young, and were now facing a brutal public shaming — their most private struggles picked over by the powerful, the mob, and the press. They were no strangers to struggle: the sisters had been abandoned by their parents as very young children and had grown up in Truro workhouse alongside unwanted souls of every variety.

It seems, despite all of this, that they managed to speak clearly in court. Rosina told the room how in November she had walked to Truro from Langarth Farm where she worked as a servant, and together with Emma had tracked ‘Doctor Dick’ down to the Market Inn, whereafter he operated on her in a passageway. When this failed to result in the ending of her pregnancy she visited him again at his home. He promised to provide her with an aborting drug instead, but when she returned once again to retrieve it, he had none to give her, and her pregnancy continued unabated.

Evidence was given by several witnesses, including Emma herself (‘who caused some sensation in Court owing to her youth’), but the defence found it relatively easy to cast aspersions on Rosina’s story. It was a dark and miserable night, Mr Dobell protested, so what did the witnesses really see? He ended his statement by calling the whole accusation absurd — surely no one believed that Richard Pascoe would undertake an illegal procedure in a public passageway where anyone could walk in? The crowd applauded the sentiment loudly, as the magistrates took to deliberating. In the end they decided that Rosina’s case should be heard at a higher judicial level at the Bodmin assizes later on that year.

This still left Emma, of course. The details of her story were laid out by Emma herself, before her friend, Elizabeth Glasson, took the stand as a witness. Something seemed immediately, for she was clearly very agitated. When initially interviewed by the police privately she had claimed to have been in the room when Emma was operated upon, but now she completely changed her story, claiming that she had been ‘frightened into giving’ the incriminating statement in the first place! There was, understandably, an uproar. Superintendent Angel was himself invited to the witness box, where he gruffly denied that he had intimidated the witness or influenced her in any way. The prosecution carried on, inviting Dr Salmon, who had originally confirmed Emma’s pregnancy, to take the stand. As he was talking, Richard couldn’t help but interrupt, yelling ‘I am not going to stop here to be thrown away by nobody!’ His own lawyer, Mr Dobell, then looked at him and asked curtly, ‘Will you be quiet?’

Richard finally calming down, and his lawyer was able to deliver their final statement. He made much of the contradictions and complexities in the evidence and called upon the magistrates to set his client free. The magistrates again deliberated and came to the same decision as with the first charge — Richard’s fate should be decided by the jury at the next Bodmin assizes.

The Truro trial was done, but the day’s drama was not. The great multitude of ‘Doctor Dick’ supporters refused to leave the building despite the best efforts of the police, while another great crowd congregated outside, ready to give both Richard and Mr Dobell a great cheer. After their hero had been led away, however, things took a turn, as they spotted Mrs Joanna Donaldson, accompanied by her husband, Augustus, the Canon of Truro Cathedral. Superintendent Angel dispatched four police officers to escort the pair. En route to the Donaldsons’ house the mob hurled abuse, mud, and stones.

Richard Pascoe was taken by train to Bodmin Jail that afternoon, and then, a few weeks later, the spring assizes were held at Bodmin, and the two charges against Richard were again picked through. The jury spent 40 minutes deciding on their verdict, but, eventually, they ruled not guilty. Richard travelled back to Truro, where he found hundreds of people awaiting him at the train station in a mood of uncontrollable excitement.

Respectable outrage
Of course, this all came as a great shock to Truro’s middle classes. Many outraged citizens wrote outraged letters to outraged newspapers explaining exactly how outraged they were. ‘Few of us had any idea until the disgraceful scenes… just how perverted popular sentiment had become!’ complained one reader of the West Briton & Cornwall Advertiser, while another added that ‘To every reasonable and orderly person such a manifestation of feeling indicated a very diseased state of mind on the part of the many who showed it!’ Word of what occurred spread across the country as well, inspiring one London journalist to brand Truro a ‘corrupt little town’.

A pressing question is why Richard’s supporters were so fired up in the first place. Of course, his evident charisma and widespread popularity must have had a lot to do with it — people don’t vigorously defend those they dislike. And, of course, we know that working-class communities were far more laid back than the middle classes regarding abortions.

More important than these factors, though, was the spirit of political radicalism alive in Cornwall at the time. Cornish politics was generally out-of-step with other mining regions in the UK; long after strong labour movements were established across industrial England, Cornwall remained predominantly liberal and disinterested in class politics. In the 1880s this began to change, however, and a more radical form of working-class politics began to emerge in Cornwall. This was demonstrated in the general election of 1885 when Camborne elected Charles Conybeare, a radical politician who believed that women should have the vote, that the Anglican church should be ‘disestablished’ and that the House of Lords should be abolished. In 1889 he was imprisoned in Ireland after he distributed aid to recently evicted farmworkers, and when he returned to Camborne after his release he was jubilantly mobbed in the street in much the same way as Doctor Dick would be upon his return to Truro. There was a radical spirit in the air in these mining districts, suffering as they were from the grinding collapse of Cornish copper and tin, and it was upon this wave that both Conybeare and Pascoe were raised. It partly exclaims the aggression and unpleasantness that runs through the behaviour of Doctor Dick’s supporters — they weren’t just conveying their support for him, they were expressing a more revolutionary dissatisfaction with the entire social order.

Richard must have spent the weeks after his release in a state of high spirits, but there was yet another twist waiting for him down the road. The police kept a close eye on him in Truro following the trial, and then, only a few months after his triumph, he was arrested again by Superintendent Angel on account of a new charge being brought against him. However, this case would not be heard in Truro, or even in Bodmin, but in the Old Bailey in London.

Richard was accused of operating on a Lincolnshire woman named Betsy Croft, first in London, and then again in Bristol. He was eventually declared guilty and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude, much to the satisfaction of his opponents back in Cornwall. There are few traces of Richard after his conviction, and I have no idea how he found this second, longer prison sentence. It goes without saying that it would have been seriously rough, and as the years passed on his many ardent supporters back home would surely have moved on with their lives and consigned his fate to the backs of their minds.

Final years
Yet there is an end to this story — Doctor Dick was paroled in 1896 and allowed to return home, moving in with his eldest son, William Hamlyn, a miner who lived near Newquay. Then, it would seem, he carried on exactly as he did before, for in 1909, when he was eighty years old, he was put on trial one last time. He was accused of the same old offence, this time involving a woman named Lilias Maud Bennett, from Chacewater. The trial attracted much less attention than was once the case, but it was still sent up to the Bodmin assizes for settling. Here Richard was as defiant as ever, but it seems the judge took pity on the hunched, enfeebled figure before him, and the jury returned a judgment of not guilty.

He did not have long to enjoy his freedom, however, for he died in his son’s home in 1910. He left behind four sons — William Hamlyn, Frederick George, Edwin Thompson and John — and three daughters — Emma, Elizabeth and Ellen Hamlyn. Many of them lived interesting lives it would seem: Elizabeth emigrated to New Zealand and Frederick George to Montana, USA, while a fifth son, Richard Waterford, had died in South Africa in 1907. Despite this, it’s likely that many of his direct descendants still live in Cornwall.

The last words of this story should rightly be focused on the women he helped. As fascinating as Richard Pascoe was, it can be too easy to focus on him entirely when discussing the various criminal trials. Because at the heart of all of this were a group of individuals — Edna Chapman, Rosina Manley, Emma Manley, Betsy Croft and Lilias Maud Bennett — who, while they may have lived very different lives, were united across decades through the shared experience of being publicly shamed by those trying to put Richard Pascoe behind bars. It is striking how little their wellbeing figures in contemporary discussions of the issues. Indeed, some journalists actually argued that the women deserved to be prosecuted themselves for their role in encouraging the ‘crime’. We can only hope that the infamy that attached to these women’s names fell away quickly over the passing years.

A more detailed account by Will of Doctor Dick’s story can be found at www.localhistoryisawesome.co.uk