Giants of History: When Nobles Collected Titans and Dwarfs

In the late 19th century, newspapers delighted in stories of giants — both literal and legendary. An article once published in The Irish Times revealed how fascination with unusually tall individuals extended far beyond curiosity—it was a cultural obsession that stretched back centuries.

From medieval courts to Enlightenment-era exhibitions, monarchs and nobles often kept giants and dwarfs as symbols of intrigue or status. Frederick the Great famously organized entire regiments of “gigantic grenadiers,” men selected purely for their towering height. In London’s Tower, relics of the past still testify to this fascination: an enormous lance and suit of armor from the 1500s, once belonging to a giant guardian or knight of regal service.

During the reigns of James I and Charles I of England, towering figures served within the royal household. Walter Parsons, known as the Staffordshire Giant, stood an impressive seven feet seven inches tall and began life as a blacksmith before serving the king directly. After Parsons came William Evans, even taller by two inches—a walking spectacle among courtiers.

The article notes a curious observation of the time—that giants seldom hailed from France, with Great Britain, Germany, Poland, and Switzerland producing more of these marvels. Pseudoscientific theorizing of the day credited this difference to diet: the British preference for meat over the “vegetarian diet” of France was thought to produce stronger, taller bodies.

By the 18th century, giants and giantesses became public celebrities. They were displayed in London’s Spring Gardens and Ludgate Hill, often described in posters as “handsome and well-proportioned,” contradicting stereotypes of awkwardness or deformity. One famous Italian giantess, reportedly admired by European royalty, stood seven feet tall. Soon after, Cajanus, the “Living Colossus” from Finland, amazed visitors with his height of eight feet four inches.

In 1755, another Italian giant, Bernardo Gigli, enthralled Londoners before the arrival of the most famous of all—Charles Byrne, the Irish Giant. Standing over eight feet eight inches tall, Byrne possessed remarkable strength and humor but lived fast and died young at 22. In a dark twist, the respected anatomist William Hunter obtained his body—reportedly for £800—and displayed his skeleton in the Royal College of Surgeons in London, despite Byrne’s wish to be buried at sea.

Another Irishman, Patrick Cotter O’Brien, soon followed Byrne’s fame. Standing eight feet seven inches, he appeared even taller due to his slender frame. Frail and gentle in spirit, O’Brien became a favorite of curious aristocrats and was known for comic moments—once pulling a famed dwarf, Count Boruwlaski, from his pocket at a dinner, drawing gasps and laughter.

The fascination continued into the 19th century with giants like James Toller, the Bavarian Herr Wickelmeir, and giantesses such as Pauline Marie Elizabeth Wedde, also known as the “Queen of the Amazons,” who stood over eight feet tall in the 1860s. Audiences were captivated, but few giants lived beyond their forties—a peculiarity that remains true even in medical accounts today.

These stories from centuries past blend myth with medical marvels, reminding us that “giants” were not just sideshow wonders—they were living people caught in the uneasy space between fascination and exploitation.