Maul Me Once

A company founder might feel they can steer their ship better than their board of directors, or an independent child might believe they're ready to grow up faster than their parents expected. Tight As Salt also believed that he knew better than those around him, and he wasn't shy about it either. The thing was, Titus had elevated himself so highly above everyone else, he didn't what was going on right under his nose. Titus hailed from a small market

town called Morley and Leads, England. Back in the early eight hundreds, his father, Daniel sold things like salt, varnish and glue, an occupation known as a dry salter. Daniel sent his son off to school for a time before Titus eventually struck out on his own as a wool dealer, a job he held for two years, but Home kept calling him back, and so Titus packed up his things and returned to become business partners with dear old Dad.

Their company, Daniel Salt and Son, dealta in textiles, specifically Russian wool. They eventually branched out in the eighteen thirties to incorporating alpaca wool into their offerings and increasing the company's footprint. Over the next twenty years, Titus took over operations and skyrocketed to the top of the textiles industry. Daniel Salt and Son had more employees than any other business for miles, and with nowhere else to go but up,

he decided to enter the realm of local politics. In eighteen forty eight, Titus was elected mayor of Bradford, where he lived and worked. Now, he may have been immensely wealthy, but he also recognized that his factories were harming the people of the community. They were spewing dangerous levels of smoke and soot into the air, and while he did his best to clean things up, his efforts ultimately failed. Meanwhile,

Titus's company continued to grow. In fact, it became too big for the town, what with its six mills, in all, and so Titus made a bold move. He bought a large plot of land in Bradford. It was located along the river, not too far away. But he wasn't going to build just another bigger factory, one that would consolidate everyone under one roof. No, Titus had much grander plans than that. He was going to build a whole new town. He called it Saltaire, self contained village for himself, his workers,

and their families. He kicked things off with a mill, which opened on his birthday, September twenty, eighteen fifty three, and from there Titus went on to construct gools, houses, churches, and even a hospital in Saltaire. He paid for much of it himself, with a focus on cleanliness. Now, back in Bradford, life expectancy hadn't grown past about twenty years, but in the new town of Saltaire it climbed to a whopping seventy years. People didn't just live and work

in Saltaire, they thrived. Their homes, had gas and water fed to them directly from the mill. Roads were paved, and there was a train line nearby that brought supplies and materials directly to the town. Saltaire had it all except for one thing, pubs. Titus refused to allow pubs or beer shops to be erected within his pristine little village. Part of Saltaire's allure for him was his ability to

watch and control his employees. They lived and worked in his town, but he felt his control extended beyond the workday. He was a staunch methodist, you see, and he insisted that his workforce exercised the same level of faith as he did. This included no drinking, no umbling, and no swearing, not exactly the easiest thing for thirty mill workers looking to unwind after a long day on their feet. But even though Titus controlled his factory and his employees, there

was one thing he had no control over time. The great philanthropist and businessman had to meet his maker one day, and he did on December twenty nine of eighteen seventy six. Now the people loved him, and a statue of Titus Sault was erected in nearby Roberts Park, a memorial to the man who improved the standards of living for his entire workforce and helped the less fortunate. But that wasn't all that went up after his death, Titus, as I said earlier, did not drink. He would not allow any

public houses or saloons built within his town's borders. Well, sensibilities changed once he was out of the picture. Today, Salt is home to several pubs and bars, including one with a cheeky nod to the town's founder. It's called Don't Tell Titus. The age of British colonialism saw a slew of undue atrocities spread around the world under the

oppressive eye of the Empire. The Crown claimed dominion over populations that never asked for their sudden British overlords, but spread thin as they were, The British were always left open for a little bit of failure, and that opening was left on by Tippoo, Sultan in the Kingdom of Mysore in India. Tippoo and his kingdom had an emblem, a symbol, a motto, the tiger. This tiger could be found on quite literally everything in the kingdom, from walls

to flags, to weapons and armor. Tippoo's throne had a massive tiger carved into it, and you can bet the rest of the furniture in the place did as well. But it was also the centerpiece of a rather demeaning work of art. Demeaning in a completely satisfying way, nice would add. Now, the story goes that a young East India Company cadet by the name of Hector Sutherland Monroe went hunting with a few of his company buddies on December twenty two. Unfortunately for Monroe, he became the hunted

instead of the hunter. You see, a clever Bengal tiger killed him on that hunt, and thus we have the inspiration for the piece given to Tippoo Sultan. Of course, the veracity of the story is still up for debate, but you get the idea. Now. The indigenous population there loved the idea of colonial Europeans being mauled by tigers.

Hard to blame them, really. One artist liked it so much that they created a work of art simply known as Tippoo's Tiger, a nearly life sized wooden version of the tiger mallying the man who may or may not have been Hector souther Lind Monroe. But it wasn't just an idle sculpture that wouldn't have been demeaning enough for what the British Empire deserved. No, this piece of art was also an automata, not unlike the ones being produced

in Europe. Its outer shell, made of painted wood, concealed an interior of metal cogs and pipes, all with a very specific purpose to make this art come to life, and all operated by cranks. One handle, for instance, caused the colonial Europeans arm to rise and fall while air pushed through a pipe in his neck, making him gurgle and moan as if he were being mauled by the tiger. Another crank activated the air within the tiger's pipes and made a satisfying growling sound, because what could be more

satisfying than maulling the oppressor. No doubt, the good Tippoo Sultan had a blast entertaining guests at his palace as they marveled over the technological splendor of watching a European man mauled over and over by the emblem of his own country. But, as they always seemed to say, all good things must come to an end. Eventually, the British did invade, and they confiscated Tippoo's tiger, claiming it or themselves.

Now one might assume that's given the offense they had taken to it, they would destroy the piece, but no, they didn't do that. They just wanted it for themselves. After that, the Tiger began to make the rounds through various museums in Great Britain, which it still does to this day, still being watched by the masses as it mals its perpetual victim. Tpoos Tiger and almost living, breathing symbol of the flaws and dangers of colonialism on display by the very people it was meant to offend. Now

I'd call that curious. I hope you've enjoyed today's guided tour of the Cabinet of Curiosities. Subscribe for free on Apple Podcasts, or learn more about the show by visiting Curiosities podcast dot com. The show was created by me Aaron Manky in partnership with how Stuff Works. I make another award winning show called Lore, which is a podcast, book series, and television show, and you can learn all about it over at the World of Lore dot com. And until next time, stay curious. Yeah h