August 15, 2025 • 40 mins
William McGonagall's poems are something else. The jarring meter, the banal imagery, the awkward rhymes: they made him a laughing stock in 19th Century Scotland and are still derided to this day. How does someone get that bad at poetry? Or have we been misunderstanding McGonagall all along?
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Speaker 1 (00:15):
Pushkin. 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 eighteen sixty seven,
(00:38):
for 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 Barkley. As what
and Berkley sit their tea and look out of the
window into the darkness, it can see the faint line
(00:59):
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
(01:23):
seven o'clock comes the signal from the south the northbound
train is approaching. Thomas Barkley 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 batton that
(01:44):
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
(02:07):
shelter of the cabin and says 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.
(02:28):
But John, what is gazing out of the window at
the bridge. There's something wrong with the train, he says.
Thomas Barkley 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
(02:49):
small and one big. Then darkness, No tail lamps. The
train's gone over, Thomas, he says. Thomas Barkley still isn't convinced.
Surely the train has just disappeared from view after cresting
the high point to the bridge. Surely they'll see her
(03:12):
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
(03:37):
the full moon reveals the scene. A thousand yards of
the bridge are gone, the high girders of the central spans,
the iron peers 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
(04:03):
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.
(04:42):
I'm 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. Thus
begins a poem titled the tay Bridge Disaster. It is
widely regarded as the worst poem ever written, and its author,
(05:07):
William McGonagall, is widely regarded as the worst poet. I'll
spare you the full poem, but here's a central verse.
So the train moved slowly along the Bridge of Tay
until it was about midway. Then the central girders, with
a crash.
Speaker 2 (05:26):
Gave way, and down went the train and passengers into
the tea. The storm fiend did loadly bree because ninety
lives had been taken away on the last Sabbath day
of eighteen seventy nine, which will be remembered for a
very long time.
Speaker 1 (05:47):
When I was just a boy, I saw an illustration
of the Tay Bridge catastrophe in a children's picture book.
It stayed with me. I can still see it in
my mind. The bridge seems so horribly high and thin
as it collapses into the storm. The train is just
steaming off into thin air. It's awful. And then I
(06:14):
encountered William mcgonagall's truly terrible poem, and it stuck with
me just as vividly, or should I say, it has
been remembered for a very long time. Here's the end
of the poem.
Speaker 2 (06:31):
Oh ill fated bridge of the silvery Tey. I must
now conclude my lay by telling the world fearlessly, without
the least dismay, that your central girders would not have
given way. At least many sensible men do say had
they been supported on each side with buttresses. At least
(06:52):
many sensible men confesses. For the stronger we our houses
do build, the less chance we have of being killed.
Speaker 1 (07:05):
It's awful. I'm obst yest with William McGonagall. I have
so many questions. Who was this man? What does he
teach us about art? And above all, how does a
poem get to be this bad? I have several biographies
(07:26):
of the poet McGonagall in front of me. One of
them says he was born in eighteen twenty five. Another
says he was born in eighteen thirty, and both were
written by William McGonagall himself. William mcgonagall's parents were Irish,
but he was born in Edinburgh and went to school
in South Ronaldsay, one of the Orkney islands, remote even
(07:50):
by the standards of Scotland. William's education was interrupted by,
of all things, an encounter with his teacher's beloved pet tortoise.
William was fascinated by the creature, but when he picked
it up to fully admire the beauty of its shell,
the unfortunate animal voided its bowels on his hands. In disgust,
(08:15):
the boy hurled the tortoise to the ground, nearly killing it,
and mcgonagall's teacher, enraged, started thrashing his face with a cane.
All very distressing. William's father complained to the local magistrate.
The magistrate threatened to disbar a teacher, and the practical
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outcome was that the teacher lived in fear of ever
upsetting William again, who skipped school with impunity. That was
the story McGonagall would tell, and his point was clear.
William McGonagall was much like William Shakespeare. He had learned
more from nature than he learned at school. McGonagall adored
(09:02):
his namesake, William Shakespeare. He read and re read Macbeth,
Richard the Third, Hamler and a Fellow.
Speaker 2 (09:11):
I gave myself no rest until I obtained complete mastery
over the above four characters.
Speaker 1 (09:20):
Mcgonagall's family moved to Dundee, where both he and his
father worked as weavers. William would give impromptu performances of
Shakespeare to his shopmates. He says they were quite delighted,
and perhaps they were since they were willing to pay
good money to support his theatrical ambitions. William McGonagall was
(09:43):
to play the title role in Macbeth, just as long
as he paid one pound to the theater owner for
the privilege, about one hundred dollars in today's money. His
colleagues all contributed, and nobody can say they didn't get
their money's worth. McGonagall couldn't afford a costume of his own,
(10:04):
so borrowed a few items from friends and colleagues, and
took the stage dressed less like the ambitious nobleman Macbeth
and more like a highland beggar. The play traditionally ends
with a climactic fight in which Macbeth is slain by Macduff.
(10:25):
This concept proved two pedestrian for McGonagall. One witness described
the result an immortal scene in more ways than one.
Speaker 3 (10:36):
McGonagall had evidently made up his mind to astonish the
gods at his performance, for instead of dying when run
through the body by the sword of Macduff, he maintained
his feet and flourished his weapon about the ears of
his adversary, in such a way that there was for
some time an apparent probability of the performance ending in
(10:58):
real tragedy.
Speaker 1 (11:02):
McGonagall saw it differently.
Speaker 2 (11:04):
The actor who was playing Macduff against my Macbeth tried
to spoil me in the combat by telling me to
cut it short. I continue the combat until he were
fairly exhausted, and until there was one old gentleman in
the audience cried out, well done, McGonagall walk into him,
and so I did until he was in a great
(11:26):
rage and stamped his foot and cried out, fool, why
don't you fall?
Speaker 1 (11:34):
With Macduff audibly urging mcgonagall's Macbeth to go down, and
Macbeth ignoring him over and over again. Macduff, enraged, wrapped
Macbeth over his knuckles with the flat of the blade,
forcing him to drop his own sword. McGonagall was now
unarmed but undaunted, and he dodged around and around Macduff,
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looking for all the world as though he now planned
to wrestle for it. The macduff actor, disgusted at the tomfoolery,
tossed his own sword aside, and chuck charged in to
tackle McGonagall. The sublime tragedy of Macbeth came to an
undignified end with a title character swept off his feet
(12:20):
and deposited on his backside. The audience were ecstatical. They
bellowed for McGonagall to be brought forward to receive a
standing ovation. What a shame that mcgonagall's artistic sensitivities were
not put to full time use. He continued to work
(12:41):
as a weaver for decades. Not to worry. Good things
come to those who wait. He would eventually emulate William Shakespeare,
the man he so admired. William McGonagall would become a
poet cautionary tales will be back after the break. McGonagall
(13:10):
was about fifty when it became clear to him that
there was no future in weaving. Machine looms had taken over.
Speaker 2 (13:18):
I couldn't make a living from it. But I may say,
Dame Fortune has been very kind to me by endowing
me with the genius of poetry. I remember how I
felt when I received the spirit of poetry.
Speaker 1 (13:37):
It was June eighteen seventy seven. McGonagall was lamenting that
he couldn't get away to the Highlands for a holiday.
Speaker 2 (13:45):
All of a sudden, my body got inflamed, and instantly
I was seized with a strong desire to write poetry,
so strong in fact, that in imagination I thought I
heard a voice crying in my ears right right, I
wondered what could be the matter with me, and I
began to walk backwards and forwards in a great fit
(14:07):
of excitement, saying to myself, I know nothing about poetry,
but still the voice kept ringing in my ears right
right until at last, being overcome with a desire to
write poetry, I found paper, pen and ink, and in
a state of frenzy, sat me down to think what
(14:28):
would be my first subject for a poem.
Speaker 1 (14:33):
That subject was the Reverend George Gilfillan, a local preacher.
McGonagall wished to praise. The poem stirringly concludes.
Speaker 2 (14:43):
My blessing on his noble form and on his lofty heed.
May all good angels guard him while living, and hereafter
when he's deed.
Speaker 1 (14:54):
McGonagall sent the poem to the Dundee Weekly News, which
took the unwise step of printing it. Thus encouraged, he
sent a second poem, Bonnie Dundee.
Speaker 2 (15:07):
Oh, Bonnie Dunde, I will sing in thy praise a
few but true simple lays regarding some of your beauties
of the present day, And virtually speaking, there's none can
then gainsay for superfine goods. There's none can excel from Inverness.
To Clarkenwell and your tramways, I must confess that they
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have proved a complete success, which I am right glad
to see, and a very great improvement to Bonnie Dundee.
Speaker 1 (15:39):
There is more, but alas the Weekly News declined to
print what it described as a so called poem, at
which point McGonagall sent them a letter threatening to stop
sending any more poems. The Weekly News dryly explained to
its readers that we can only express the fervent hope
(16:01):
that he may put into execution this artful threat. In
the summer of eighteen seventy, McGonagall had been a poet
for just a year when he received a letter from
Queen Victoria's private secretary, Sir Thomas Biddulf, informing him that
Her Majesty would like to become a patron of his poems.
(16:25):
McGonagall seems not to have registered any surprise at this
sudden honor, but he was inspired to make the fifty
nine mile journey from Dundee to Queen Victoria's residence at
Balmoral so that he could recite his verse for her.
For an unemployed weaver, there was no way to reach
Balmorrale except to walk. The journey took three days, during
(16:48):
which time McGonagall was fared and sheltered by shepherds who
took pity on him. He recorded some of his journey
in poetry, notably.
Speaker 2 (16:58):
On the Spittle of Glen Shee, which is most dismal
for to see, with its bleak and rugged mountains, and
clear crystal spouting fountains with their misty form, and thousands
of sheep there together doth Room.
Speaker 1 (17:15):
He was drenched by hours of rain, and threatened by
the roaring and flashing of a thunderstorm overhead. That was undaunted,
having told his friends back in Dundee that on his
way to see Her Majesty and balmorl he would pass
through fire and water rather than retreat. Finally, mid afternoon
(17:37):
on the third day, McGonagall reached Her Majesty's residence at
Balmoral Castle. He was intercepted by the constable at Balmoral's
Gatehouse Lodge, who presumably observed mcgonagall's collar length wave of hair,
his drenched, patched up clothes, and his dirty boots, and
did not think to himself, here comes a future poet.
Speaker 2 (18:00):
Laureate I showed him Her Majesty's Royal letter of patronage
for my poetic abilities, and he read it and said
it was not her majesty's letter.
Speaker 1 (18:12):
Someone had played a cruel trick, but McGonagall insisted that
the letter was genuine. The Constable took it away for
a while before returning to announce.
Speaker 3 (18:23):
Well, I've been up at the castle over here letter,
and the answer I got for you is the can
he be bothered with you?
Speaker 1 (18:30):
McGonagall showed the Constable a copy of his poems, including
the claim that McGonagall was poet to her majesty. The
Constable objected.
Speaker 3 (18:40):
You are not poet to her majesty. Tennyson's the real
poet to her majesty.
Speaker 1 (18:47):
Ah, Yes, Alfred Lord Tennyson, the actual poet laureate. How inconvenient.
In writing The Charge of the Light Brigade, Alfred Lord
Tennyson performed a rare feat. He created a poem that
is as famous as the disaster. It describes.
Speaker 4 (19:09):
Canon to the right of them, Canon to the left
of them, Cannon in front of them, bolleyed and thundered,
stormed at with shot and shell. Boldly they rode and
well into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell.
Rode the six hundred.
Speaker 1 (19:34):
William McGonagall never got close to succeeding Tennyson as poet laureate,
yet his poem The tay Bridge Disaster matches Tennyson's achievement.
I mean, Tennyson was good, but he was no William McGonagall.
But I digress. The constable suggested that McGonagall demonstrate his
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skills by reciting some poetry at the castle gate. No, sir,
said McGonagall. He wasn't some wandering charlatan. He was the
real thing.
Speaker 2 (20:08):
Take me in to one of the rooms on the
lodge and pay me for it, and I will give
you a recital.
Speaker 1 (20:16):
The constable didn't oblige, but he gave McGonagall some advice.
Unless you want to be arrested, go home and don't
think of returning to Balmorrel. McGonagall duly began the three
day walk home to Dundee. When he got back, he
wrote up his adventures, sent them to the newspapers, and
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before long was being mocked up and down the British isles.
As a headline in the Evening Telegraph put it extraordinary
freak of a Dundee poet, William McGonagall at balmorrel genius
still unrecognized. When a cruel prank wastes a week of
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your life, dashes your hopes, and leads you to being
mocked in the national press, what can you do? The answer,
pick yourself up and try again. McGonagall noted that Tennyson
was famous for his war poetry, so he decided to
dabble in war poems too. They are not very good.
(21:28):
The Battle of Cresse begins.
Speaker 2 (21:30):
To us on the twenty sixth of August the sun
was burning hot in the year of thirteen forty six,
which will never be forgot.
Speaker 1 (21:39):
And ends with the classic McGonagall move of cramming some
extra syllables in free of charge.
Speaker 2 (21:47):
And the king's heart was filled with great delight, and
he thanked Jack for capturing the Bohemian standard during the fight.
Speaker 1 (21:56):
But McGonagall was soon encouraged to receive a lucrative job
offer from the famous playwright and theater impresario Dion Busico.
Busico's letter invited him to a fine dinner, but as
McGonagall tells the story, he arrived to find several men
awaiting him, barely suppressing giggles as McGonagall was served a
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cheap sandwich. McGonagall had been pranked again, although when Busico
heard about the joke, he sent McGonagall a sympathetic letter
and five pounds, enough money for McGonagall to visit London.
He had hoped to meet with one or two of
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London's most celebrated actors, but had no more luck there
than at Balmoral. Later, McGonagall ventured to New York, a
city he honored indistinctive style.
Speaker 2 (22:55):
As for Brooklyn Bridge, it's a very great height and
fills the stranger's heart with wonder at first sight, and
with all its loftiness, I venture to say it cannot
surpass the new railway bridge of the Silver.
Speaker 1 (23:11):
William McGonagall did not succeed in selling his poems in
New York, so returned to Scotland. He was cheered to
receive a letter from the poet Laureate of Burma, writing
on behalf of Burma's King t Boor, making McGonagall Topaz
McGonagall Knight of the White Elephant of Burma. McGonagall accepted
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the honor and wore his medal a silver elephant, with pride.
If he ever feared that this letter was as fraudulent
as the others, he shared no doubts. McGonagall spent his
final years giving public performances in Perth, Glasgow and Edinburgh,
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where the main attraction appeared to be the opportunity to
hurl abuse and worse at the aspiring poet laureate. McGonagall
would dash about the stage, excitedly enacting the action as
he gave dramatic recitals of his war poems, clad in
a kilt and brandishing a claym or with perilous enthusiasm.
(24:20):
More useful was his small round shield with which he
could parry incoming eggs and cabbages. William McGonagall died in
poverty on the twenty ninth of September nineteen oh two.
He was seventy two years old or seventy seven. He
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was buried in a pauper's grave, having practiced the art
of poetry for twenty five years, and having been mocked
for every one of them. The death certificate misspells his name.
Emil Zola died on the same day, as it happens.
Zola a fine writer, he was no William McGonagall. Cautionary
(25:08):
tale will return after the break the poetry critics argue
that McGonagall has an important lesson to teach us. He
is the perfect example of how not to write poetry.
(25:31):
If you must read him, be sure to do the
opposite of whatever he does. Joseph Salamy, an award winning poet, complains,
I know far too many persons who share some of
mcgonagall's faults. Can we at least resolve that we will
not commit the poetic crimes that McGonagall committed. Can we
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stop with the humdrum plainness, the vapid statement, the dull diction,
the crappy meter, the tedious length, the triviality, the commonplace thoughts,
and the cliche perceptions. Dr Gerard Carruthers, an expert in
Scottish literature, agrees there is something rather cruel about us
(26:13):
still reprinting and republishing McGonagall. He told the BBC it's
time for us to close the book on McGonagall once
and for all. But that feels so narrow minded. I
draw a different lesson. We shouldn't complain about a man
who wrote bad poetry. We should celebrate a man who
(26:35):
wrote poetry. Of course, the poems are bad, but most
poems are bad. Most acts of human creativity are fairly incompetent.
Most of us can't write novels, not that anyone else
would pay to read. Most of us can't draw or
paint anything that anyone else would pay to look at.
Most of us can't act. We can't sing, We can't dance.
(26:55):
Who cares dance and sing? Anyway? I think we're prone
to making a sad mistake. When we think about creative acts.
We instinctively set the benchmarkt and obses high level. We've
been spoiled, perhaps because of the touch of a button.
We can listen to Glenn Gould playing Johann Sebastian Bach.
(27:19):
We can watch Ian McKellen and Judy Dench performing Shakespeare.
We can read a novel by Austin, or watch a
film by Coppola, or gaze at an interior by Vermere.
Not only has modern technology made these wonders possible, but
modern technology also makes more humdrum creative acts economically worthless.
(27:42):
Nobody is going to pay me to perform bark or
paint a watercolor. But I still play the piano from
time to time, and very occasionally I pick up a
pencil and a sketch book. It doesn't matter if there's
no economic value in the result. There's personal value for
me in the process of trying to express myself. That
(28:03):
might seem obvious, but it's easy to forget. In debates
about the rise of genera AI, people worry about the
death of human creativity. But I don't think generative AI
is more of a threat to human creativity than the
camera or the record player. It changes the economics, to
be sure, McGonagall lost his job as a weaver because
(28:27):
of machine looms, so he would have understood all about
losing work to a machine. But while a new technology
changes who might be paid for creative work, and what
sort of creative work they might be paid for, and
how much they might be paid for it, it doesn't
make creative work impossible. All of us are free to
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sit down in front of a piano or an easel
and try to create something beautiful. And while it's nice
to succeed, it's more important to try. As we grow
from children into adults, we often express our creativity less.
It might be because we're afraid of failure, which is
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another thing to admire about McGonagall. He wasn't afraid of
creative failure. In fact, he wouldn't recognize creative failure if
it hurled an egg at him. That's one way to
look at McGonagall anyway, as a man who was always
willing to express his inner creativity. But that's not actually
(29:32):
the way I see him. I don't think William McGonagall
was admirable because he gave poetry a try. I think
he was a genius. You've perhaps heard the story about
the man who goes to a doctor. He feels depressed.
(29:54):
The world seems so frightening and bleak. Don't worry, says
the doctor. The great clown Pagaiaci is in town tonight.
Go and see him perform. That'll cheer you up. The
man starts to sob I am Pagliacci. It's a story
(30:15):
that's been retold and remixed countless times. So here's another remix.
What if William McGonagall isn't the pompous, talentless, sad victim
of bullies that he seems to be. What if William
McGonagall is the most brilliant clown who ever lived? And
(30:36):
what if, unlike Palliaci, whose despair became clear when he
took off the mask, McGonagall never removed his mask, because
underneath it he was the one laughing harder than anyone.
Think back to that appearance as Macbeth, in which McGonagall
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refused to lie down and die and wrestled with the
infuriated actor playing McDuff. It's hard to think of a
funnier scene in the history of theater. Was it really
just mcgonagall's arrogance and stupidity, or did he know full
well that he was putting on a show. When the
(31:19):
reviewer said that McGonagall had decided to astonish the gods,
he wasn't referring to some pagan pantheon. The gods is
theater speak for the cheap seats. McGonagall was playing to
the crowd, and specifically to the poorest theater goers. Of all,
his friends from the workshop had all contributed to get
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him on stage in the first place, and they loved
what they saw. McGonagall certainly gave you a show. And
once you read mcgonagall's poetry not as an exhibit of
utter incompetence, but as a deliberate, sly joke, you quickly
detect hints of mischief. A one poem an ode to
(32:05):
the moon begins.
Speaker 2 (32:08):
Beautiful Moon, thy silvery light, Thou seemest most charming to
my sight. As I gaze upon thee and the sky
is so high, A tear of joy does moisten mine eye.
Speaker 1 (32:21):
Just the usual clumsy cliche. No mcgonagall's winking at us.
He knows what we do in the dark. The next
verses celebrate the way that the moon provides light for
the fox to steal a goose from the farmyard and
the poacher to set his snares.
Speaker 2 (32:40):
And beautiful Moon with thy silvery light, the cheerest the
lovers in the night as they walk through the shady
groves alone, making love to each other before they go home.
Speaker 1 (32:55):
Really, we're going to believe that William McGonagall was only
accidentally funny. McGonagall is best known today for his poem
about the Tay Bridge disaster, but in an early he
also describes the Tay Bridge when it was first.
Speaker 2 (33:12):
Built, beautiful railway bridge of the silvery Tay, the longest
of the present day that has ever crossed over a
tidal river stream, most gigantic to be seen near by
Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Speaker 1 (33:30):
At nearly two miles in length. It was an engineering miracle,
but McGonagall was a Dundee local, and like any local,
he would have known that the high girders of the
central bridge had already been blown down once during construction. Otherwise,
why on earth include this.
Speaker 2 (33:52):
Verse beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Tay. I hope
that God will protect all passengers by night and by day,
and that no accident will befall them while crossing the
bridge of the Silvery Tay, for that would be most
awful to be seen nearby Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Speaker 1 (34:15):
This isn't the work of an idiot. It's the work
of an old school medieval fool, a court jester using
humor to speak truth to power. Two years later, the
bridge was down and dozens of people were dead. After
a disaster at a shipyard which killed thirty eight people,
(34:38):
McGonagall composed a long lament, including praise.
Speaker 2 (34:42):
For one thousand pounds from the directors of the Thames
Ironworks and Shipbuilding Company, which I hope will help to
fill the bereaved one's hearts with glee.
Speaker 1 (34:53):
Idiot or court jester, you be the judge. As for
those prank letters from Queen Victoria's secretary, from dion Musico,
from the King of Burma. Maybe they were hoaxes on McGonagall.
Maybe there were hoaxes by McGonagall on the rest of us.
(35:13):
They certainly helped to shape the legend. For a man
almost universally viewed as a failure, McGonagall knew how to
draw a crowd. When a statue of Scotland's greatest poet,
Robert Burns, was unveiled in Dundee, McGonagall was kept away
(35:35):
from the occasion by police to avoid a disturbance of
the peace. His Dundee performances so often ended in a
near riot that he was eventually banned from giving any
more recitals in the town. No wonder he died in poverty.
He'd been making fifteen shillings a night, the equivalent of
(35:58):
a week's wages for an ordinary laborer. Not so bad
for a man who lost his trade because of the
March of the machines. His downfall wasn't because his poems
were terrible. It was because his clowning performances were too
riotously successful to be allowed to continue. He died in
(36:19):
poverty not because he was bad, but because he was
just too good. We'll never know what William McGonagall was
really thinking as he took to the stage each night.
Was he oblivious, as he seems to be, a man
with skin so thick that neither insults nor insights ever
(36:40):
got through. Or was he far more tragic than the
mythic figure of Peachi the clown, proud of his poems
but knowingly subjecting himself to nightly humiliation because there was
no other way to put food on the table. Or
was the whole thing a comic master stroke. Did he
(37:02):
never take off the mask? Or did he never put
it on in the first place. But while we can't
read his mind, we can read his poems, and they've
brought pleasure to countless people. A few years ago an
(37:24):
Edinburgh auction house put up for sale a collection of
first editions of Harry Potter books, signed by the author JK. Rowling,
who it turns out, named Professor Minerva McGonagall in honor
of the man she described as the worst poet in
British history. The books went for a handsome enough price,
(37:46):
I suppose, but in the same auction a rather higher
sum was paid for a different literary gem thirty five
poems by William McGonagall, some of them signed by the
great Man himself JK. Rowling. If Commercial's success is the
(38:08):
mark of a g artist, then she's one of the best.
But she's now William mcgonagan. He will be remembered for
a very long time. For a full list of our sources,
(38:38):
see the show notes at Timharford dot com. Cautionary Tales
is written by me Tim Harford, with Andrew Wright, Alice Fines,
and Ryan Dilly. It's produced by Georgia Mills and Marilyn Rust.
The sound design and original music are the work of
Pascal Wise. Additional sound design is by Carlos san Juan
(39:00):
at Brain Audio. Bend A d Afhaffrey edited the scripts.
The show features the voice talents of Genevieve Gaunt, Melanie
Gutrie Stella Harford, Oliver Hembrough, Sarah jupp As, Saimonroe, Jamal Westman,
and Rufus Wright. The show also wouldn't have been possible
without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Greta Cohene, Sarah Nix,
(39:23):
Eric Sandler, Carrie Brody, Christina Sullivan, Kira Posey, and Owen Miller.
Cautionary Tales is a production of Pushkin Industries. It's recorded
at Wardoor Studios in London by Noria Barr and Lucy Rowe.
If you like the show, please remember to share, rate
and review. It really makes a difference to us and
(39:43):
if you want to hear the show ad free, sign
up to Pushkin Plus on the show page on Apple
Podcasts or at pushkin dot Fm, slash plus
Pushkin. 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 eighteen sixty seven,
(00:38):
for 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 Barkley. As what
and Berkley sit their tea and look out of the
window into the darkness, it can see the faint line
(00:59):
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
(01:23):
seven o'clock comes the signal from the south the northbound
train is approaching. Thomas Barkley 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 batton that
(01:44):
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
(02:07):
shelter of the cabin and says 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.
(02:28):
But John, what is gazing out of the window at
the bridge. There's something wrong with the train, he says.
Thomas Barkley 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
(02:49):
small and one big. Then darkness, No tail lamps. The
train's gone over, Thomas, he says. Thomas Barkley still isn't convinced.
Surely the train has just disappeared from view after cresting
the high point to the bridge. Surely they'll see her
(03:12):
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
(03:37):
the full moon reveals the scene. A thousand yards of
the bridge are gone, the high girders of the central spans,
the iron peers 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
(04:03):
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.
(04:42):
I'm 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. Thus
begins a poem titled the tay Bridge Disaster. It is
widely regarded as the worst poem ever written, and its author,
(05:07):
William McGonagall, is widely regarded as the worst poet. I'll
spare you the full poem, but here's a central verse.
So the train moved slowly along the Bridge of Tay
until it was about midway. Then the central girders, with
a crash.
Speaker 2 (05:26):
Gave way, and down went the train and passengers into
the tea. The storm fiend did loadly bree because ninety
lives had been taken away on the last Sabbath day
of eighteen seventy nine, which will be remembered for a
very long time.
Speaker 1 (05:47):
When I was just a boy, I saw an illustration
of the Tay Bridge catastrophe in a children's picture book.
It stayed with me. I can still see it in
my mind. The bridge seems so horribly high and thin
as it collapses into the storm. The train is just
steaming off into thin air. It's awful. And then I
(06:14):
encountered William mcgonagall's truly terrible poem, and it stuck with
me just as vividly, or should I say, it has
been remembered for a very long time. Here's the end
of the poem.
Speaker 2 (06:31):
Oh ill fated bridge of the silvery Tey. I must
now conclude my lay by telling the world fearlessly, without
the least dismay, that your central girders would not have
given way. At least many sensible men do say had
they been supported on each side with buttresses. At least
(06:52):
many sensible men confesses. For the stronger we our houses
do build, the less chance we have of being killed.
Speaker 1 (07:05):
It's awful. I'm obst yest with William McGonagall. I have
so many questions. Who was this man? What does he
teach us about art? And above all, how does a
poem get to be this bad? I have several biographies
(07:26):
of the poet McGonagall in front of me. One of
them says he was born in eighteen twenty five. Another
says he was born in eighteen thirty, and both were
written by William McGonagall himself. William mcgonagall's parents were Irish,
but he was born in Edinburgh and went to school
in South Ronaldsay, one of the Orkney islands, remote even
(07:50):
by the standards of Scotland. William's education was interrupted by,
of all things, an encounter with his teacher's beloved pet tortoise.
William was fascinated by the creature, but when he picked
it up to fully admire the beauty of its shell,
the unfortunate animal voided its bowels on his hands. In disgust,
(08:15):
the boy hurled the tortoise to the ground, nearly killing it,
and mcgonagall's teacher, enraged, started thrashing his face with a cane.
All very distressing. William's father complained to the local magistrate.
The magistrate threatened to disbar a teacher, and the practical
(08:38):
outcome was that the teacher lived in fear of ever
upsetting William again, who skipped school with impunity. That was
the story McGonagall would tell, and his point was clear.
William McGonagall was much like William Shakespeare. He had learned
more from nature than he learned at school. McGonagall adored
(09:02):
his namesake, William Shakespeare. He read and re read Macbeth,
Richard the Third, Hamler and a Fellow.
Speaker 2 (09:11):
I gave myself no rest until I obtained complete mastery
over the above four characters.
Speaker 1 (09:20):
Mcgonagall's family moved to Dundee, where both he and his
father worked as weavers. William would give impromptu performances of
Shakespeare to his shopmates. He says they were quite delighted,
and perhaps they were since they were willing to pay
good money to support his theatrical ambitions. William McGonagall was
(09:43):
to play the title role in Macbeth, just as long
as he paid one pound to the theater owner for
the privilege, about one hundred dollars in today's money. His
colleagues all contributed, and nobody can say they didn't get
their money's worth. McGonagall couldn't afford a costume of his own,
(10:04):
so borrowed a few items from friends and colleagues, and
took the stage dressed less like the ambitious nobleman Macbeth
and more like a highland beggar. The play traditionally ends
with a climactic fight in which Macbeth is slain by Macduff.
(10:25):
This concept proved two pedestrian for McGonagall. One witness described
the result an immortal scene in more ways than one.
Speaker 3 (10:36):
McGonagall had evidently made up his mind to astonish the
gods at his performance, for instead of dying when run
through the body by the sword of Macduff, he maintained
his feet and flourished his weapon about the ears of
his adversary, in such a way that there was for
some time an apparent probability of the performance ending in
(10:58):
real tragedy.
Speaker 1 (11:02):
McGonagall saw it differently.
Speaker 2 (11:04):
The actor who was playing Macduff against my Macbeth tried
to spoil me in the combat by telling me to
cut it short. I continue the combat until he were
fairly exhausted, and until there was one old gentleman in
the audience cried out, well done, McGonagall walk into him,
and so I did until he was in a great
(11:26):
rage and stamped his foot and cried out, fool, why
don't you fall?
Speaker 1 (11:34):
With Macduff audibly urging mcgonagall's Macbeth to go down, and
Macbeth ignoring him over and over again. Macduff, enraged, wrapped
Macbeth over his knuckles with the flat of the blade,
forcing him to drop his own sword. McGonagall was now
unarmed but undaunted, and he dodged around and around Macduff,
(11:58):
looking for all the world as though he now planned
to wrestle for it. The macduff actor, disgusted at the tomfoolery,
tossed his own sword aside, and chuck charged in to
tackle McGonagall. The sublime tragedy of Macbeth came to an
undignified end with a title character swept off his feet
(12:20):
and deposited on his backside. The audience were ecstatical. They
bellowed for McGonagall to be brought forward to receive a
standing ovation. What a shame that mcgonagall's artistic sensitivities were
not put to full time use. He continued to work
(12:41):
as a weaver for decades. Not to worry. Good things
come to those who wait. He would eventually emulate William Shakespeare,
the man he so admired. William McGonagall would become a
poet cautionary tales will be back after the break. McGonagall
(13:10):
was about fifty when it became clear to him that
there was no future in weaving. Machine looms had taken over.
Speaker 2 (13:18):
I couldn't make a living from it. But I may say,
Dame Fortune has been very kind to me by endowing
me with the genius of poetry. I remember how I
felt when I received the spirit of poetry.
Speaker 1 (13:37):
It was June eighteen seventy seven. McGonagall was lamenting that
he couldn't get away to the Highlands for a holiday.
Speaker 2 (13:45):
All of a sudden, my body got inflamed, and instantly
I was seized with a strong desire to write poetry,
so strong in fact, that in imagination I thought I
heard a voice crying in my ears right right, I
wondered what could be the matter with me, and I
began to walk backwards and forwards in a great fit
(14:07):
of excitement, saying to myself, I know nothing about poetry,
but still the voice kept ringing in my ears right
right until at last, being overcome with a desire to
write poetry, I found paper, pen and ink, and in
a state of frenzy, sat me down to think what
(14:28):
would be my first subject for a poem.
Speaker 1 (14:33):
That subject was the Reverend George Gilfillan, a local preacher.
McGonagall wished to praise. The poem stirringly concludes.
Speaker 2 (14:43):
My blessing on his noble form and on his lofty heed.
May all good angels guard him while living, and hereafter
when he's deed.
Speaker 1 (14:54):
McGonagall sent the poem to the Dundee Weekly News, which
took the unwise step of printing it. Thus encouraged, he
sent a second poem, Bonnie Dundee.
Speaker 2 (15:07):
Oh, Bonnie Dunde, I will sing in thy praise a
few but true simple lays regarding some of your beauties
of the present day, And virtually speaking, there's none can
then gainsay for superfine goods. There's none can excel from Inverness.
To Clarkenwell and your tramways, I must confess that they
(15:29):
have proved a complete success, which I am right glad
to see, and a very great improvement to Bonnie Dundee.
Speaker 1 (15:39):
There is more, but alas the Weekly News declined to
print what it described as a so called poem, at
which point McGonagall sent them a letter threatening to stop
sending any more poems. The Weekly News dryly explained to
its readers that we can only express the fervent hope
(16:01):
that he may put into execution this artful threat. In
the summer of eighteen seventy, McGonagall had been a poet
for just a year when he received a letter from
Queen Victoria's private secretary, Sir Thomas Biddulf, informing him that
Her Majesty would like to become a patron of his poems.
(16:25):
McGonagall seems not to have registered any surprise at this
sudden honor, but he was inspired to make the fifty
nine mile journey from Dundee to Queen Victoria's residence at
Balmoral so that he could recite his verse for her.
For an unemployed weaver, there was no way to reach
Balmorrale except to walk. The journey took three days, during
(16:48):
which time McGonagall was fared and sheltered by shepherds who
took pity on him. He recorded some of his journey
in poetry, notably.
Speaker 2 (16:58):
On the Spittle of Glen Shee, which is most dismal
for to see, with its bleak and rugged mountains, and
clear crystal spouting fountains with their misty form, and thousands
of sheep there together doth Room.
Speaker 1 (17:15):
He was drenched by hours of rain, and threatened by
the roaring and flashing of a thunderstorm overhead. That was undaunted,
having told his friends back in Dundee that on his
way to see Her Majesty and balmorl he would pass
through fire and water rather than retreat. Finally, mid afternoon
(17:37):
on the third day, McGonagall reached Her Majesty's residence at
Balmoral Castle. He was intercepted by the constable at Balmoral's
Gatehouse Lodge, who presumably observed mcgonagall's collar length wave of hair,
his drenched, patched up clothes, and his dirty boots, and
did not think to himself, here comes a future poet.
Speaker 2 (18:00):
Laureate I showed him Her Majesty's Royal letter of patronage
for my poetic abilities, and he read it and said
it was not her majesty's letter.
Speaker 1 (18:12):
Someone had played a cruel trick, but McGonagall insisted that
the letter was genuine. The Constable took it away for
a while before returning to announce.
Speaker 3 (18:23):
Well, I've been up at the castle over here letter,
and the answer I got for you is the can
he be bothered with you?
Speaker 1 (18:30):
McGonagall showed the Constable a copy of his poems, including
the claim that McGonagall was poet to her majesty. The
Constable objected.
Speaker 3 (18:40):
You are not poet to her majesty. Tennyson's the real
poet to her majesty.
Speaker 1 (18:47):
Ah, Yes, Alfred Lord Tennyson, the actual poet laureate. How inconvenient.
In writing The Charge of the Light Brigade, Alfred Lord
Tennyson performed a rare feat. He created a poem that
is as famous as the disaster. It describes.
Speaker 4 (19:09):
Canon to the right of them, Canon to the left
of them, Cannon in front of them, bolleyed and thundered,
stormed at with shot and shell. Boldly they rode and
well into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell.
Rode the six hundred.
Speaker 1 (19:34):
William McGonagall never got close to succeeding Tennyson as poet laureate,
yet his poem The tay Bridge Disaster matches Tennyson's achievement.
I mean, Tennyson was good, but he was no William McGonagall.
But I digress. The constable suggested that McGonagall demonstrate his
(19:56):
skills by reciting some poetry at the castle gate. No, sir,
said McGonagall. He wasn't some wandering charlatan. He was the
real thing.
Speaker 2 (20:08):
Take me in to one of the rooms on the
lodge and pay me for it, and I will give
you a recital.
Speaker 1 (20:16):
The constable didn't oblige, but he gave McGonagall some advice.
Unless you want to be arrested, go home and don't
think of returning to Balmorrel. McGonagall duly began the three
day walk home to Dundee. When he got back, he
wrote up his adventures, sent them to the newspapers, and
(20:38):
before long was being mocked up and down the British isles.
As a headline in the Evening Telegraph put it extraordinary
freak of a Dundee poet, William McGonagall at balmorrel genius
still unrecognized. When a cruel prank wastes a week of
(21:03):
your life, dashes your hopes, and leads you to being
mocked in the national press, what can you do? The answer,
pick yourself up and try again. McGonagall noted that Tennyson
was famous for his war poetry, so he decided to
dabble in war poems too. They are not very good.
(21:28):
The Battle of Cresse begins.
Speaker 2 (21:30):
To us on the twenty sixth of August the sun
was burning hot in the year of thirteen forty six,
which will never be forgot.
Speaker 1 (21:39):
And ends with the classic McGonagall move of cramming some
extra syllables in free of charge.
Speaker 2 (21:47):
And the king's heart was filled with great delight, and
he thanked Jack for capturing the Bohemian standard during the fight.
Speaker 1 (21:56):
But McGonagall was soon encouraged to receive a lucrative job
offer from the famous playwright and theater impresario Dion Busico.
Busico's letter invited him to a fine dinner, but as
McGonagall tells the story, he arrived to find several men
awaiting him, barely suppressing giggles as McGonagall was served a
(22:20):
cheap sandwich. McGonagall had been pranked again, although when Busico
heard about the joke, he sent McGonagall a sympathetic letter
and five pounds, enough money for McGonagall to visit London.
He had hoped to meet with one or two of
(22:41):
London's most celebrated actors, but had no more luck there
than at Balmoral. Later, McGonagall ventured to New York, a
city he honored indistinctive style.
Speaker 2 (22:55):
As for Brooklyn Bridge, it's a very great height and
fills the stranger's heart with wonder at first sight, and
with all its loftiness, I venture to say it cannot
surpass the new railway bridge of the Silver.
Speaker 1 (23:11):
William McGonagall did not succeed in selling his poems in
New York, so returned to Scotland. He was cheered to
receive a letter from the poet Laureate of Burma, writing
on behalf of Burma's King t Boor, making McGonagall Topaz
McGonagall Knight of the White Elephant of Burma. McGonagall accepted
(23:37):
the honor and wore his medal a silver elephant, with pride.
If he ever feared that this letter was as fraudulent
as the others, he shared no doubts. McGonagall spent his
final years giving public performances in Perth, Glasgow and Edinburgh,
(23:59):
where the main attraction appeared to be the opportunity to
hurl abuse and worse at the aspiring poet laureate. McGonagall
would dash about the stage, excitedly enacting the action as
he gave dramatic recitals of his war poems, clad in
a kilt and brandishing a claym or with perilous enthusiasm.
(24:20):
More useful was his small round shield with which he
could parry incoming eggs and cabbages. William McGonagall died in
poverty on the twenty ninth of September nineteen oh two.
He was seventy two years old or seventy seven. He
(24:41):
was buried in a pauper's grave, having practiced the art
of poetry for twenty five years, and having been mocked
for every one of them. The death certificate misspells his name.
Emil Zola died on the same day, as it happens.
Zola a fine writer, he was no William McGonagall. Cautionary
(25:08):
tale will return after the break the poetry critics argue
that McGonagall has an important lesson to teach us. He
is the perfect example of how not to write poetry.
(25:31):
If you must read him, be sure to do the
opposite of whatever he does. Joseph Salamy, an award winning poet, complains,
I know far too many persons who share some of
mcgonagall's faults. Can we at least resolve that we will
not commit the poetic crimes that McGonagall committed. Can we
(25:51):
stop with the humdrum plainness, the vapid statement, the dull diction,
the crappy meter, the tedious length, the triviality, the commonplace thoughts,
and the cliche perceptions. Dr Gerard Carruthers, an expert in
Scottish literature, agrees there is something rather cruel about us
(26:13):
still reprinting and republishing McGonagall. He told the BBC it's
time for us to close the book on McGonagall once
and for all. But that feels so narrow minded. I
draw a different lesson. We shouldn't complain about a man
who wrote bad poetry. We should celebrate a man who
(26:35):
wrote poetry. Of course, the poems are bad, but most
poems are bad. Most acts of human creativity are fairly incompetent.
Most of us can't write novels, not that anyone else
would pay to read. Most of us can't draw or
paint anything that anyone else would pay to look at.
Most of us can't act. We can't sing, We can't dance.
(26:55):
Who cares dance and sing? Anyway? I think we're prone
to making a sad mistake. When we think about creative acts.
We instinctively set the benchmarkt and obses high level. We've
been spoiled, perhaps because of the touch of a button.
We can listen to Glenn Gould playing Johann Sebastian Bach.
(27:19):
We can watch Ian McKellen and Judy Dench performing Shakespeare.
We can read a novel by Austin, or watch a
film by Coppola, or gaze at an interior by Vermere.
Not only has modern technology made these wonders possible, but
modern technology also makes more humdrum creative acts economically worthless.
(27:42):
Nobody is going to pay me to perform bark or
paint a watercolor. But I still play the piano from
time to time, and very occasionally I pick up a
pencil and a sketch book. It doesn't matter if there's
no economic value in the result. There's personal value for
me in the process of trying to express myself. That
(28:03):
might seem obvious, but it's easy to forget. In debates
about the rise of genera AI, people worry about the
death of human creativity. But I don't think generative AI
is more of a threat to human creativity than the
camera or the record player. It changes the economics, to
be sure, McGonagall lost his job as a weaver because
(28:27):
of machine looms, so he would have understood all about
losing work to a machine. But while a new technology
changes who might be paid for creative work, and what
sort of creative work they might be paid for, and
how much they might be paid for it, it doesn't
make creative work impossible. All of us are free to
(28:49):
sit down in front of a piano or an easel
and try to create something beautiful. And while it's nice
to succeed, it's more important to try. As we grow
from children into adults, we often express our creativity less.
It might be because we're afraid of failure, which is
(29:12):
another thing to admire about McGonagall. He wasn't afraid of
creative failure. In fact, he wouldn't recognize creative failure if
it hurled an egg at him. That's one way to
look at McGonagall anyway, as a man who was always
willing to express his inner creativity. But that's not actually
(29:32):
the way I see him. I don't think William McGonagall
was admirable because he gave poetry a try. I think
he was a genius. You've perhaps heard the story about
the man who goes to a doctor. He feels depressed.
(29:54):
The world seems so frightening and bleak. Don't worry, says
the doctor. The great clown Pagaiaci is in town tonight.
Go and see him perform. That'll cheer you up. The
man starts to sob I am Pagliacci. It's a story
(30:15):
that's been retold and remixed countless times. So here's another remix.
What if William McGonagall isn't the pompous, talentless, sad victim
of bullies that he seems to be. What if William
McGonagall is the most brilliant clown who ever lived? And
(30:36):
what if, unlike Palliaci, whose despair became clear when he
took off the mask, McGonagall never removed his mask, because
underneath it he was the one laughing harder than anyone.
Think back to that appearance as Macbeth, in which McGonagall
(30:57):
refused to lie down and die and wrestled with the
infuriated actor playing McDuff. It's hard to think of a
funnier scene in the history of theater. Was it really
just mcgonagall's arrogance and stupidity, or did he know full
well that he was putting on a show. When the
(31:19):
reviewer said that McGonagall had decided to astonish the gods,
he wasn't referring to some pagan pantheon. The gods is
theater speak for the cheap seats. McGonagall was playing to
the crowd, and specifically to the poorest theater goers. Of all,
his friends from the workshop had all contributed to get
(31:42):
him on stage in the first place, and they loved
what they saw. McGonagall certainly gave you a show. And
once you read mcgonagall's poetry not as an exhibit of
utter incompetence, but as a deliberate, sly joke, you quickly
detect hints of mischief. A one poem an ode to
(32:05):
the moon begins.
Speaker 2 (32:08):
Beautiful Moon, thy silvery light, Thou seemest most charming to
my sight. As I gaze upon thee and the sky
is so high, A tear of joy does moisten mine eye.
Speaker 1 (32:21):
Just the usual clumsy cliche. No mcgonagall's winking at us.
He knows what we do in the dark. The next
verses celebrate the way that the moon provides light for
the fox to steal a goose from the farmyard and
the poacher to set his snares.
Speaker 2 (32:40):
And beautiful Moon with thy silvery light, the cheerest the
lovers in the night as they walk through the shady
groves alone, making love to each other before they go home.
Speaker 1 (32:55):
Really, we're going to believe that William McGonagall was only
accidentally funny. McGonagall is best known today for his poem
about the Tay Bridge disaster, but in an early he
also describes the Tay Bridge when it was first.
Speaker 2 (33:12):
Built, beautiful railway bridge of the silvery Tay, the longest
of the present day that has ever crossed over a
tidal river stream, most gigantic to be seen near by
Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Speaker 1 (33:30):
At nearly two miles in length. It was an engineering miracle,
but McGonagall was a Dundee local, and like any local,
he would have known that the high girders of the
central bridge had already been blown down once during construction. Otherwise,
why on earth include this.
Speaker 2 (33:52):
Verse beautiful railway bridge of the Silvery Tay. I hope
that God will protect all passengers by night and by day,
and that no accident will befall them while crossing the
bridge of the Silvery Tay, for that would be most
awful to be seen nearby Dundee and the Magdalen Green.
Speaker 1 (34:15):
This isn't the work of an idiot. It's the work
of an old school medieval fool, a court jester using
humor to speak truth to power. Two years later, the
bridge was down and dozens of people were dead. After
a disaster at a shipyard which killed thirty eight people,
(34:38):
McGonagall composed a long lament, including praise.
Speaker 2 (34:42):
For one thousand pounds from the directors of the Thames
Ironworks and Shipbuilding Company, which I hope will help to
fill the bereaved one's hearts with glee.
Speaker 1 (34:53):
Idiot or court jester, you be the judge. As for
those prank letters from Queen Victoria's secretary, from dion Musico,
from the King of Burma. Maybe they were hoaxes on McGonagall.
Maybe there were hoaxes by McGonagall on the rest of us.
(35:13):
They certainly helped to shape the legend. For a man
almost universally viewed as a failure, McGonagall knew how to
draw a crowd. When a statue of Scotland's greatest poet,
Robert Burns, was unveiled in Dundee, McGonagall was kept away
(35:35):
from the occasion by police to avoid a disturbance of
the peace. His Dundee performances so often ended in a
near riot that he was eventually banned from giving any
more recitals in the town. No wonder he died in poverty.
He'd been making fifteen shillings a night, the equivalent of
(35:58):
a week's wages for an ordinary laborer. Not so bad
for a man who lost his trade because of the
March of the machines. His downfall wasn't because his poems
were terrible. It was because his clowning performances were too
riotously successful to be allowed to continue. He died in
(36:19):
poverty not because he was bad, but because he was
just too good. We'll never know what William McGonagall was
really thinking as he took to the stage each night.
Was he oblivious, as he seems to be, a man
with skin so thick that neither insults nor insights ever
(36:40):
got through. Or was he far more tragic than the
mythic figure of Peachi the clown, proud of his poems
but knowingly subjecting himself to nightly humiliation because there was
no other way to put food on the table. Or
was the whole thing a comic master stroke. Did he
(37:02):
never take off the mask? Or did he never put
it on in the first place. But while we can't
read his mind, we can read his poems, and they've
brought pleasure to countless people. A few years ago an
(37:24):
Edinburgh auction house put up for sale a collection of
first editions of Harry Potter books, signed by the author JK. Rowling,
who it turns out, named Professor Minerva McGonagall in honor
of the man she described as the worst poet in
British history. The books went for a handsome enough price,
(37:46):
I suppose, but in the same auction a rather higher
sum was paid for a different literary gem thirty five
poems by William McGonagall, some of them signed by the
great Man himself JK. Rowling. If Commercial's success is the
(38:08):
mark of a g artist, then she's one of the best.
But she's now William mcgonagan. He will be remembered for
a very long time. For a full list of our sources,
(38:38):
see the show notes at Timharford dot com. Cautionary Tales
is written by me Tim Harford, with Andrew Wright, Alice Fines,
and Ryan Dilly. It's produced by Georgia Mills and Marilyn Rust.
The sound design and original music are the work of
Pascal Wise. Additional sound design is by Carlos san Juan
(39:00):
at Brain Audio. Bend A d Afhaffrey edited the scripts.
The show features the voice talents of Genevieve Gaunt, Melanie
Gutrie Stella Harford, Oliver Hembrough, Sarah jupp As, Saimonroe, Jamal Westman,
and Rufus Wright. The show also wouldn't have been possible
without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Greta Cohene, Sarah Nix,
(39:23):
Eric Sandler, Carrie Brody, Christina Sullivan, Kira Posey, and Owen Miller.
Cautionary Tales is a production of Pushkin Industries. It's recorded
at Wardoor Studios in London by Noria Barr and Lucy Rowe.
If you like the show, please remember to share, rate
and review. It really makes a difference to us and
(39:43):
if you want to hear the show ad free, sign
up to Pushkin Plus on the show page on Apple
Podcasts or at pushkin dot Fm, slash plus
Host
Tim Harford
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