In 1897, Murray Finch-Hatton, 12th Earl of Winchilsea and a pioneering motorist, wrote to fellow board members of the Great Horseless Carriage Company: “Gentlemen — I believe you are aware that about three months ago, as the result of overwork, my health suddenly broke down, and Sir William Broadbent . . . ordered me at once to go to the Riviera.” But the rest cure had failed and Broadbent, an eminent physician, had judged the earl was “not in a fit state of health to undertake any responsible work”. As a result, he would be obliged to step down as a director.
Finch-Hatton’s decline (he died the following year, at 47) is a footnote in corporate history, but his admission was not unusual for its time. The Financial Times, which published his letter, was dotted with announcements of forced breaks by overworked corporate directors in the 1890s.
That contrasts with the way in which companies today are only beginning to tackle the physical and mental health risks of long hours, and with boards’ continued coyness about admitting when senior staff succumb to burnout. Finch-Hatton’s resignation came towards the end of a period of rising concern about the pace of technological disruption, to which, in a small way, the motor vehicles promoted by the Great Horseless Carriage Company were contributing.