You may also like: Cautionary Tales with Tim Harford
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Who was William McGonagall and why is he called the worst poet?
Now, a lot of medieval battles have inspired canonical literature, but that poem about the Battle of Cracy didn't quite make the cut. It's from William McGonagall, a Victorian poet, who thought his work was pretty spectacular. The problem for him was that nobody else did. His story is told in a podcast I think you'll love, Cautionary Tales. In each episode, Tim Harford investigates a case of awful human error, a tragic catastrophe, or hilarious fiascos, to teach us a lesson in what not to do. And it's produced by This Is History Alumna, producer Georgia Mills. So, if you're keen for more stories about disasters after history's greatest fails, get Cautionary Tales on Rotation. They're kindly offering my royal favourites one month of a free subscription on Patreon.
Look out for the gift link on our chat thread. Now here's the tale of the worst poet ever.
Some evil thing happened here. Three people die in a quiet suburb in the same house years apart. It's not a coincidence. This wasn't ghosts and goblins, okay? These were murders. From Sony Music Entertainment, this is what happened to the Harrisons. Coming September 1st, wherever you get your podcasts. Subscribers to The Binge can listen to all episodes, all at once, ad-free.
The wind is fierce, no doubt about it. It's the strongest gale that John Watt can remember. And he's been working for the North British Railway since 1867, a full twelve years. It's a good night to be safely sheltered in the railway signal cabin, sharing a mug of tea with a friend, signalman Thomas Barclay. As Watt and Barclay sit their tea and look out of the window into the darkness, they can see the faint line of lamps all along the new railway bridge, running almost two miles across the wide river Tay to the city of Dundee. Every now and then the clouds gust apart, and the full moon picks out the high girders of the longest bridge in the world. A few minutes after seven o'clock comes the signal from the south.
The northbound train is approaching. Thomas Barclay steps out of the cabin into the wind. and waits as the train approaches, the sparks from the wheels visible in the dark. He greets the crew with a smile, handing over the baton that gives permission for a train to cross the bridge. The train is moving at walking pace. He sees a child peer out of the window of a carriage as it passes. Then, as the train puffs off over the long high iron span, Thomas goes back to his friend in the shelter of the cabin and sends a message to the signal box over on the other side of the River Tay. The signal bell rings three times in response, and still the wind howls. Thomas turns back to his mug of tea. But John Watt is gazing out of the window at the bridge.
There's something wrong with the train. He says. Thomas Barclay thinks he's imagining it. But John knows what he's seen. Three red tail lamps fading into the distance over the bridge, and then A series of flashes, three small and one big. Then Darkness. No tail lamps. The train's gone over, Thomas, he says. Thomas Barclay still isn't convinced. Surely the train has just disappeared from view after cresting the highest point of the bridge. Surely they'll see her again soon. But they don't. Thomas tries calling the signal box on the other side of the bridge. Nothing. They go outside, briefly venture onto the bridge. And then retreat as the wind threatens to tear them off the girders and into the waters below. The clouds part again, and the full moon reveals the scene.
A thousand yards of the bridge are gone. The high girders of the central spans. The iron piers that had supported them also gone. And of course The train has gone too. And every one of its passengers. It's a catastrophe. But this is not a story about a fatal bridge collapse. It's a story. About a poet. I'm Tim Harford. And you're listening to cautionary tales.
Beautiful railway bridge of the silvery tay, alas I am very sorry to say that ninety lives have been taken away on the last Sabbath day of eighteen seventy nine, which will be remembered for a very long time.
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