Medicine’s loss was town’s gain

He lived in a large house which is now the post office at the bottom of Galgate. He had a mortuary in the basement, so bodies often lay there waiting for a post-mortem examination or burial.

He had a tack room at the rear with equipment for the horse and carriage he used to visit patients around the area.

He moved to the town in 1859 after graduating from Edinburgh University, where he was an outstanding student.

He was noted for making copious notes at lectures and gained a gold medal for his high marks in all exams.

He was expected to make a name for himself in a major city hospital, but chose Teesdale.

A medical journal stated: “What was medicine’s loss was Barnard Castle’s gain.” It added that every honour the town and district could bestow was showered upon him.

As well as running his own practice and filling many public health roles, he was a surgeon to the militia troops and reached the rank of lieutenant colonel.

The doctor was a workoholic, for, besides his local and Army medical duties, he was regional president of the British Medical Association, a busy magistrate and a senior Conservative party official.

His speeches filled regular columns in many newspapers.

But in the town he was highly regarded by everyone as a dedicated man who turned out to tend patients at all hours and never pressed for payment from those who could not afford it.

He was busy even in his few leisure hours because he studied languages — German, French, Italian and Spanish — so he could speak them fluently when he made holiday tours in Europe in later life.

One friend described him as like Prime Minister Gladstone in that the only rest he ever knew was a change of effort.

The same man said the doctor was “greatly overtaxed” by his workload. He suffered from internal ear trouble and went occasionally to Edinburgh for treatment.

He died suddenly of paralysis at a fairly early age.

In the picture of his house it will be noted that there was a gate on the left of it, leading to what is now Flatts Road. On the right is Brampton House, which was the postmen’s retiring room until 1998, when the delivery office moved to new premises on the town outskirts.

Dr Munro lived in this large house, now Barnard Castle post office.The men in the picture are mainly farmers attending a market held in this part of Galgate

Modern developments behind the post office are named Munro Court and Post Office Court.

• Thanks go to Dave Charlesworth, former postal delivery office manager, for supplying photographs and details of Munro.

IT was Christmas day in the workhouse, but poor children living there got only their usual meagre gifts — an orange and apple apiece.

They made this festive day in 1889 memorable, however, by giving musical performances in the street outside.

They had been learning to play some battered old instruments which had been in the building for years. Two cornets, three horns and a bass were said to be worn out and the others were almost as rickety.

But the boys and girls made a sign saying Workhouse Band and put a tin beside it as they gave their version of carols and other tunes so passersby could drop in coppers.

They put their hearts and souls into it and gave everyone broad smiles.

They probably sounded terrible but in a couple of twohour sessions they collected the splendid sum of £3 13 shillings (£3.65). Some men were happy to earn that amount in a month.

Between their performances the young ones sat down to a traditional turkey dinner followed by plum pudding. The meal was served to them by members of the Board of Guardians, who supervised the place and acted as waiters on this one special day. It was the finest feast of every year for the residents, formally referred to as paupers.

As the musicians counted their takings that evening they must have hoped to get a share of the coins.

But they were told to hand them to the workhouse master, who said it would be used to replace or repair the old instruments.

That would cost £15 and the festive money would go towards it.

But at their next meeting the guardians showed some true Christmas spirit. They directed that the master should use all the takings to give enjoyment to the music makers.

Thus they were assured of some special treats.

It was also agreed a group of minstrels should be asked to put on shows to raise money for new musical instruments.

PERHAPS money was scarcer than usual in Weardale at the start of 1813, because poachers seem to have been busier than ever, and more of them were caught.

Most said they were after rabbits to feed their families, but the magistrates had little sympathy for that excuse.

Their penalties were severe, with the minimum being a £5 fine, which most of the defendants had no chance of paying.

The alternative was a month in Durham prison.

Those who had a previous appearance for poaching were usually fined £10, and regular offenders were given three months inside without the option of a fine.

George Bramwell, of Warden Hill, Stanhope, put up an unusual defence when he was charged with poaching with a gun and dogs at Westenhope.

He pleaded not guilty on the grounds he had property to the value of £150 a year. This, apparently, was a reason to clear him in the eyes of the law.

But the magistrates rejected the claim. He was fined for this offence and a similar one at Burnhope.

MANY dale families sat telling stories around the fireside at this time of year in the past, and one that often cropped up was about Hannah Latham.

The 18-year-old orphan was murdered in the early hours of New Year’s Day in 1813 as she walked to a village where she was a housemaid. The details of her death were alarming enough, but the fact that the killer was not caught made it more chilling.

Those describing the awful crime could send shivers down the backs of listeners by reminding them that the culprit was still at large, could be lurking anywhere, could be ready to pounce at any time, and could be somebody known to everyone here.

The best story narrators were those who could describe past deeds in a vivid way that frightened everyone, so poor Hannah was a perfect subject for these sessions by the light of a flickering fire.

On New Year’s Eve, she visited friends in Barnard Castle, bought small gifts for her employer’s children and visited an inn where she sat watching others dancing.

It was snowing when she set off to cross the River Tees and walk up a winding road past the centuries-old Holy Trinity Church, in Startforth. She was heading for her workplace at Brignall, on the other side of the coach road (now the A66).

But she had not got far past the church when she was attacked.

Marks in the snow indicated that she put up a fight before being overpowered. Her body was found some hours later by a coachman.

Word spread quickly and before long many people were trampling around the murder scene. Her body was put onto a cart and taken to the shelter of a barn. There was no police force at the time but a magistrate, JBS Morritt, took on the role of gathering evidence. He found nothing of significance.

The old Startforth church as it was when Hannah Latham's funeral was held

Hannah’s funeral was held in the old church, which was demolished and replaced by the present one in 1863. She was buried in the churchyard.

A tall memorial stone paid for by public suscription was placed on her grave. An inscription on it, which is now difficult to read, says:

Ill fated orphan,
tho’ no parents’ tear
Was fondly shed in
anguish o’er thy bier
Yet shall thy murderer
while on earth remain
The victim of remorse,
despair and pain.

The story tellers would quote those lines with great feeling, hoping to make their audiences squirm — and they must have made the killer feel uneasy if he ever read them on the stone or heard them quoted at some fireside.