I sat down in one of the boxes, in order to take some refreshment…when a waiter very civilly asked me what refreshment I wished to have, and in a few moments returned with what I asked for. To my astonishment, he would accept no money for these refreshments; which I could not comprehend, till he told me that every thing was included in the half-crown I had paid at the door.88
Such noisy and public entertainment contrasted sharply with the London coffee-houses he also visited:
In these coffee-houses there generally prevails a very decorous stillness and silence. Every one speaks softly to those only who sit next to him. The greater part read the newspapers, and no one ever disturbs another. The room is commonly on the ground floor, and the seats are divided by wooden wainscot partitions. Many letters and projects are here written and planned, and many of those that are inserted in the papers are dated from some of these coffee-houses.89
Newspapers were taxed with a stamp duty and were relatively expensive, and so men frequented coffee-houses in order to read them there rather than buy their own. Newspapers provided the only regular source of news, but they looked very different to those of today, because they had no illustrations, were printed in black ink only, and the front page was traditionally reserved for columns of advertisements rather than big headlines and leading news items. Despite their cost, annual sales were riding high both locally and nationally. This was partly because after the Franking Act of 1764, Members of Parliament were allowed to purchase newspapers in bulk and send them through the post free-of-charge,90 greatly increasing the circulation of London newspapers and helping to keep down their price.
Literacy levels were improving, though the numbers of people who were literate varied according to class. Statistics on the subject are little more than guesswork, but it has been estimated that two out of three working men could read to some extent, though rather fewer had writing skills, and not nearly as many working women could read. If they did not read themselves, most people knew someone who would read to them. Moritz was surprised to meet so many people who could read:
My landlady, who was only a taylor’s widow, reads her Milton; and told me, that her late husband fell first in love with her on this very account, because she read Milton with such proper emphasis. This single instance, perhaps, would prove but little; but I have conversed with several people of the lower class, who all knew their national authors, and who all have read many, if not all of them. This elevates the lower ranks, and brings them nearer to the higher.91
He attributed this apparently increasing spread of education to the availability of classical authors in ‘cheap and convenient editions…At stalls, and in the streets, you every now and then meet with a sort of bibliopolists [booksellers], who sell single or odd volumes; sometimes as low as a penny; nay even sometimes for a half-penny a-piece. Of one of these I bought the two volumes of the Vicar of Wakefield for sixpence.’92 Street sellers who offered cheap song sheets and sensational stories would also sell chapbooks, which were flimsy booklets containing stories about ghosts, mermaids, recent crimes and executions, fables or anything else thought likely to titillate a mass market. One chapbook from 1772 began on an optimistic note – a fantastic tale perhaps purchased by those desperately hoping for better times:
Good News for England being A strange and remarkable ACCOUNT how a stranger in bright Raiment appeared to one Farmer Edwards near Lancaster, on the 12th of last Month, at night; containing the discourse that past [passed] between the said Farmer and the Stranger, who foretold what a wonderful Year of Plenty this will be, and how wheat will be sold for four shillings a bushel, and barley for two shillings this Year; all which was confirmed to the Farmer by four wonderful signs.93
There was an exciting boom in the publishing of books – not just novels, but an impressive range of volumes on history, travel, biography and science. The number of novels to choose from was large, and they were advertised in national and regional newspapers across the country, with many names of publishers still familiar today. On Christmas Day 1815 the front page of the Morning Chronicle – as usual – consisted of nothing but advertisements. Under ‘Books published this day’ was an extremely modest notice:
In 3 vols. 12mo price of 1l. 1s.
EMMA: a Novel. — By the Author of Pride and Prejudice.
Printed for John Murray, Albemarle-street.94
Traditionally, novels were published in several volumes, usually three. As in the book itself, the advertisement did not reveal Jane Austen’s name. The same publisher placed larger notices for two other books, An Account of the Kingdom of Nepaul by Colonel Kirkpatrick and Oriental Memoirs by James Forbes, perhaps reflecting the publisher’s slender expectations for Emma. Today, few people have heard of those two books, while Emma is known and loved worldwide.
The best places in London to buy books were Ludgate Hill, Paternoster Row and St Paul’s Churchyard (not the burial ground but the adjacent street lined with small shops). Booksellers and printers were often one and the same, selling the books that they published, and most bookstores were small, but James Lackington’s bookshop was huge. His first shop had been in Chiswell Street, but in 1794 he opened larger premises in Finsbury Square, a celebrated bookstore that became known as the ‘Temple of the Muses’. This was one of the wonders of London until it burned down in 1841. Lackington accepted only cash, not credit, and claimed to sell the cheapest books in England.
Other places in London had bookshops clustered together, as Samuel Pratt observed:
On one side of a long narrow passage called Middle-row [in Holborn], I observed a few literary loungers inspecting the old book-shops, for which this part of the town has long been famous. Pausing a little at the different stalls, I noted several persons enquiring for odd volumes to compleat broken sets, which had been lost by the commerce of lending or borrowing; for you must know, that detention of books, is amongst the negligences, or petty larcenies in friendship…The same spot is also frequented by authors, who are on the hunt for such of their writings, as are, what we technically call, ‘out of print’ – that is, not to be heard of either at the original publisher’s, or amongst the regular trade.95
Books and newspapers tended to be a luxury because of their high price, but private subscription lending libraries existed, even if of varying quality – Jane Austen thought the library at Dawlish in Devon ‘pitiful and wretched’.96 Most towns and many villages had a reading room or book club, something that Simond noticed:
There are almost everywhere book societies or clubs, variously constituted. They are generally composed of ten or twelve persons, contributing annually a certain sum for the purchase of books. Any of them may propose a book, which, when read by all the associates who choose, is put up for sale among them. The person who recommended the purchase is obliged to take it at half price, if no one bids higher. The annual contribution is commonly from one to four guineas.97
William Holland belonged to a book club, and in May 1804 he wrote in his diary: ‘we went to the Globe [Inn at Nether Stowey], where we all dined, being members of the Book Society…We spent a very agreeable evening together, had a good dinner and sold our books and entered into fresh subscriptions.’98
Reading was not necessarily a solitary occupation. Books and newspapers were read aloud, as part of the tradition of shared entertainment. It was too expensive for everyone to read their own book on dark winter evenings, because each person would need a candle. Throughout her life, Jane Austen read books aloud or listened to others. Such a pastime was relatively cheap and always available, and on a day in October 1805 when it rained heavily for many hours, Holland recorded: ‘My wife read the novel of Camilla to us all the whole day with little intermission so that we were all much entertained with that very affecting narration.’99 Fanny Burney’s Camilla – her third novel, an immensely long work in five volumes – had been published nearly a decade earlier, in 1796.
Books were also a fashion item, and most wealthy households had a libr
ary, although in some cases the books were there to be admired, not read, as Nelly Weeton lamented of her employer’s library at Dove Nest: ‘Mr. P[edder], like many of the wealthy, possesses a library of little real use. He himself reads little, so that the shelves make a display of knowledge he possesses not; many a volume, I dare say, has never been opened. The collection is numerous, valuable, and well selected. How rich I should be in books if I had all in Mr. P’s library that have never been read.’100
Letters also provided entertainment when read aloud among family and friends. Writing was essential for long-distance communication, and those who had the time corresponded on a daily basis with friends and family. Jane Austen was a prolific letter writer, but the greater part of her letters were destroyed by her sister Cassandra and other family members. One surviving letter to Cassandra, written in June 1808, gives a glimpse of the constant communication: ‘I assure you I am as tired of writing long letters as you can be. What a pity that one should be so fond of receiving them!’101
The cost of sending a letter was relatively high, charged according to the distance travelled and the number of ‘enclosures’, such as if more than one sheet of paper was used. Most letters comprised a single sheet folded in on itself. A rectangle in the middle of the outer side of the sheet was left blank to carry the address, and the last fold was tucked in and sealed with red-coloured beeswax (black for funerary correspondence) or a piece of glued paper called a ‘wafer’. Woodforde often recorded his purchases of wax, as in July 1788: ‘at a bookseller’s shop at Bungay for a large stick of red sealing wax, paid 0: 1: 0’.102
To minimise postal costs, writers needed to plan the length of a letter carefully, which did not always happen, as Nelly Weeton admitted to her brother Tom: ‘I feel myself in a writing humour, and as I have entirely filled one large half sheet, I will, for once, put thee to the expence of a double letter; had I thought, when I begun, that I should have scribbled so much, I would not have cut the sheet, and then I might, with a safe conscience, have informed the Post-master that it was only a “single sheet”.’103 The cost of postage was paid by the recipient of the letter, not the sender, so a failure to economise might be unwelcome. Within London, a Penny Post pre-paid system operated, increased to twopence in 1801.104
One way of keeping to a single sheet of paper was by cross-writing. Once a sheet was covered with writing, it was turned 90 degrees and the writing was continued at right-angles over what was already written. This allowed double the number of lines of writing, but the resulting letter was difficult to read, as Nelly warned a friend: ‘I am afraid you will scarcely be able to read this cross writing – a little more and I will have done.’105 Envelopes only began to be manufactured and sold in large quantities when uniform (and lower) postal charges, irrespective of the number of enclosures, were introduced in 1840.
There were no mailboxes as there are today, and letters had to be posted at a Post Office to be delivered to the Post Office closest to the recipient’s address. Letters were collected in person, or arrangements were made for a servant or friend to collect and pay for them. The postal service was generally reliable, but over long distances, letters might be in transit for several days. It was well known that Members of Parliament would put their frank on letters written by their family, friends and even distant acquaintances, because they had the privilege of franking their own letters, which were delivered free-of-charge. Such a frank might merely consist of a sheet of paper with a legible and authentic signature. This sheet was used as part of the letter, folded so that the signature was visible on the outside.
The upper classes frequently resorted to such franks, and Jane Austen used them whenever the opportunity arose. In April 1811 she wrote to her sister: ‘I had sent off my letter yesterday before yours came, which I was sorry for; but as Eliza has been so good as to get me a frank, your questions shall be answered without much further expense to you.’106 Simond was not impressed by the stinginess of the wealthy and the business of franking: ‘Nobody thinks of writing to a friend without a frank, and letters are received with a perceivable expression of surprise, at least, when there is postage to pay. You may pay the postage of your own letters; and I had availed myself of that expedient, as infinitely preferable to that of begging a frank, but I found it was considered as a great impropriety.’107
Most of Jane Austen’s letters were to family members, but when her books began to be published, she also had business correspondence with her publishers, and a few of these letters have survived. In 1815 she commented on one letter from her publisher: ‘Mr Murray’s letter is come; he is a rogue of course, but a civil one. He offers £450 but wants to have the copyright of M.P. [Mansfield Park] & S.&S. [Sense and Sensibility] included. It will end in my publishing for myself I daresay. He sends more praise however than I expected. It is an amusing letter.’108
NINE
ON THE MOVE
Open carriages are nasty things. A clean gown is not five minutes’ wear in them. You are splashed getting in and getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every direction. I hate an open carriage myself.
Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen
Some people never saw new places, never travelled any distance in their entire lives. Elizabeth Ham remembered her Uncle Thomas of Haselbury in Somerset, who lived to the age of ninety and ‘died in the house in which he was born, and from which he was never absent but once in his life, when, in his youth, he went to Bristol for a week’.1 His journey to Bristol, 30 miles away, was the furthest he ever travelled. Others did travel a great deal to see friends and family and on business, but nothing moved faster than a galloping horse. Horses were the main source of power, and engines are still measured in ‘horsepower’, a unit originally based on the number of horses needed to do the same work as a steam engine.
Walking was the most common means of transport, often over considerable distances and in miserable conditions. Thick, squelching mud was the bane of all travel, exhausting to walk through and a hazard for horses and wheeled vehicles alike. At Steventon in Hampshire, Jane Austen and Cassandra would certainly walk ‘when the roads were dirty’,2 wearing pattens to raise their shoes above the mud. When conditions outside were bad, most middle- and upper-class ladies avoided travelling on foot altogether, and Jane wrote in one letter: ‘Anna…is quite equal to walking to Chawton, and comes over to us when she can, but the rain and dirt divide us a good deal.’3 In Norfolk, Parson James Woodforde constantly noted in his diary that church attendances were low because of poor weather, as in late January 1790: ‘None from Weston House at church, none of my gentry [family guests] at church being wet and dirty.’4
Even those who owned horses often walked a great deal. In the summer of 1794 Woodforde was visiting friends in the neighbourhood with his niece, but being concerned about her painful knee, he calculated the distance they covered: ‘Nancy had a good deal of walking to day, near seven miles has she walked this day and very well.’5 Few people chose to undertake long excursions on foot, but Carl Moritz was an exception, as he deliberately spent some seven weeks in 1782 walking through England. On one occasion, when leaving Oxford, he used a stagecoach and asked a fellow passenger why Englishmen avoided travelling on foot: ‘O! said he, we are too rich, too lazy, and too proud. And most true it is, that the poorest Englishman one sees, is prouder and better pleased to expose himself to the danger of having his neck broken, on the outside of a stage [coach], than to walk any considerable distance, though it might be done ever so much at his ease.’6
Paupers could not travel long distances at all, not even on foot, because under the poor laws anyone found outside their own parish without sufficient money and reason to be there was liable to be arrested and returned. When he arrived at inns without horses, Moritz was invariably treated with contempt, as happened at Eton: ‘I entered the inn and desired to have something to eat…the waiter soon gave me to understand, that I should there find no very friendly reception. Whatever I got
, they seemed to give me with such an air, as shewed too plainly how little they thought of me; and as if they considered me but as a beggar.’7 Even so, he added, ‘they suffered me to pay like a gentleman’.8
Elsewhere, he found various obstacles in his path and began to realise why pedestrians kept to the well-worn routes and avoided short-cuts. One morning he set out on foot from Windsor:
I rose very early…in order to climb the two hills, which presented me with so inviting a prospect; and in particular that one of them, on the summit of which a high, white house, appeared among the dark green trees. I found no regular path leading to these hills; and therefore went straightforward, without minding roads; only keeping in view the object of my aim. This certainly created me some trouble: I had sometimes a hedge, and sometimes a bog to walk round; but at length I attained the foot of the so earnestly-wished-for hill, with the high, white house on its summit, when, just as I was going to ascend it…behold I read these words on a board: ‘Take care; there are steel traps and spring guns here.’ All my labour was lost, and I now went round to the other hill; but here were also ‘steel traps and spring guns’.9
These traps were mantraps that had two strong steel jaws, often with serrated edges, which snapped shut by means of powerful springs when someone stepped on the pressure plate between the jaws. Hidden in grass and undergrowth, they were designed to trap and detain intruders, but frequently resulted in a badly cut or broken leg. Spring guns were mounted with a trip wire to the trigger, and the gun was fired when the trip wire was pulled.
Jane Austen's England Page 28
