Professional Documents
Culture Documents
The long eighteenth century sits as a pivotal point between the early-
modern and modern worlds. By actively encouraging an international focus
for the series over all, both in terms of wide-ranging geographical topics and
authorial locations, the series aims to feature cutting-edge research from
established and recent scholars, and capitalize on the breadth of themes and
topics that new approaches to research in the period reveal. This series
provides a forum for recent and established historians to present new
research and explore fresh approaches to culture and society in the long
eighteenth century. As a crucial period of transition, the period saw devel
opments that shaped perceptions of the place of the individual and the col
lective in the construction of the modern world. Eighteenth-Century
Cultures and Societies is a series that is globally ambitious in scope and
broad in its desire to publish cutting-edge research that takes an innovative,
multi-vocal and increasingly holistic approach to the period. The series will
be particularly sensitive to questions of gender and class, but aims to
embrace and explore a variety of fresh approaches and methodologies.
Enlightened Nightscapes
Critical Essays on the Long Eighteenth-Century Night
Edited by Pamela F. Phillips
Edited by
Sarah Goldsmith, Sheryllynne Haggerty
and Karen Harvey
Designed cover image: ‘One Peep Was Enough’, F. Bacon after H. Richter
(1832). Wellcome Collection: 37057i, https://wellcomecollection.org/
works/pjjxazgs
First published 2023
by Routledge
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and by Routledge
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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa
business
© 2023 selection and editorial matter, Sarah Goldsmith, Sheryllynne
Haggerty and Karen Harvey; individual chapters, the contributors
The right of Sarah Goldsmith, Sheryllynne Haggerty and Karen Harvey to
be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors
for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with
sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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by Taylor & Francis Books
Contents
List of figures ix
Acknowledgments x
List of contributors xi
Introduction 1
SARAH GOLDSMITH, SHERYLLYNNE HAGGERTY AND KAREN HARVEY
PART I
Imagined bodies and imagining touch 15
1 Absent bodies? Gouty brethren and sensitive hearts in William
Constable’s letters from the Grand Tour 1769–1771 17
RACHEL FELDBERG
PART II
Material bodies/material letters 83
4 Sympathy in practice: Eighteenth-century letters and the
material body 85
KAREN HARVEY
5 ‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing’: Pain, play and the material
text in Jonathan Swift’s Journal to Stella 103
ABIGAIL WILLIAMS
viii Contents
6 Blackness, whiteness and bodily degeneration in British women’s
letters from India 122
ONNI GUST
PART III
Bodies deployed 167
8 I ‘never had the happeness of Receivin one Letter from You’:
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 169
SHERYLLYNNE HAGGERTY
Bibliography 256
Index 266
Figures
This book originated as the ‘Epistolary Bodies: Letters and Bodies in the
Eighteenth Century’ conference held at the University of Leicester in May 2019
as part of the Midlands Eighteenth Century Research Network. The editors
wish to thank all those who participated and attended, as well as the Economic
History Society, the Royal Historical Society and the Leverhulme Trust for
their generous support of that event. The editors and contributors to the book
have since benefitted considerably from the expertise of many scholars who
have read the work, and to whom we are grateful. We particularly wish to
thank the series editors, Elaine Chalus and Deborah Simonton, and the staff at
Routledge, for their valued support in bringing the book to its final form.
Contributors
Rachel Feldberg is a PhD student at the Centre for Eighteenth Century Stu
dies, University of York. Her research explores middling women’s
engagement with the production, and transmission of natural knowledge
and is supported by the White Rose College of Arts & Humanities Doc
toral Training Partnership funded by the AHRC. She studied history at
Cambridge, was a Paul Mellon Fellow at Yale (1978–1979) and has MAs
from the Universities of Leeds and York. Before returning to academia
she spent four decades as a theatre director, writer, curator and arts
producer including sixteen years as Director of the North’s leading lit
erature festival. A trustee of The Lawrence Sterne Trust, other work
includes Mr Brown’s Directions (2016) a play animating archive records
of Capability Brown’s visits to East Yorkshire; Flying (2003), BBC Radio
4 afternoon play and the libretto for The Landau Papers (2000) a cham
ber opera based on the life of German Jewish musicologist Anneliese
Landau in 1930s Berlin.
Sarah Goldsmith is a Chancellor’s Fellow at the University of Edinburgh.
Prior to this, she undertook her PhD at the University of York, and held
a Leverhulme Early Career Fellowship at the University of Leicester. She
has several publications on the eighteenth-century Grand Tour, including
her first monograph, Masculinity and Danger on the Eighteenth-Century
Grand Tour (University of London Press, 2020), which was shortlisted
for the RHS’s 2021 Whitfield Prize. Her current research explores inter
disciplinary approaches to the history of the eighteenth, nineteenth and
early twentieth-century male bodies. She is an AHRC/BBC 2018 New
Generation Thinker and a historical consultant for the V&A’s 2022
Fashioning Masculinities: The Art of Menswear exhibition.
Onni Gust is Assistant Professor of History at the University of Notting
ham. Their research examines ideas of belonging in the British Empire
during the ‘long’ eighteenth century, with a focus on the relationships
between Britain and India. Building on ‘New Imperial’ history, they bring
insights from feminist, queer and post-colonial theory to think histori
cally about identity formation in relationship to imperial space, and
xii List of contributors
particularly the role of racism, sexism and ableism in constructing narra
tives of belonging and humanity. Their book, Unhomely Empire: Whiteness
and Belonging from the Scottish Enlightenment to Liberal Imperialism is
forthcoming with Bloomsbury.
Sheryllynne Haggerty is Honorary Research Fellow at the Wilberforce Institute
for the Study of Slavery and Emancipation at the University of Hull. Her
research focuses on the eighteenth-century British-Atlantic world. Her mono
graphs to date include The British-Atlantic Trading Community 1760–1810:
Men, Women, and the Distribution of Goods (Brill Press, 2006) and ‘Merely
for Money’? Business Culture in the British-Atlantic, 1750–1815 (Liverpool
University Press, 2012). She has also published many interdisciplinary articles
on social network analysis in journals including Enterprise & Society, Slavery
& Abolition and Business History. Her latest project is the AHRC-funded
Ordinary People, Extraordinary Times: Living the British Empire in Jamaica,
1756 (McGill Queens University Press, 2023).
Karen Harvey is Professor of Cultural History at the University of Bir
mingham. Her research focuses on gender and the body in eighteenth-
century Britain. Her books include Reading Sex in the Eighteenth Century:
Bodies and Gender in English Erotic Culture (Cambridge University Press,
2004), The Little Republic: Masculinity and Domestic Authority in Eight
eenth-Century Britain (Oxford University Press, 2012) and The Imposteress
Rabbit Breeder: Mary Toft and Eighteenth-Century England (Oxford Uni
versity Press, 2020). She has also edited several books, including History and
Material Culture: A Student’s Guide to Approaching Alternative Sources,
second edition (Routledge, 2018). Her current projects include edited
volumes on beauty in the eighteenth century and on the material body in
eighteenth- and nineteenth-century England. Karen also directs the Lever
hulme-funded project ‘Material Identities, Social Bodies: Embodiment in
British Letters c.1680–1820’ (https://socialbodies.bham.ac.uk/), which has
produced a publicly available dataset of eighteenth-century letters.
Steven King is Professor of Economic and Social History at Nottingham
Trent University. He has published widely on the interrelated histories of
the family, health, demography and poverty and across the period from
the 1650s to the present. Recent books include Sickness, Medical Welfare
and the English Poor 1750–1834 (Manchester, 2018), Disability Matters
(with C. Beardmore and G. Monks; Cambridge, 2018), Family Life in Brit
ain, 1650–1910 (with C. Beardmore and C. Dobbing; Basingstoke, 2019) and
Writing the Lives of the English Poor 1750s to 1830s (Montréal, 2019). The
latter book won the British Academy’s 2019 Townsend Prize. He is cur
rently completing an AHRC grant (‘In Their Own Write’) which is aimed at
producing a history of the New Poor Law from below.
Taylin Nelson is an English and Environmental Humanities doctoral student
at Rice University. She completed an MA at King’s College London in
List of contributors xiii
Eighteenth-Century Studies and a BA at Arizona State University in
English Literature. Her current dissertation project explores human-
animal encounters in eighteenth-century literary and natural history texts
under the supervision of Drs Betty Joseph and Tim Morton. She serves as
research assistant for Drs David O’Shaughnessy and Michael Griffin on
their edited collection of the corpus of Goldsmith’s works. She is a
Hobby fellow at the literary journal SEL, Studies in English Literature
1500–1900 and often publishes with BSECS “Criticks.”
Nathan Perl-Rosenthal is a historian of the eighteenth- and early nineteenth-
century Atlantic world at the University of Southern California. He
focuses on the political and cultural history of Europe and the Amer
icas in the age of revolution. He received his PhD in history from
Columbia University in 2011, with a dissertation on epistolarity and
revolutionary organizing, and published a first book on a different topic
in 2015: Citizen Sailors: Becoming American in the Age of Revolution
(Belknap/Harvard). His second book, Generation Revolution: Political
Lives in a Revolutionary Age, 1760–1825, forthcoming from Basic Books
in 2024, shows how changing patterns of cultural practice in the Atlantic
world gave shape to parallel political revolutions in North America,
South America and Europe.
Annika Raapke is visiting lecturer at the University of Uppsala, Sweden. She
specialises in the history of the eighteenth-century French Caribbean,
currently researching pacotille trade across the Caribbean colonies. Until
2020, she worked in the Prize Papers Project carried out at the National
Archives in Kew and the University of Oldenburg; her first monograph,
the German translation of her English-language PhD on bodies in Prize
Papers letters from the French Caribbean, was published in 2019 under
the title ‘Dieses verfluchte Land’: Europäische Körper in Brieferzählungen
aus der Karibik, 1744–1826. Her other publications address questions of
gender, emotions and family, food, health and illness in the colonial
Caribbean context, as well as methodological considerations such as
practice theory.
Frith Taylor is a PhD candidate at Queen Mary University of London. Her
research into eighteenth-century life writing examines representations of
domesticity in queer households in Britain from 1755–1840. The project
looks at the writing of Charlotte Charke, Sophia Baddeley, Anne Lister,
and Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby (the ‘Ladies of Llangollen’). It
is interested in the material concerns of female-run households of the
long eighteenth century and the impact of property ownership, class,
luxury, economic agency and sex work. The project is also concerned
with the ways in which constructions of gender identity, degeneracy,
criminality, sexuality, pleasure and desire intersect with ideas of home
and homemaking.
xiv List of contributors
Abigail Williams is Professor of Eighteenth-Century Studies at the University
of Oxford, and Lord White Fellow in English at St Peter’s College, Oxford.
She is the author of Poetry and the Creation of a Whig Literary Culture
(Oxford University Press, 2005) and The Social Life of Books: Reading
Together in the Eighteenth-Century Home (Yale, 2017), and editor of
Jonathan Swift’s The Journal to Stella: Letters to Esther Johnson and
Rebecca Dingley, 1710–1713 (Cambridge University Press, 2013). She also
led the Leverhulme-funded Digital Miscellanies Index, an online database of
the contents of 1500 poetic miscellanies (http://digitalmiscellaniesindex.org).
She is currently completing Reading Wrong (to be published with Princeton
University Press), a study of eighteenth-century misreading.
Introduction
Sarah Goldsmith, Sheryllynne Haggerty and
Karen Harvey
Notes
1 Karen Harvey, ‘Epochs of Embodiment: Sex and the Material Body in the
Eighteenth Century’, Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies, 42:4 (2019), 464.
2 See for example, Dena Goodman, The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of
the French Enlightenment (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1994);
Susan Dalton, Engendering the Republic of Letters: Reconnecting the Public and
Private Spheres (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003); Anne Goldgar,
Impolite Learning: Conduct and Community in the Republic of Letters, 1680–
1750 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995); L. W. B. Brockliss, Calvert’s
Web: Enlightenment and the Republic of Letters in Eighteenth-Century France
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Stanford University’s ongoing Mapping
the Republic of Letters project (http://republicofletters.stanford.edu). Elizabeth
Heckendorn Cook, Epistolary Bodies: Gender and Genre in the Eighteenth-Cen
tury Republic of Letters (Stanford CA: Stanford University Press, 1996); Joe
Bray, The Epistolary Novel: Representations of Consciousness (Abingdon: Rou
tledge, 2003).
3 Clare Brant, Eighteenth-Century Letters and British Culture (London: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2006); Eve Tavor Bannet, Empire of Letters: Letter Manuals and
Transatlantic Correspondence, 1688–1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2005).
4 Susan Whyman, The Pen and the People: English Letter Writers 1660–1800
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Steven King, Writing the Lives of the
English Poor, 1750s to 1830s (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2019).
5 Both Raapke and Haggerty use letters from the Prize Papers, part of the High
Court of Admiralty Papers at the National Archives, UK. These letters are being
digitised as part of a large project, see www.prizepapers.de/database, accessed 25
Jan 2020.
6 David Barton and Nigel Hall, ‘Introduction’, in Barton and Hall (eds), Letter
Writing as a Social Practice (Amsterdam: John Benjamin, 2000), 1.
7 Leonie Hannan, Women of Letters: Gender, Writing and the Life of the Mind in
Early Modern England (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), 13. For
ongoing research into the importance of women’s correspondence, see the
Unlocking Mary Hamilton’s Papers project (www.projects.alc.manchester.ac.
uk/maryhamiltonpapers/about/).
8 Lindsay O’Neill, The Opened Letter: Networking in the Early Modern British
World (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015); Konstantin
Dierks, In My Power: Letter Writing and Communications in Early America
(Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). See also Susan Clair
Imbarrato, Sarah Gray Cary, From Boston to Grenada: Shifting Fortunes of an
American Family, 1764–1826 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press,
2018); David Hancock, Citizens of the World: London Merchants and the Inte
gration of the British Atlantic Community, 1735–1785 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1995).
9 Sarah M. S. Pearsall, Atlantic Families: Lives and Letters in the Later Eighteenth
Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 19–23, and Part I.
10 Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (New
York: Routledge, 1998).
12 Sarah Goldsmith, Sheryllynne Haggerty and Karen Harvey
11 James Daybell, The Material Letter in Early Modern England: Manuscript Let
ters and the Culture and Practice of Letter-Writing, 1512–1635 (London: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2012), 10–11. For ongoing digital projects exploring the materiality
of seventeenth-century letters, see the Signed, Sealed, Undelivered (http://brienne.
org/unlockedbriennearchive) and Unlocking History projects (http://letterlocking.
org/about).
12 Daybell, The Material Letter, 13.
Very Sick this morning, with great difficulty in breathing got down Stairs and
into his Landau, set off for London on his Road to Liège.
– Winifred Constable, ‘Daily Record of Illness of “My Brother”’,
22 November 17691
An experimental journey
William’s debilitating gout was first mentioned in 1766 in a letter from his
apothecary John Johnston: ‘I rejoice you got so soon rid of the Gout but
fear it will make longer Visits if love of learned Ease be too much
indulged.’10 The first half of the eighteenth century had seen a significant
increase in gout sufferers, which Roy Porter and G. S. Rousseau have argued
may have been a result of increasing consumerism and the consequent
availability of protein-rich diets.11 Johnston implied that William’s illness
was a direct result of his sedentary intellectual pursuits and certainly Wil
liam, by various accounts, including his portrait four years later by Liotard,
a pastellist known for his faithful representations, was corpulent. He had by
his own confession to Sir Horace Mann, the British representative to the
Grand Dukes of Tuscany in Florence, enjoyed a ‘long course’ in ‘high life …
in which he believes he brought upon himself the most cruel gout any man
could be subject to’.12 Self-accusation relating to youthful dissolution was a
well-worn explanation for male illness.13 In maturity, William appeared to
Absent bodies? 19
regret his former indolent habits and his focus turned to moderation and
self-improvement, principles which would shape the ongoing representation
of his illness. As Johnston predicted, William’s gout soon returned in more
virulent form, and in June 1767 John Dunn, who dealt with the family’s
affairs, alerted the Constable’s steward that ‘a gouty chair sets out for
Burton next Monday’s Waggon’.14 This was followed in December 1768 by
an invoice from Thomas Chippendale for ‘A Wallnut Gouty Chair’ and ‘A
Wallnut Gouty stool to join to ditto’, expensive items at £10 and £3 8s.
respectively.15 Gout had become part of William’s everyday life as he took
on the trappings and furniture familiar to men of his age and class, for
whom it was the disease of the rich, a badge of honour for the aristocracy.16
The early 1770s saw a proliferation of gout treatments, some challenging the
established doctrine of gout as incurable, or even, desirable, since gout was
held to have prophylactic properties which held other diseases at bay.17
However, rather than simply accept William’s condition, the siblings who
were used to empirical practice as a result of their distinctive education,
explored prospective remedies.
From the age of sixteen, William had studied at the English College in
Douai, a Jesuit centre for English recusants.18 Douai’s exacting academic
timetable boasted a wide-ranging curriculum from classical texts, meta
physics and logic, to astronomy and Newtonian physics. William left in
January 1739, almost certainly feeling his interest in practical science would
be better served elsewhere.19 He concluded five years in France with lessons
in ‘experiments’ with a Dr Molyneux near Paris.20 The result was a lifelong
fascination with empirical investigation which led him to conduct astro
nomical, biological and electrical experiments at Burton Constable, corre
spond with the Catholic priest and scientist, John Turbeville Needham and,
in later years, become a member of the Royal Society.21 Meanwhile,
Winifred had attended the Bar Convent in York which offered a compre
hensive programme of learning for young women who also assisted the nuns
in tending the sick.22 Winifred grew up in a family where engaging with
science and medicine was an everyday occurrence. Her father, Cuthbert,
studied medicine at Douai, and as J. A. R. Bickford identifies, the family
provided expansive medical treatment for their servants.23 In December
1768, at her own or William’s instigation, Winifred began what constituted
a series of clinical observations in her ‘Daily Record’.24 She tracked Wil
liam’s sleep, the nature of his urine and stools, and the outcomes his treat
ment provoked. Winifred (and potentially William’s) understanding of his
illness was rooted in a traditional humoral model, which followed Galen in
ascribing illness to an imbalance in the patient’s phlegm, blood, yellow or
black bile.25 Gout was viewed as, ‘the dropping of a humour upon a joint
and accounted for in terms of a dyscrasia (disorder) in the system’.26 The
imbalance could be addressed by driving out bad humours via purgatives
and glysters, hence Winifred’s detailed reporting of the sweating, vomiting
and voiding, which would discharge her brother’s condition.27 But the
20 Rachel Feldberg
layout of her ‘Daily Record’ suggests she was also familiar with con
temporary thinking on the importance of patient observation which, in the
absence of physical examination, was a key source of medical information.28
Francis Clifton’s The State of Physick Ancient and Modern (1732), for
example, emphasised the value of standardised clinical recording and inclu
ded categories to guide daily annotation, many of which are echoed in
Winifred’s observations.29
In November 1769, the siblings moved from trialling remedies to search
ing for the cure most physicians believed unattainable. William heard about
a new treatment offered by Dr Le Fevre, a French Jesuit and, ever the
empiricist, decided to go to Europe ‘to inquire into his remedy and practice’,
together with Winifred and John Johnston, a local apothecary whom Wil
liam contracted as his private physician.30 While they were in Europe, Le
Fevre’s ‘Specific for the Gout’ was documented by the Reverend Edmund
Marshall in his Candid and Impartial State of the Evidence (published in
February/March 1770).31 By the Autumn it had become the subject of a
fierce pamphlet war, and claims and counter-claims were still being trum
peted in the pages of the 1771 London Magazine and the Critical Review as
the Constables journeyed home.32 However, within four days of arrival in
Liège, satisfied by what he saw and heard, William began treatment.33 Le
Fevre’s regime, as Edmund Marshall’s pamphlet noted, involved a daily
teaspoon of white powder for ten days, followed by twenty day’s respite
before repeating the procedure twice more.34 William underwent his course
between December 1769 and February 1770 and on its conclusion Le Fevre
assured him that, although gout might return, it would be less painful and
attacks shorter. Positive progress would be attended by sweating, and after
eighteen to twenty-two months his condition might disappear.35
In ‘cure’
Le Fevre’s assurance was a watershed moment for the Constables. Hence
forward, William regarded himself as ‘in cure’ and almost certainly used the
term to Horace Mann in October 1770, a description Mann passed on to
Walpole.36 But given that William’s health was his express purpose in tra
velling to Europe, it is surprising that his lively letters home made almost no
mention of the treatment he had travelled so far to undergo, or the dis
comfort he endured. This reticence was despite convention dictating that
letters began with enquires about the recipient’s health, and frequently, a
description of the author’s symptoms and complaints.37 Exchanging con
fidences built relationships, and the more intimate the bond, the more likely
the flow of medical details.38 William’s disinclination might simply have
typified a male reluctance to provide florid descriptions of pain or distress,
and a desire to demonstrate the stoicism and ‘virtue of self-control’ that
Sarah Goldsmith has identified as playing ‘an important role in the culture
of illness’ among men.39 But physical illness appears to have been an
Absent bodies? 21
exception to this convention for older men, and scholars have noted their
propensity to share details of medical conditions.40 Part of the explanation
may lie in William’s choice of particular registers in family communication,
as against more public letters to friends. As Susan Whyman has demon
strated, important changes in letter-writing during the eighteenth century,
tended towards a lessening of formality, particularly in familial missives.41
There is no doubt that age, gender, rank and kinship played some part in
William’s correspondence; his letters to Rousseau were freighted with flat
tery and self-abasement, with the niceties of margins and a spacious layout.
In contrast his letters to his half-brother Marmaduke (‘Duke’), twenty-two
years his junior, with whom he shared a common faith and interest in sci
ence, were jocular and informal. Beginning ‘Dear Duke!’ they filled every
inch of the page in a confident, fast-moving hand with a mixture of amusing
observations and insights into the countries they passed through. But if
unwilling to discuss his health on paper, William seemed happy to expound
his trial of Le Fevre’s treatment in person. His correspondence with Rous
seau suggests they explored arthritis, gout and possible remedies on first
meeting in Lyon and Horace Mann was sufficiently briefed to pass on details
of William’s experience in Liège to Walpole.42 In both instances, William’s
focus was on the treatment and its efficacy, rather than his bodily feelings or
emotional response. William’s apparent epistolary silence on the subject of
his health, was thus both significant and deliberate, and the remainder of
this chapter teases out potential reasons for his reluctance.
The dis/eased body was entirely absent in correspondence with his friends
John and Anne Morritt and there were just three fleeting mentions of health,
his own and other people’s, to his half-brother Marmaduke. These glimpses
offer an important insight into William’s perception of mind, body and self.
The first, in May 1770, concerned someone else. In an informal, wide-ran
ging letter, William told Marmaduke that Lord Holland, with whom the
Constables were sharing a house in Lyon, was in ‘a wretched condition,
Paralytic, unable to stand, his speech affected and all that’.43 This reference
to Holland’s ‘wretched’ state was the only instance where William ascribed
any adjective to physical illness. In doing so, William established himself as
a figure of health, poised to pity his unfortunate fellow guest, rather than an
invalid confined to his bedchamber. Later in the same letter William turned
to a rare assessment of his own condition. Three months after the conclu
sion of Le Fevre’s treatment he reported as one man of science to another,
that a part of his body was recovering, ‘my limbs continue to mend’. He
was able to eat and drink freely and within the last few days had begun to
sweat ‘most immoderately Contrary to my natural Habit’.44 These were
outcomes that he and Marmaduke would have interpreted as positive, since
as Hannah Newton points out, recovery from illness in this period involved
both the ending of disease and the regaining of strength.45 Matching his
progress to Le Fevre’s template, William concluded: ‘this Effect of the med
icine was predicted’.46 There can be little doubt that at this juncture,
22 Rachel Feldberg
William believed the cure was working. However, his swift optimism
diverged from Winifred’s more systematic records as she calibrated her
observations, quantifying present events against her brother’s previous
attacks, in search of an ongoing narrative of improvement.47 William, by
contrast, in his focus on the production and meaning of bodily fluids in his
communication with Marmaduke, emphasised his belief in the success of Le
Fevre’s remedy, and, by implication, substantiated his good judgement in
undertaking the experiment.
An alternate self
If William’s letters home sought to present a picture of improving health,
they also constructed an ‘alternate’ self. His correspondence became a tool
to refashion his identity, crafting an impression of energetic activity which
omitted all mention of physical limitation. In an image which invited his
readers to reimagine his resilience, William emphasised how various vicissi
tudes of the journey to Lyon (broken axles, stoppages for carriage repairs)
which exhausted his party had not affected him.48 He explained in a letter to
Marmaduke in May 1770: ‘We are all well, tho somewhat fatigued on our
arrival from Rough Roads, a Long Journey & bad Lodgings, that is, all
Except myself.’49 Similarly in Rome in February 1771, rather than describe
his progress to Marmaduke, William’s letter detailed a busy round of
engagements from which his recovery could be inferred: ‘the morning till 12
to myself, then My Byres & Antiquity & Pictures & Sculptures till four or
Later. after Dinner, Dress, Crowds, Conversation, Cards. Concerts.’50
However, his optimism must be set against the counter-narrative of Wini
fred’s ‘Daily Record’. During the same few weeks, she described how Wil
liam was at a crowded Lent Carnival entertainment when ‘He was seized
with a violent pain in his Kidneys with great difficulty got from the Mas
querade and into Bed.’51 For Winifred, William was a passive figure ‘seized’
with sudden illness and the trajectory of his improvement was constantly
disrupted. In the eighteen months they were away Winifred identified just
fifteen days when her brother was ‘perfectly well’, frequently noting he was
confined to bed, experiencing long episodes of loose stools, or finding it hard
to walk.52
On occasion, William’s letters, whatever their textual absences, could of
themselves function as symptoms of disorder and disease. There are pas
sages written with a breathless, heightened intensity, which suggest the
potent side-effects of the remedies he relied on and the possible origin of
some of his medical woes. In a continuation of his letter to Marmaduke
from Rome he burst out: ‘I have been made hurried, wanted something
entertaining. Crowds of ideas & and of things; know not where to begin.’53
The words trip over themselves and it seems his mind was racing, swept up
in a whirlwind which belied his fragile body. Perhaps it was his use of var
ious preparations which underlay the vivid language he employed, when, for
Absent bodies? 23
example, he told Marmaduke that the Pope was: ‘smoaky and Resolute’
with ‘nothing of Kniffy Knaffy-ness about him’, a surprisingly irreverent
description from a Catholic.54 It is clear from Winifred’s ‘Daily Record’ that
William took a number of medicines, among them Warner’s anodyne elixir,
which included six drams of opium.55 In January 1769 Winifred recorded
William taking seven drops. By June he was taking thirty.56 Many of his
ongoing symptoms – disturbed sleep, vomiting, nausea, pains throughout
the body, constipation leading to piles (side effects Warner acknowledged) –
were consistent with regular opiate doses.57 It seems likely that William was
sometimes spurred to write by the euphoric sense of wellbeing the Elixir
engendered, and at others sank into a debilitated nervous stupor as the
remedy wore off.
Meanwhile, Winifred’s conscientious recording offered William the
opportunity to set his body, a central focus for both siblings, aside. There
was no need for him to expend time and ink describing how he felt when
empirical evidence would answer any query. With his limbs and organs
relegated to the domestic and intimate under his sister’s objective eye, his
corporeal state both observed and lived, was removed from the epistolary
sphere and he could focus his limited energy on activities of the mind and
consideration of the proper role of feelings. But this public rhetoric of resi
lience was entangled with the messy, shifting concept of his masculinity, as
his articulation of self slid between a number of possibilities, depending on
his mood and the recipient of his correspondence. In a letter to John and
Anne Morritt in June 1770 (which may also have reached Marmaduke),
William played with epicene language: ‘as a traveller must trouble you with
nothing expected by all us Maceronis’.58 He nudged at the idea of the fash
ionable young men of the Grand Tour, who encapsulated dangerous mate
rial excess in their eccentricity, gender ambiguity and notions of effeminacy,
in antipathy to his own stance as a man of science.59 But he was on dan
gerous ground; in England, Catholics were often derided as effeminate, and
many elite men feared dependency and felt emasculated in the domestic
space of the sick room.60 While Winifred’s self-fashioning as his devoted
sister was applauded and legitimised by her faith as an expression of love
and duty, William exhibited a sense of deep unease about his masculinity.
The Constables’ journey to Europe came at a significant moment of
instability in relation to sentiment and male identity. William was caught on
the cusp, as he sought to balance his pre-disposition for feeling with a fear
of weakness and excess, his desire for self-control against a need for emo
tional expression. To many in the bon ton he was both singular and eccen
tric. At the age of forty-nine he had not managed to secure a wife (William’s
engagement was broken off by his prospective father-in-law in 1755), was no
longer enthused by polite sociability, and lacked the stamina to follow
fashionable energetic pursuits like fox-hunting favoured by the Yorkshire
landed elite.61 Musing on the suitability of his half-brother Marmaduke as a
possible spouse, Lady Traquair, a fellow recusant, avowed: ‘very Bookish
24 Rachel Feldberg
loves retirement … a great Phylosipher is fond of talking like one of
Books … his best friends allow he has an odd turn’.62 Many of Lady Tra
quair’s reservations could as well have applied to William, who regarded
knowledge and polite sociability as incompatible. In 1769 he told John
Turbeville Needham that he had lived for many years ‘in the Great World,
where manners and le bon Ton are acquired but no knowledge’ and he was
only too aware of the ‘mutual contempt between the scholar and the man of
the world’ that Oliver Goldsmith identified in The Present State of Polite
Learning (1759).63 But in Italy there was space for William to carve out a
new identity, as Goldsmith described: ‘placed in a middle station between
the world and the cell’, he might become in Goldsmith’s words: ‘a man of
taste’.64 In Horace Mann’s eyes William was ‘a very sensible man … a man
of learning and an intimate friend of Lord Granby’, his masculinity resting
on his restrained deportment, self-representation as an intellectual and
excellent connections.65 It seems William, and others who met him in
Europe, did not experience him as constrained by illness, his wealth sweep
ing away practical barriers with servants to carry him up and down stairs,
custom-made wheeled chairs and the constant attendance of his private
doctor. Horace Mann mentioned gout in connection with William only in
the sense of William taking active steps to relieve his condition and made no
reference to him as an invalid, despite William being unwell both before and
after their encounter.66
An intercourse of minds
But if William avoided the very public forum of Edmund Marshall’s
pamphlet war and deliberately constructed a picture of health and resilience
in letters home, he seized a surprising opportunity for disclosure of both
bodily and emotional weakness in his epistolary relationship with Jean-Jac
ques Rousseau, whom he met in Lyon in May 1770. Many travellers sought
an introduction and acquaintances warned William that Rousseau was
unlikely to respond favourably.77 However, a series of brief notes marked
their growing friendship over fifteen days from 12 May, when William
wrote asking permission to visit, to around 27 May, when the Constables
left for Geneva.78 From a tentative request for a single meeting, William
progressed to introducing Winifred, meeting Rousseau’s companion Thérèse
and attending the first production of his melodrama Pygmalion (for which
26 Rachel Feldberg
the philosopher found them tickets and escorted them personally), suggest
ing that Rousseau (who, as his biographer Maurice Cranston identifies, was
suffering from paranoia) found the Constables’ company engaging.79 Five
months later William wrote a heartfelt letter from Florence, disclosing great
distress over his affection for Winifred’s maid, Hannah. It was a startling
trajectory from formal to intimate in the space of just eight exchanges.
However, from 1741 onwards, long before they met in person, William’s
library boasted a number of books by Rousseau, including Émile, his germ
inal work on education, and a 1763 edition of his Oeuvres (with marginalia)
published at the optimum time to have incorporated both the Social Con
tract and Political Economy.80 As William explained, Winifred had also read
several of Rousseau’s major works.81 The Constables had thus been reading
and reflecting on Rousseau’s writing for three decades, and their meeting
offered William a chance to move from his expectation as a reader to his
experience as interlocutor.
From his first approach to Rousseau in a performative letter laced with
flattery and convention, William was uncharacteristically frank about his
illness, perhaps because he chose to use his gout as a form of currency to
explain his presence, citing how ‘an overpowering gout has compelled me
to leave my friends, my retreat and my dearest studies to seek health and
sunshine.’82 The letter introduced William’s ‘retreat’ from the metropolis
to the rural simplicity of the countryside, consciously mirroring Rous
seau’s own rhetoric and underlining William’s familiarity with the cor
rupting influence of society on Man’s innate freedom and goodness so
central to Rousseau’s thinking.83 It put clear water between William and
the idle young men of the Grand Tour and established him as a scholar,
‘compelled’ against his will to leave his books and solitude by illness. Four
years later William used similar rhetoric in a letter of supplication to Lord
Rockingham, seeking to secure his good offices to enable William’s speedy
marriage to Catherine Langdale so they could journey to Bath: ‘The phy
sicians, my Lord! Have ordered me to Bath for a complaint in my stomach
and as soon as possible.’84 These public admissions of helplessness in the
face of illness and the demands of physicians were an effective technique,
which elicited positive results in both instances. Carefully handled, Wil
liam’s ill health was a useful tool to justify and excuse his petitions, while
marking him out as a gentleman and a worthy and submissive recipient of
Rousseau’s favour.
When William eventually met Rousseau face-to-face on or around 14 May
1770, he was captivated. As he wrote to Marmaduke: ‘he seems to me in
Conversation, the simplest & most Candid of men’. He noted with satis
faction Rousseau’s openness to intimacy without pretence or pretension and
embraced the opportunity for intellectual exploration. ‘[I] Conversed with
him with openness upon such subjects as Come home to men’, subjects
which can be reconstructed from their later correspondence as a common
interest in botany and mutual ill health.85 Following William’s opening salvo
Absent bodies? 27
revealing his gout, he wasted no time in recommending possible remedies.
Writing on 16 May to express his sorrow on hearing that Rousseau was ill,
he enclosed ‘the articles on the subject of Arthritis which have attracted the
Doctor in England’, an allusion to Dr Le Fevre’s visit to London taking
place at that very moment, despite the fact that William’s search for curative
practice flew in the face of Rousseau’s aversion to physicians.86 For while
Rousseau posited that a debilitated body had a direct effect on the mind,
draining it of energy, he maintained that pain served a purpose in building a
resilient soul. As he expressed in Émile: ‘I know not … of what malady we
are cured by the physicians, … if they cure the body of pain, they deprive
the soul of fortitude.’ 87 It was a sentiment William echoed in his intro
ductory letter, explaining it was the acquisition of knowledge, gleaned
from volumes in his library by Voltaire and Rousseau himself, which
guided his thinking: ‘The works of the great geniuses … have so often
sustained me in moments of pain and distress … helped me so much in
strengthening my soul against all events.’88 In this performative missive
William emphasised how it was to reading (rather than prayer or divine
intercession) that he turned in moments of physical or mental pain, hoping
to bolster his soul, the source of his resilience. Rousseau’s own remedy
was temperance and exercise rather than physic or physicians, but William
ignored the potential contradiction in his eagerness to proffer advice. In the
process he strengthened his credentials as a man of science, offering Rousseau
a unique gift: valuable first-hand information on the efficacy of Le Fevre’s
treatment.
Their friendship was not, however, simply a matter of convergent inter
est. William saw strands in Rousseau’s thinking that illuminated dilemmas
in his own life. He reflected in a letter to the Morritts that, ‘Conversation
with him was an intercourse of thoughts. But alas! All his Great, his Good,
superior abilities & qualities only render him less fit for this world’s coarse
happyness.’89 While acknowledging the rarefied excitement of their discus
sions (and by implication his own intellectual standing), William identified
the crux of Rousseau’s difficulties: ‘Disinterested & independent, his fail
ings … arise from too tender, too warm a mind, endorsed with too Great a
share of sensibility’.90 William’s concern that Rousseau’s mind was danger
ously close to excess, suggests that he conceptualised an acceptable level of
feeling and recognised an imbalance in himself. He perceived a contradiction
between the stoicism he admired and the sentimentalism he feared he fell
into, but took consolation in his perception of Rousseau as someone with
the ability to accommodate both positions. Rousseau’s works, William
wrote, ‘are published in all shapes. Some leaving out this part, some another
but all agreeing that what remains is Philosophy, Morality, the knowledge
of the human heart superior to any & every writer of the age’.91 Christopher
Brooke argues that Rousseau strove to bring together ‘an extraordinary
synthesis of Epicurean, Augustinian, and Stoic argumentative currents’.92
William held volumes representing all these authorities in his collection,
28 Rachel Feldberg
suggesting he too was attempting to reconcile his sensibility with stoicism
and that Rousseau’s critical negotiation offered reassurance.93
William ‘à la Rousseau’
Meeting Rousseau and winning his approbation had great significance for
William, endorsing and supporting his decision to forsake the polite world,
and his admiration shaped the nature of their correspondence. What began as
courteous flattery became a much more personal engagement. In the dialogic
preface to his hugely popular epistolary novel, Julie, ou La Nouvelle Héloise
(1761), Rousseau’s ‘man of letters’ pointed out that a ‘sensible’ (rather than
over-sensitive) man ‘who should retire with his family into the country and
become his own farmer, might enjoy more rational feeling, than in the midst
of the amusements of a great city’.94 It was a proposal touching on aspects of
stoic simplicity which reinforced William’s own behaviour. Just before he left
for Europe he had foreshadowed similar rhetoric in a letter to John Turbeville
Needham, which might have been drafted with Rousseau in mind. William
explained that after many years in society, ‘I retired to my country Seat’
where, ‘my Employments are Reading and Reflecting … My amusements …
Agriculture, Gardening, Botany’.95 The affinity William felt for Rousseau’s
championing of nature, free-will, self-improvement and feeling in the face of
society’s artificial constraints was encapsulated before he left Lyon, not in a
letter, but rather in a portrait in pastels commissioned from Jean-Etienne
Liotard in May 1770 (Figure 1.1).
Just as William’s letters echoed Rousseau’s rhetoric, Liotard’s portrait
unmistakably mirrors the habitual ‘Armenian’ dress with which, as Maurice
Cranston notes, Rousseau had so excited the crowd when he arrived in
London in 1766.96 Liotard, who was regarded as the best pastellist in
Europe, had spent years in Constantinople and it was not unusual for him
to draw sitters in turbans or long robes.97 William is depicted in a dis
tinctive light blue Armenian style coat with fur trimmings and deep fur hat.
The Scottish artist Allan Ramsay portrayed Rousseau in a similar gown and
hat in a portrait commissioned by David Hume, and it is likely William
heard about the picture long before he encountered Rousseau in Lyon.98 In
an age of printed multiples there was another compelling reason why Wil
liam was almost certainly familiar with Ramsay’s image, or the well-known
engraving by Cathelin (based on a pastel by Maurice Quentin de La Tour)
which also showed Rousseau in a long robe.99 Copies of both likenesses
formed the frontispiece of various versions of the 1764 Esprit, maximes, et
princips de M. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, one of which, carrying his own
bookplate, was listed in William’s library.100 The similarity between the
Cathelin engraving and Liotard’s pastel of William is striking. With this
portrait, William, who two years earlier had bought up the trappings of a
wealthy gout sufferer, now ‘became’ Rousseau, the man of simplicity and
feeling and the object of his admiration.101
Absent bodies? 29
Sensitive hearts
In October 1770 five months after their parting in Lyon, William wrote his
final and most intimate letter to Rousseau. It had a very different tone and
foregrounded his breaking heart rather than swollen limbs. In a long con
fessional narrative, which abandoned much of the formality of their pre
vious correspondence, he wrote from Florence admitting to a confluence of
30 Rachel Feldberg
bodily illness and misery. While William might not have been willing to
detail his bodily experience, the pain in his heart was acknowledged as a
very real source of discomfort: ‘I have been ill my Friend, too, the Great
Heat in Lombardy upset us very much. And I had since a cruel attack of
gout. And another misfortune happen [sic] to me the kind of which sensitive
hearts are exposed.’102 For William, Rousseau’s knowledge of the human
heart was central to his attraction. He was the ideal recipient of writing
which foregrounded sensibility and here, for the only time in his extant
correspondence, William laid bare his feelings (which he envisioned as
located in his heart) convinced that confiding in Rousseau would both win
plaudits and ameliorate his suffering. In a phrase echoing the Jesuit ‘state of
consolation’ in which the subject, turning themselves towards God, experi
ences peace, William admitted, ‘it is a consolation to open my heart and to
open it [to] the Philosopher of Mankind’.103 William may have been emu
lating the emotional rhetoric of The Confessions, which perhaps they dis
cussed in Lyon, since Rousseau was in the midst of completing the
manuscript, but the purpose of confession was familiar to them both.
Rousseau, who espoused religious tolerance, converted to Catholicism at
sixteen and briefly studied for the priesthood before re-joining the Calvinist
Church.104 Similarly, while William may have rejected Catholic rigour, his
experience at Douai appears to have inculcated a deeply embedded Jesuit
practice of ‘retreat’, ‘consolation’ and ‘contemplation’, and habits of scho
larship which remained with him.105 On his deathbed William maintained
he believed ‘nothing’, but his everyday life was immersed in a wide Catholic
network; the siblings attended church in Europe, he maintained a priest and
eventually married a fellow Catholic.106
From the outset, William’s confessional letter mobilised their mutual
bond of ill health, echoing the intimacy forged through the discussion of
ailments within the context of sentimental culture in the letters examined by
Harvey in this volume. He, like Rousseau, had been unwell, and he inferred
they shared a malady of ‘sensitive hearts’ which made them vulnerable to
strong feelings. Hannah, his sister’s servant, for whom he had conceived
great affection, had left under a cloud to marry a footman she had known
for just a few weeks. Hannah was, he explained, ‘a woman of spirit and
feelings above her station, true friend, faithful. Disinterested, dear to my
heart, who was not my mistress because I knew her firmly attached by gra
titude and friendship.’107 The relationship was transgressive, but William
elevated Hannah’s social status by referencing her refined feelings. He char
acterised her as ‘disinterested’, a word he previously employed to describe
Rousseau; ‘faithful’, an epithet harnessed in singing Winifred’s praise; and
his ‘true friend’, bracketing her with Marmaduke, Winifred, John Morritt
and Rousseau himself. He acknowledged he had lavished ‘continual and
assiduous and most tender marks of friendship’ on her, but was at pains to
explain that, unlike many master-servant relationships, he had not seduced
her, and she was not his mistress; their relationship, it appears, had been a
Absent bodies? 31
meeting of minds rather than flesh. Indeed, he seemed eager to demonstrate
108
In acknowledging the strength of his emotions, rather than celebrate his re
incarnation as a man of feeling, William revealed an underlying concern that
his whole self (mind and physical state) has been weakened by the episode.
The body, Rousseau determined in Émile, ‘should be rigorous, to act in
obedience to the mind. The sensual patterns all lodge in effeminate bodies’;
this was what William feared.115 He announced his solution in a paragraph
drafted to meet Rousseau’s approval, which reinstated his physical presence:
My last and only resource in [is?] the contempt of life … I never feel so
Great, so Tall, so above the world … as when absolute master of
myself with Hope and without fear I dare to determine my retreat at
such hour of my convenience.116
Figure 1.2 Anton von Maron, William and Winifred Constable depicted as Marcius
Porcius Cato and his wife Marcia, 1773, oil on canvas.
Leeds Museums and Galleries/The Burton Constable Foundation. Image reproduced
by kind permission of the Burton Constable Foundation.
34 Rachel Feldberg
Destiny … with a Fidelity, Constance and Love which have no example’.122
The strength of their bond is the focus of the piece, their mutual gaze creating
an unexpected performance of sibling affection at the heart of an apparently
stoical image. Under other circumstances this might be regarded as a repre
sentation of barely disguised incest, but by the later eighteenth century, as
Linda W. Rozenstein identifies, strong sibling ties which saw siblings reliant
on each other for lifelong companionship were an increasing phenomenon
and viewed with approbation.123 William’s attachment to Hannah and the
lack of any other corroborating evidence suggests that, rather than any illicit
liaison, this was a determined attempt to replace the image of a man known
to have been disappointed in love with one which manifested an enviably
harmonious relationship with his sister. It was a synthesis of self-command
and feeling precipitated by William’s encounter and correspondence with
Rousseau.
Conclusion
Despite its apparent epistolary absence, William’s gout, his fragile body and
his anxiety over its representation dominated the Constable’s trip to Europe.
Omnipresent in Winifred’s ‘Daily Record’, it was also reflected in the form
and tone, if not the text, of her brother’s letters, which acted as a palimpsest
simultaneously revealing and concealing his corporeal presence. However, it
was not William’s bodily symptoms but emotional distress which he
believed threatened to overwhelm him and his expression of embodiment in
his letters home was shaped by concerns relating to this and his masculinity.
He oscillated between self-controlled stoical acceptance and a fear of over
whelming sensibility. He constantly renegotiated his image: at one moment
the man of feeling inhabiting Rousseau’s Armenian costume and then, fol
lowing his tangle with hurtful emotion, a redoubtable soldier and man of
principle masquerading in Roman dress. The siblings’ travels afforded Wil
liam the opportunity to explore new and different identities, both through
his correspondence, which by omission created an alternative active other,
and his portraits, which allowed him to occupy the aspirational roles he
gestured towards in his letters. Thus in the course of their journey he
became by turn active connoisseur, recovering patient, incorruptible stoic,
husband, Rousseau himself and a simple scholar.
Winifred’s clinical recording and scrupulous documentation obviated any
need for William to pay detailed attention to his symptoms or include them
in his correspondence. Instead, feeling that his gout was ‘in cure’, he focus
sed on a search for knowledge and self-improvement, omitting all mention
of the days he spent confined to his bedchamber. Reassured by Rousseau’s
ability to reconcile feeling and self-command, William drew on the agency
of his correspondence and the visual images he had commissioned to re
fashion himself as a ‘man of learning’ and taste, and returned from Europe
intent on becoming ‘absolute master’ of himself.124
Absent bodies? 35
Notes
1 East Riding Records Office (ERRO): DDCC/150/274, Winifred Constable,
‘Daily Record of Illness of ‘My Brother”’, 22 Nov 1769.
2 Suzanne Moss, ‘Cultivating Curiosities: Plants as Collections in the Eighteenth-
century’ (unpublished PhD Thesis, University of York, Dec 2018), 63.
3 ERRO: DDCC/150/274, Constable, ‘Daily Record’.
4 See, for example, Roy Porter, Patients and Practitioners (Cambridge: Cam
bridge University Press, 2009); Dorothy Porter and Roy Porter, Patient’s Pro
gress: Doctors and Doctoring in Eighteenth-century England (Oxford: Polity,
1989); Michael Stolberg, Experiencing Illness and the Sick Body in Early
Modern Europe (Basingstoke: Springer, 2011); James T. Boulton and T. O.
McLoughlin, News from Abroad: Letters Written by British Travellers on the
Grand Tour, 1728–71 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2012). I am
indebted to Sarah Goldsmith for allowing me access to her unpublished thesis,
‘Danger, Risk-taking and Masculinity on the British Grand Tour to the
European Continent c. 1730–1780’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of
York, September 2015).
5 Richard Bates, ‘The Petit Tour to Spa, 1763–1787’, in Rosemary Sweet,
Gerrit Verhoeven and Sarah Goldsmith (eds), Beyond the Grand Tour
Northern Metropolises and Early Modern Travel Behaviour (London: Rou
tledge, 2013), 127–146. See also Brian Dolan on women travelling for their
health in Ladies of the Grand Tour (London: HarperCollins, 2001), 129–
161; Jeremy Black, The British Abroad: The Grand Tour in the Eighteenth
Century (Stroud: History Press, 2018), 193–197; and Rosemary Sweet, Cities
and the Grand Tour, The British in Italy c.1690–1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2012).
6 For their itinerary see ERRO: DDCC/150/274, Constable, ‘Daily Record’;
ERRO: DDCC/153/20A/10, Travel Accounts, Nov 1769–Jun 1771.
7 See Karen Harvey, ‘Epochs of Embodiment: Men, Women and the Material
Body’, Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies, 42:4 (2019), 455–469, 458, 465,
466; Alexandra Shepard, ‘Gender, the Body and Sexuality’, in Keith Wrightson
(ed.), A Social History of England, 1500–1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni
versity Press, 2017), 330.
8 Stolberg, Experiencing Illness, 16.
9 William Constable by Jean-Etienne Liotard (1702–1789) Lyon, May 1770. The
Burton Constable Foundation (BCF); Portrait of William and Winifred Con
stable depicted as Marcius Porcius Cato and his wife Marcia (1773) by Anton
Maron (1733–1808). Leeds Museums and Galleries/BCF.
10 ERRO: DDCC/145/5, John Johnston to William Constable, 28 Apr 1766.
11 Roy Porter and G. S. Rousseau, Gout: The Patrician Malady (New Haven, CT:
Yale University Press, 2000), 49.
12 Horace Mann to Horace Walpole, 27 Oct 1770, The Yale Edition of Horace
Walpole’s Correspondence, Vol. 23: Horace Walpole’s Correspondence with
Sir Horace Mann, ed. W. S. Lewis, Warren Hunting Smith, George L. Lam and
Edwine M. Martz (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967), 244.
13 Stolberg, Experiencing Illness, 17.
14 ERRO: DDCC/2/52, John Dunn to John Raines, 9 Jun 1768. For a discussion
of ‘gouty chairs’ designed for gout sufferers, some with mechanised wheels see
David M. Turner, Disability in Eighteenth-Century England: Imagining Physi
cal Impairment (New York: Routledge, 2012), 109.
15 ERRO: DDCC/2/77, Invoice from Thomas Chippendale 15 Dec 1768.
16 Porter and Rousseau, The Patrician Malady, 50.
17 Ibid., 52, 53.
36 Rachel Feldberg
18 Leo Gooch, ‘“The Religion for a Gentleman”: The Northern Catholic Gentry
in the Eighteenth-century’, Recusant History, 23:04 (1997), 554.
19 Alexander Lock, Catholicism, Identity and Politics in the Age of Enlight
enment: The Life and Career of Sir Thomas Gascoigne, 1745–1810 (Suffolk:
Boydell & Brewer, 2016), 42–43; Jeffrey D. Burson, ‘Introduction: The Culture
of Jesuit Erudition in an Age of Enlightenment’, Journal of Jesuit Studies 6:3
(2019), 405.
20 Gooch, ‘Religion’, 554.
21 Ibid., 560. List of Fellows of the Royal Society, 1660–2019, The Royal Society,
Feb 2020.
22 Kathy J. Wilson, ‘“Training Them Up in Simplicity and Piety”: Catholic
Female Education at the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Diocese of York,
1760–1870’, (unpublished lecture, American Catholic History Association
Annual Meeting, University of Iowa, 2006), 1.
23 Gooch, ‘Religion’, 553; J. A. R. Bickford, ‘The Constables of Burton Constable
1737–1821’, East Yorkshire Histories, 2, 2001, 8.
24 ERRO: DDCC/150/274, Constable, ‘Daily Record’, 28 Dec 1768; Gooch,
‘Religion’, 560.
25 Edward Shorter, ‘Primary Care’, in Roy Porter (ed.), The Cambridge History
of Medicine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 107.
26 Porter and Rousseau, Patrician Malady, 38.
27 Shorter, ‘Primary Care’, 38.
28 Porter and Porter, Patient’s Progress, 74.
29 Francis Clifton, The State of Physick Ancient and Modern Briefly consider’d
with a Plan for the Improvement of it (London: John Nourse, 1732), 175.
30 Lewis et al. (eds), Walpole’s Correspondence, 244; ERRO: DDCC/153/20A/10,
Contract binding John Johnston to accompany William Constable to Foreign
Parts and act as his apothecary and surgeon, 8 Nov 1769.
31 Edmund Marshall, A Candid And Impartial State Of The Evidence Of A Very
Great Probability, That There Is Discovered By Monsieur Le Fevre, A Regular
Physician, Residing And Practising At Liege In Germany, A Specific For The
Gout (Canterbury, 1770).
32 See positive coverage in the London Magazine or Gentleman’s Monthly
Intelligencer, vol. 40 (London, 1771), 322, and searing criticism in The
Critical Review, Or, Annals of Literature, vol. 31 (London: A. Hamilton,
1771), 398.
33 For treatment start date see ERRO: DDCC/150/274, Constable, ‘Daily Record’,
11 Dec 1770.
34 Marshall, Candid, 17, 18; also Mann’s record of his conversation with William
in Naples: Lewis et al. (eds), Walpole’s Correspondence, 244. Le Fevre kept his
recipe secret, but I suggest Colchicum (Autumn Crocus), a potent gout remedy
employed by the Greeks, which Professor Baron Von Stoerk re-introduced to
Austria in 1763 where, tellingly, Le Fevre was practicing. Colchine remains in
clinical use, with a positive long-term prognosis. It is fatal in large doses, hence
the need for a pause between treatments. In the twenty-first century 12 � 5ml
doses, followed by 3 days respite, is the standard prescription. See www.medi
cines.org.uk/emc/product/6415/smpc.
35 Marshall, Candid, 18, 27.
72 Ibid., 65.
youthful body
Sarah Goldsmith
I don’t doubt but Charles will take a very high Polish, if I may judge
from the extreme difficulty of bringing on what we have at present. This
circumstance however far from dispiriting rather animates me as I am
persuaded that as soon as the Roughness are worked off we shall dis
cover a very fine water.26
Stevenson’s ‘diamond in the rough’ analogy affirms that wildness and rebel
lion were accepted as a natural part of this life stage that would eventually
pass.27 This was not complacency: the Tour was meant to ensure a positive
end to these inevitable changes. Thus, as Tourists neared their twenties, they
were increasingly pressured to outgrow behaviours tolerated during adoles
cence. When Herbert was seventeen, his father, the 10th earl of Pembroke
hoped ‘that, now he is of a certain age, a certain Parresse or Faineantise, &
all Sulks, or Ill humoured obstinacy have entirely left him. When a boy, he
was, now, & then, attacked by these formidable foes.’28 By the time Herbert
was 19, Pembroke insisted to him:
that you are pleased to be comical as to what you say about your
temper, & humour. You would be a melancholy, terrible creature
indeed, if, at your age, the sight, or manner of this, of that, or t’other
was to affect yr Lordship’s humour. & temper.29
44 Sarah Goldsmith
Sulks and temper tantrums aside, younger Tourists simply lacked life
experience. Dartmouth refused to let a seventeen-year-old Charles and
friend travel home alone from Vienna: ‘two boys by themselves’ would
‘unavoidably run into’ ‘absurdities & little acts of Etourderie [foolish
ness]’.30 Flattering a twenty-one-year-old Lewisham’s recent status as a legal
adult, Dartmouth explained that he and Stevenson must go too, as the boys
needed ‘the assistance of some person of more experience than themselves’.31
Comparing Charles and William to Lewisham reveals the subtle transition
between adolescence and youth. Lewisham began his Grand Tour in July
1775, aged nineteen, and remained capable of boyishness. Stevenson
exclaimed in a letter from Amsterdam: ‘The Boys [Lewisham, twenty;
Charles, seventeen], in whose Company I write this, are so very healthy &
riotous, that your Lordship will excuse me if I hardly know what I write.’32
Nevertheless, Lewisham’s parents and tutor were inclined to see him as a
mature, well-behaved youth. Significantly, Dartmouth insisted that Ste
venson was Lewisham’s ‘Friend & companion’, and not that ‘obnoxious
word Gouverneur’.33
Herbert’s evolving relationship with his tutors similarly demonstrates
how age affected the categorisation of companion and governor. Herbert
started his Tour at sixteen clearly accompanied by two governors, Coxe and
Captain John Floyd. Both departed early, so his father arranged for Major
Jean de Seigneux to accompany him through France. Pembroke reassured a
reluctant nineteen-year-old Herbert that Seigneux was not another governor
but rather ‘a friend, & travelling companion’.34 In letters to Floyd and
Coxe, he further explained, ‘At the age of discretion, at which he is arrived,
he can want no Governor’, as ‘He is too old, too much of a Man … & I
hope stands in no need of any’.35 In practice, these older men often held
authority over finances, route and education, but the designation of ‘com
panion’ enabled youths to assume a semblance of independence.36
Each year, the Dartmouths sent love and prayers to mark Lewisham’s
birthday (3 October).37 Letters written for his twenty-first, however, sharply
focused on adulthood. The attainment of twenty-one marked the legal end
of infancy and of a guardian’s power.38 Dartmouth acknowledged that this
landmark was significant but approximate and even nebulous:
I wonder how you feel upon your arrival at that period, whch the Laws
have determined to be years of discretion. I believe the period is not inju
diciously fixed upon, as a reasonable medium of the years at wch men may
fairly be judged to be possed of that discretion wch they have affixed to it:
to some I believe, it comes sooner, to others not quite so soon; here &
there one perhaps never has the good fortune to lay hold of it at all.39
Responding to this prompt, Lewisham echoed the idea that ‘age’ was deter
mined by more than years, noting that despite ‘being arrived at years of
discretion’, his feelings ‘are so very similar to those I experienced before I
Imagining youth 45
reached that period, that I can hardly persuade myself that it is an Epoch in
the course of my life’.40 Nevertheless, he was moved to ‘reflect a little upon
future plans’: after travelling to Italy and Switzerland, he intended to marry,
become an MP and fulfil his ‘duty in the situation which I shall be placed’.41
Like Dartmouth and Lewisham, Pembroke also began to meditate on
Herbert’s adulthood as he approached twenty-one:
You will be a Parliament man by the time ye return, & soon after
married, I hope, to some Miss, as beautiful as ye please, & as rich as
Croesus. Rub up then, your eloquence, & your vigour, ready primed for
landing upon British ground.42
Despite this pleasing vision of his heir taking society and the marriage mart
by storm, Pembroke was determined that Herbert should not return ‘till you
are nearly of age’.43 Having begun travelling at sixteen, an increasingly dis
gruntled Herbert had an unusually long wait, but other Tourists also
became impatient as twenty-one loomed. After his twenty-first birthday,
George Bussey Villiers, heir to the earl of Jersey, deliberately played on his
departure from schoolboy status, proclaiming, ‘I shall get a notched Stick, as
Boys do at school before the holidays’ to count down the days.44
Turning twenty-one evidently was a significant milestone: 50 per cent of sam
pled Tourists returned home just prior to, or during, their twenty-first year,
whereas only 10 per cent returned before. Yet, in keeping with the idea that
youth was a long life-stage, 40 per cent of sampled Tourists travelled into their
mid- and late-twenties.45 Age was not just about chronological years and entry
into adulthood, in particular, was far more complex than attaining one’s major
ity: marriage, parenthood, management of a household or business, financial and
political independence were all important factors.46 As the vast majority of
Tourists did not fulfil these criteria, they returned as youths, positioned to take
on responsibilities that would eventually complete the transition. This was
accomplished with varying degrees of promptness: of the sampled Tourists who
became MPs, 18.6 per cent had parliamentary seats waiting and 72 per cent
procured one within six years of returning;47 68 per cent married within a decade
of arriving home and, of these, 22 per cent married within one year of their
return, and a further 14 per cent within two.48 Even then, adulthood was
not just conferred by life events, but by possessing maturity, judgement and
an ‘accumulation of experience’.49
A man could therefore be legally mature at twenty-one, but still con
sidered a youth throughout his twenties. In 1737, while Thomas Pelham,
later 1st Earl of Chichester, was still a child, his father died young. Upon
turning twenty-one in 1749, Pelham received his full inheritance, becoming
head of a junior branch of the Pelham family. His decision to extend his
Tour into his twenty-second year was therefore met with disapproval. In
1750, Captain James Pelham wrote, ‘I am order’d by the Duke of Newcastle
and Mr Pelham to press your coming Home’.50 Simultaneously chastising
46 Sarah Goldsmith
him for youthful immaturities and evading adult responsibilities, the senior
Pelham-Holles evidently expected obedience from what was clearly still a
junior family member.
Lewisham also kept travelling, eventually returning in 1779 aged twenty-
three. On his twenty-second birthday, he reflected ‘the day reminds me I am
growing exceedingly old – the days of dissipation & idleness are now verging to
their end – a seat in Parliament to begin those of business with would be no
unsatisfactory thing’.51 Nevertheless, with no wife, inheritance or seat, there
was no immediate pressure to return and, despite his legal independence,
Lewisham very much remained his parents’ ‘great child beyond the Alps’.52
Stevenson guided him, his father financially supported him, and he typically
followed Dartmouth’s ‘advice’ without protest.53 It is curious, then, that his
parents felt it imperative to immediately position themselves as friends, rather
than authority figures, on his twenty-first birthday.54 Dartmouth wrote:
This desire was present in his decision to remind, rather than order, Lewisham to
escort Charles home and to watch his expenditure. Lewisham was encouraged to
remember his family’s immediate needs, as three younger sons at Oxford made
‘considerable calls’ on Dartmouth’s ‘annual Revenue’, and to think of his future
inheritance. His father claimed: ‘I should not like to be obliged to lessen that
Revenue for your sake’ or be ‘a bad steward for you’.56 This approach was
symptomatic of what Henry French and Mark Rothery have identified as a
‘partially articulated impulse’ to develop ‘an independent, active masculinity’ in
sons, while encouraging them to ‘internalize approved values’.57 By writing as if
there had been an alteration in power between them, Dartmouth sought to
recognise Lewisham’s departure from adolescence, and to encourage adult-like
behaviour. Such epistolary exchanges demonstrate how parents deliberately used
correspondence to mark out transitions between life stages. Instructions, orders,
chastisements and subtle alterations in tone were employed to encourage sons to
reflect on their changing status and responsibilities in their replies.
My Dear George, Are you really at Ostend? Est-il possible? & I shall
see your face again? I really cannot write about it, for I feel ready to cry
but thinking of it, but perhaps you are grown a violent looking creature
& I shall hardly know you, & not know how to behave to you. O! my
dear George good bye God bless you, & give you a fair & good wind &
no sickness yrs. Affectionately. Eliz: Pem:72
Berlin 3 o’clock. I must make great haste to save the Post therefore can
say but little about Charles but that little all good. He is very Tall, very
strong & very healthy – and if they Tell Truth very good in every
respect. I have hardly had time to look him over, and having so much to
say to him, I have as yet said very little … I think Charles a very plea
sant well looking young man. I shall in my next give you a more accu
rate description of him, you must be satisfied now in hearing that he is
well.74
I wrote to you the day I arrive here (the 3rd) I had not time to say much
about Charles at that time you will I suppose expect from account of
him now. I shall begin with his person – he measures 5 ft 10 inches.
straight and well made. Broad over the Breast. His Shoulders flat when
he holds up his head. His hands like two Shoulders of Mutton his legs
rather slender for his size his Thighs & legs rather long but not much.
His head well placed. His face not changed in the least his voice much
changed as it appeard to me at first, I cannot say I now think I perceive
much alteration75
Figure 2.1 Lord Henry Spencer, Charles, the Earl of Dalkeith, 1792, ink sketch on
paper, included in Henry Scott, 3rd Duke of Buccleuch’s 3 July 1792 letter
to Elizabeth, Duchess of Buccleuch.
The Buccleuch Archive. Image reproduce by kind permission of the Duke of Buc
cleuch and Queensberry KT, and Dr Emma Purcell.
These accounts of real and imagined bodies offer insights into the desired
physical qualities for elite young men. Evidently, size was valued in a
manner that went beyond height to incorporate broad shoulders, deep
chests, muscular strength and a latent capacity for dominance and violence.
Lady Pembroke anticipated a ‘violent looking creature’ for a son, while Price
mischievously delighted in his ‘great dirty’ appearance. Buccleuch was
unintimidated by Dalkeith’s broad chest and mutton-like large hands, but
likewise described a rough, powerful physique closer to the Farnese Hercules
than the lithely elegant Apollo Belvedere and the polite bodily ideals often
associated with elite men and the Tour.
Academy-based exercises enabled Tourists to undertake the intensive
bodily cultivation necessary to achieving the polite body.79 This was not
straightforward: these were designed to form a military body, not just a
polite one, while polite bodies could easily become effeminate. Society’s
horrified mockery of this possibility was prominent. In 1743, the fourth part
of Alexander Pope’s The Dunciad featured the returning ‘gay’, ‘embroider’d’
and ‘tittering’ Tourist.80 James Burgh warned that a failed Tourist ‘brings
back with him a laced coat, a spoilt constitution, a gibberish of broken French
and Italian, and an awkward imitation of foreign gestures’.81 Parents, tutors and
Tourists shared these hopes and fears. During their time in France, Stevenson
proudly related how, ‘I have aimed at Distinction in [Lewisham’s] Dress with
out being remarkable or Ridiculous’, and Lewisham boasted, ‘you will certainly
be much surprised if you find me in the Spring as unlicked a Cub as when I left
52 Sarah Goldsmith
England’.82 Dartmouth’s retort confirms that these improvements were about
polite refinement: ‘on the contrary, I fully expect to see you very upright in your
figure, without thrusting out your rump behind, or your chin before, very easy
& gracious in yr motions, very polite & engaging in your manners’.83 Tourists
also playfully engaged with the ‘embroider’d’, ‘tittering’ stereotype. In 1766,
John Holroyd observed that his friends ‘reasonably shou’d expect some Tinsel’
upon his return, and ‘some Airs least it shou’d be maliciously observed that I
have gained nothing by the Grand Tour’.84
These fears and desires primarily focused on dress, mannerisms and move
ment: aspects of a body’s performance that are distinct from expectations about
a body’s material qualities. In correlating desires for a polite bodily performance
with a desire for slender body types, scholars have often overlooked this. The
ideal eighteenth-century male body is typically identified as the classical Ephebes
and Apollo Belvedere, whose ‘young, slim athleticism’ incorporated polite traits
like gracefulness, poise and agility. The heftier Herculean form is thought to have
only become a popular ideal at the end of the century.85 This accounts for Buc
cleuch’s 1790s descriptions, but Lady Pembroke’s imagining and Price’s pride in
the 1770s and 1740s occur too early for this shift.
Yet young men and their families clearly desired the Apollo body too and
had no issue with combining elements of both. Buccleuch, for example, appre
ciatively described Dalkeith’s ‘rather long’, ‘rather slender’ legs.86 Showcased in
stockings and breeches, the leg was, as Karen Harvey has explored, a symbol of
male power, virility and beauty.87 Dalkeith’s legs were further celebrated in
Lord Spencer’s sketch. Buccleuch included this sketch in order to echo his
words and make Dalkeith’s body even more tangible to his mother (Figure 2.1).
Alongside a boxy, powerful torso, it devoted attention to Dalkeith’s ludicrously
elongated legs, encased in fashionable ‘Hugger Breeches’ and shaded to
emphasis thighs and calves. Over twenty years earlier in 1768, a nineteen-year
old William Robert Fitzgerald, Lord Kildare, boasted about achieving a similar
mix of power and grace in Turin:
From at least the 1740s, therefore, elite society happily admired and com
bined aspects of the powerful, intimidating Herculean physique with the
Apollo ideal and a gracefully elegant presentation.?
[I] take my leave of you till I see your sweet broad face again. I think I
have never been told, whether I am to find it broader or narrower than
when I saw it last: I don’t much care provided it cover the same upright
mind, that has sometimes peeped thro’ it.92
Despite this, Dartmouth and elite society clearly did attach importance to
male attractiveness, even celebrating seemingly feminine qualities. For
example, the Dartmouths were proud of their sons’ complexions. Lewi
sham’s ‘Roses & Lilies in full Bloom’ was central to his ‘upward Good
Looks’, and so good that he could ‘furnish’ the whole family ‘without
Detrement to the Original Stock’.93 This praise was identical to compli
ments paid to young women. In 1764, for example, George Lucy wrote of
Sir Woolstan Dixie’s fourteen-year-old daughter’s countenance, ‘surely never
did the lily and the rose ever so happily meet’.94 Preserving the male Legge
complexion was important. Stevenson felt that ‘[a seventeen-year-old
Charles’] Colour may stand in Need of bleaching’ as he recovered from
jaundice and that Lewisham would be ‘very Clear & handsome’ after a
Swiss summer left him ‘the Colour of the best old Jamaica Mahogany’.95
This final example, however, shows a surprising tolerance for tanned skin
comparable to the dark wood that hailed from the Caribbean plantations
and perhaps even hints at a comparison to the darker tones of enslaved
people. Such comparisons and transformations, however, were evidently
only permissible if the effects were reversible.
Tallness was a desirable trait. Benefiting from regular nutrition through
out their lives, aristocratic and gentry men grew faster and taller than their
less-nourished peers. Elite fashions capitalised on this by elongating a ‘tall’
body shape, through heels, fitted suits, and carefully cultivated postures and
gesture.96 This physical feature was a point of pride when describing sons.
In 1775, Lady Dartmouth described sixteen-year-old Charles as a ‘rogue’
who ‘has continued to grow ever since you saw him; his height is now 5.
Feet. 9. Inches, he is just as tall as Mr Stillingfleet’.97 In 1777, after his return
from travelling, the eighteen-year-old army officer had enjoy ‘holidays with
us, & is gone back fairly taller than his father.’98 Pembroke invested Her
bert’s ‘long body’ with a degree of sexual attractiveness, informing him that
he would return to a ‘grand room’ and that he had ‘enlarged a bed big
enough to hold you, & a rich wife too’.99
54 Sarah Goldsmith
At sixteen, Herbert and Charles measured 5ft 7 7/8ins and 5ft 9ins
respectively (according to his father’s records), and presumably continued to
grow.100 Twenty-year-old Dalkeith, whom his father breathlessly described
as ‘very tall’, measured 5ft 10ins. At 5ft 4ins, Villiers was demonstrably
shorter than his peers and regarded this as problematic. In 1754, he wrote to
his mother from Leipzig:
I assure you that in point of eating I cut no figure at all whilst I was
there, it is astonishing how I was eclipsed, tout le monde s’est bien
gourmand [everyone is very greedy]114
I know you must however expect to find him much reduced by the
Maigre Days, which we have been obliged to observe in this Country …
on the contrary, I think he will return with all his Anbonpoints [sic]
better distributed perhaps, than when he left England … If I deliver him
into yours & Lady Dartmouths Hands as well as he is at this moment I
defy you to reproach me with the outward Man.116
Figure 2.2 Pompeo Batoni, George Legge, Viscount Lewisham, 1778, oil on canvas
127 cm � 100 cm (P000048).
Madrid, Museo Nacional del Prado. © Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del
Prado.
Windsor, 5th Earl of Plymouth – that ‘fine Fat, round English Lord. Loves
Eat’ – as unapologetically round.119 Nevertheless, Batoni’s depiction of
Lewisham’s double chin and soft belly rucking up his white waistcoat,
alongside Stevenson’s letters, indicate that he returned with a figure that
Imagining youth 57
would not disgust, but also probably not impress, his family. A letter also
survives from a social equal who was therefore untrammelled by considera
tions of patronage. In February 1778, Sir William Hamilton, Special Envoy
to the Kingdom of Naples, met Lewisham and immediately set about ful
filling one of his duties as ambassador: hosting, advising and critically
observing Grand Tourists.120 This duty included writing letters on their
progress to parents and other interested parties. These described social
graces, intellect and character but also remarked, sometimes brutally, on
bodies, too. Asserting to Dartmouth that ‘I will defer telling you exactly
what I think of Ld Lewisham till I have seen more of him’. Hamilton
nevertheless noted, ‘as yet I cannot find the least fault in him except that his
outside is a little too fat’.121
Such frank commentary indicates that male appearances were a topic for
open discussion. The fact that Hamilton prioritised reporting on Lewi
sham’s body as part of his official duties also speaks clearly to the body’s
importance in a young elite man’s overall development. Finally, it is sig
nificant that Hamilton’s immediate first impression – emphasised by
emphatic underlining – was directly related to physical shortcomings. This
reaffirms that Lewisham’s weight strayed towards the edges of what was
acceptable or pleasing, but must also be placed alongside another commen
tary repeatedly voiced in Hamilton, Stevenson and his parents’ letters: that
Lewisham’s morals, manners and behaviour were impeccable. While Lewi
sham’s body was being moralised, his morality, it seems, trumped a less
than perfect body. Ultimately, chubbiness did not seriously affect Lewi
sham’s standing within elite society and entry into adulthood. Nevertheless,
the lingering unease and the efforts required in corresponding over this issue
should not be lightly discarded when considering the body’s place in eight
eenth-century elite masculinity.
Conclusion
Eighteenth-century Grand Tour correspondence was rife with instances of
materiality and embodiment that have not been explored here. In keeping
with themes identified elsewhere in this collection, Tourists and families
fretted about health and sought to transmit bodily interactions through
paper kisses, blushes and embraces. Scrawled handwriting was con
textualised against illness or writing on the move. Additional hands
appeared as companions inserted messages. This chapter, however, focuses
on how this correspondence offers a unique insight into the relationship
between elite letters and the body of two particular life stages: adolescence
and youth. Examining letters in conjunction with chronological age reveals a
clear trajectory in which young men started travelling as adolescents but
returned as youths. Parents, tutors and sons deliberately used their episto
lary exchanges to mark moments of transition between these life stages, and
to trace and represent the physical developments taking place.
58 Sarah Goldsmith
The transition from adolescence to youth to adulthood encompassed
numerous changes to legal status, social role, temperament, and intelligence,
but Tour correspondents evinced an enduring interest in the emerging mas
culine body as defined by height, weight, voice and strength. This emphasis,
as opposed to the focus typical of medical discourses on pubescent changes
to sexual organs and pubic hair, indicates that their interest lay in the
youthful, rather than adolescent, form. As Pembroke’s use of the phrase
belle jeunesse indicates, concepts of youth and beauty were closely related.
Youth was defined as a process of maturation, an ‘act of ripening’ that
would result in ‘completion’ ‘perfected by time’.122 The Tour was, likewise,
perceived as a period of potential from which a matured, and much anticipated,
form would appear.
Letters played a critical role in managing the challenging effects of the
waiting period by offering a written space in which the numerous physical
changes explicitly associated with the maturation process could be traced,
imagined, and managed. For parents in particular, letters enabled them to
voice hopes, fears, and expectations for their children’s physical forms.
Tutors and sons used their letters to fulfil other goals. As the recipients of
the triple blessing of youth, manhood and noble rank, Tourists were evidently
expected to be physically attractive. Yet the vexing reality was that most bodies
did not meet this ideal. Letters were therefore an important tool that helped
sons and tutors meet and manage parental expectations. As such, Grand Tour
correspondence gives evidence of how physical attractiveness played a limited
but persistently present and disquieting role as young elite men stood on the
threshold of adulthood.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to my fellow editors and Dr Richard Ansell for their
thoughtful and perceptive comments, and to the Leverhulme Trust, whose Early
Career Research Fellowship funded the research and writing of this chapter.
Notes
1 See Sarah Goldsmith, Masculinity and Danger on the Eighteenth-Century
Grand Tour (London: University of London Press, 2020), 2–3 for literature on
the Tour as a form of initiation.
2 Helen Yallop, Age and Identity in Eighteenth-Century England (Abingdon:
Routledge, 2015), 24–27.
3 Rachel Butler, ‘Hidden Mysteries and Open Secrets: Negotiating Age in
Seventeenth-and Eighteenth-Century Culture’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Cardiff
University, 2014), 29–40, 75–80, 85–91; Yallop, Age and Identity, 43, 54; Ilana
Krausman Ben-Amos, Adolescence and Youth in Early Modern England (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994), 11.
4 See Katherine Gustafson’s critique in ‘Life Stage Studies and the Eighteenth
Century: Reading Age in Literature’, Literature Compass, 11:8 (2014), 528–30,
532.
Imagining youth 59
5 Ben-Amos, Adolescence, 8–9.
6 Sarah Toulalan, ‘“Unripe” Bodies: Children and Sex in Early Modern England’,
in K. Fisher and Toulalan (eds), Bodies, Sex and Desire from the Renaissance
to the Present: Genders and Sexualities in History (London: Palgrave Macmil
lan, 2011), 133.
7 Toulalan, ‘“Unripe” Bodies’, 135–8; Butler, ‘Hidden Mysteries’, ch. 5.
8 Joannes Groeneveld, The Grounds of Physick… (London, 1715), 20; Society of
Gentlemen, A New and Complete Dictionary of Arts and Sciences (London,
1754), Vol. 1., 48; ‘Adolescence’, ‘Adolescency’, ‘Pubescent’, in Samuel John
son, A Dictionary of the English Language (London, 1755–56), Vol.1.; Henry
St. John Neale, Practical Essays and Remarks on that Species of Consumption
Incident to Youth…(London, 1800), 3; Anon, The Age of Man, Displayed in
Ten Different Stages of Life. (London, [1750]); Anon, The Age and Life of
Man; or a Short Description of his Nature, Rise and Fall, according to the
Twelve Months of the Year… (Newcastle upon Tyne, [1750]).
9 Neale, Practical essays, 31.
10 See Rachel Feldberg, Chapter 1, this volume, for an exploration of how travel
undertaken by older men and women also give insight into their physical
bodies.
11 Henry French and Mark Rothery, ‘“Upon your entry into the world”: mascu
line values and the threshold of adulthood among landed elites in England
1680–1800’, Social History, 33:4 (2008), 401.
12 See Goldsmith, Masculinity and Danger, chs 3–4.
13 Ben-Amos, Adolescence, 2.
14 See, for example, French and Rothery, Man’s Estate: Landed Gentry Masculi
nities 1660–1900 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), chs 1–3; Peter
Borsay, ‘Children, Adolescents and Fashionable Urban Society in Eighteenth-
Century England’, in Anja Müller (ed.), Fashioning Childhood in the Eight
eenth Century (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 57–58; Heather Ellis, ‘Foppish
Masculinity, Generational Identity and the University Authorities in Eight
eenth-Century Oxbridge’, Cultural and Social History, 11:3 (2014): 367–384;
Michéle Cohen, Fashioning Masculinity: National Identity and Language in the
Eighteenth Century (London: Routledge, 1996), 52–53; Goldsmith, ‘Nostalgia,
homesickness and emotional formation on the eighteenth-century Grand Tour’,
Cultural and Social History, xv (2018), 333–360; Leanne Calvert, ‘“What a
Wonderful Change Have I Undergone … So Altered in Stature, Knowledge &
Ideas!”: Apprenticeship, Adolescence and Growing Up in Eighteenth- and
Nineteenth-Century Ulster’, Irish Economic and Social History, 45 (2018): 70–
89.
15 See Karen Downing, ‘The Gentleman Boxer: Boxing, Manners, and Masculi
nity in Eighteenth-Century England’, Men and Masculinities, 12.3 (2010): 328–
352; Karen Harvey, ‘Men of Parts: Masculine Embodiment and the Male Leg in
Eighteenth-Century England’, Journal of British Studies, 54:4 (2015): 797–821;
Joanne Begiato, ‘Between Poise and Power: Embodied Manliness in Eighteenth-
and Nineteenth-Century British Culture’, Transactions of the Royal Historical
Society, 26 (2016): 125–147; Goldsmith, ‘Making the Body Beautiful’, in Karen
Harvey (ed.), A Cultural History of Beauty in the Age of Enlightenment (1700–
1800) (London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming); Alun Withey, Concerning Beards:
Facial Hair, Health and Practice in England, 1650–1900 (London: Bloomsbury,
2021). My sincere thanks to Alun for sharing this before publication.
16 Sample from John Ingamell, A Dictionary of British and Irish Travellers in
Italy, 1701–1800 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997).
17 John Locke, Some Thoughts Concerning Education (London, 1693), 253.
18 Locke, Education, 254–255.
60 Sarah Goldsmith
19 Ben-Amos, Adolescence, 11–12, 17.
20 See for example Alexandra Shepard, Meanings of Manhood in Early Modern
England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 93–113 and Ellis, ‘Foppish
Masculinity’, 367–384.
21 Ben-Amos, Adolescence, 30; Borsay, ‘Urban Society’, 54–59; Anna-Christina
Giovanopoulos, ‘The Legal Status of Children in Eighteenth-century England’,
in Müller, Fashioning Childhood, 46–48.
22 Giovanopoulos, ‘Legal Status’, 50.
23 Wiltshire and Swindon History Centre (hereafter WSHC) MS. 2057/F4/27, Rev.
William Coxe, Strasbourg, to Elizabeth Herbert, Lady Pembroke; 17 Mar 1776,
Coxe, Strasbourg, to Lady Pembroke, 7 Mar 1776.
24 Staffordshire Record Office (hereafter SRO), D(W)1778/V/885, David Ste
venson, Paris, to William Legge, 2nd Earl of Dartmouth, 11 Dec 1775.
25 SRO, D(W)1778/V/885, Stevenson, Brussels, to Dartmouth; [n.d.] Stevenson,
[no location], to Dartmouth, 8 June 1776.
26 SRO, D(W)1778/V/885, Stevenson, Berlin, to Dartmouth, 18 Aug 1776.
27 Ben-Amos, Adolescence, 18.
28 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/27, Henry Herbert, 10th Earl of Pembroke, Wilton House,
to Coxe, 28 Mar 1777.
29 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/29, Pembroke, Stony Stratford, to George Herbert, later
11th Earl of Pembroke, 21 June 1779.
30 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, Sandwell, to George Legge, Viscount
Lewisham, 16 Dec 1776.
31 Ibid.
32 SRO, D(W)1778/V/885, Stevenson, Amsterdam, to Dartmouth, 10 Jul 1776.
33 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, London, to Lewisham, 3 Jan 1776.
34 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/29, Pembroke, Stony Stratford, to Herbert, 19 Aug 1779.
35 Lord Herbert (ed.), Henry, Elizabeth and George (1734–80): Letters and Diaries
of Henry, Tenth Earl of Pembroke and his Circle (London, 1939), 169.
36 For further discussion of Grand Tour tutors, see María Dolores Sánchez-Jáur
egui, ‘Educating the Traveler: The Tutors’, in The English Prize: The Capture
of the Westmorland, An Episode of the Grand Tour, ed. Sánchez-Jáuregui and
Scott Wilcox (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013), pp. 88–97.
37 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, London, to Lewisham, 3 Oct 1774 [19th
birthday]; Frances Legge, Lady Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 3 Oct 1775
[20th birthday]; Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 28 Sep 1776 [five days
before 21st birthday]; Lady Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 29 Nov 1776
[nearly two months after 21st birthday].
38 Giovanopoulos, ‘Legal Status’, 46.
39 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 28 Sep 1776.
40 SRO, D(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, Vienna, to Dartmouth, 10 Nov 1776.
41 Ibid.
42 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/29, Pembroke, Stony Stratford, to Herbert, 30 Sep 1779.
43 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/29, Pembroke, [no location], to Herbert, [Apr] 1779;
Pembroke, Stony Stratford, to Herbert, 24 Sep 1779.
44 London Metropolitan Archives (LMA), Acc. 510/250, George Bussey Villiers,
Brussels, to Anne Villiers, Lady Jersey, 7 Aug 1756.
45 Sample from Ingamell, Dictionary as before.
46 See for example, Harvey, The Little Republic: Masculinity and Domestic
Authority in Eighteenth-Century Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2012); Hannah Barker, ‘Soul, Purse and Family: Middling and Lower-Class
Masculinity in Eighteenth-Century Manchester’, Social History, 33:1 (2008):
12–35; Matthew McCormack, The Independent Man: Citizenship and Gender
Politics in Georgian England (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005);
Imagining youth 61
French and Rothery, Man’s Estate, ch. 4; Joanne Bailey, Parenting in England,
1760–1830: Emotion, Identity and Generation (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2012), Chapter Six.
47 Within this, 20.9% got a seat the same year, 16.3% one year after, 13.9% 2
years after, 9.3% three years after, 4.7% four years after.
48 Only 4% married before/during their Tour. 12% remained unmarried.
49 Ben-Amos, Adolescence, 36. See also Müller, ‘Introduction’, in Müller, Fash
ioning Childhood, 1–12; Patricia Crawford, Blood, Bodies and Families in
Early Modern England (London: Routledge, 2014), 31–33.
50 British Library (hereafter BL), Add MS 33087 f. 15, James Pelham, St. James,
to Thomas Pelham, 11 Jul 1749; BL, Add MS 33087 f. 18, Pelham, Broadlands,
to Pelham, 16 Aug 1749.
51 SRO, D(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, Geneva, to Lady Dartmouth, 3 Oct 1777.
52 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 30 Sep 1777.
53 SRO, D(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, Vienna, to Dartmouth, 26 Jan 1777.
54 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Lady Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 29 Nov
1776.
55 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, London, to Lewisham, 16 Dec 1776.
56 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, London, to Lewisham, 25 Apr 1778.
57 French and Rothery, ‘Upon your entry’, 413, 422.
58 ‘Adolescence’ in Johnson, Dictionary, vol. 1.
59 ‘Puberty’ in Johnson, Dictionary, vol. 2.
60 Toulalan, ‘“Unripe” Bodies’, 136–137; Butler, ‘Hidden Mysteries’, 223.
61 Withey, Concerning Beards, Chapter Three.
62 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/27, Lady Pembroke, Wilton House, to Coxe, 16 Dec
[1775]; SRO, D(W)1778/V/885, Stevenson, Paris, to Dartmouth, 11 Dec 1775.
63 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/27, Pembroke, London, to Coxe, 6 Jun 1778.
64 Withey, ‘Shaving and Masculinity in Eighteenth-Century Britain’, Journal for
Eighteenth-Century Studies, 36:2 (2013), 234–5.
65 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/27, Pembroke, Wilton House, to Coxe, [1 Jan 1779].
66 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/29, Pembroke, Stony Stratford, to Herbert, 5 Mar 1779.
67 See Lucia Dacome, ‘Living with the Chair: Private Excreta, Collective Health
and Medical Authority in the Eighteenth Century’, History of Science, 39.4
(2001), 467–500.
68 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/29, Pembroke, Wilton House, to Herbert, 19 Aug 1779.
69 Matthew McCormack, ‘Tall Histories: Height and Georgian Masculinities’,
Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 26 (2016), 84; Neale, Practical
Essays, 3.
70 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 14 Aug 1775.
71 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Lady Dartmouth, London, to Lewisham, 29 Nov 1776.
72 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/31, Lady Pembroke, London, to Herbert, 2 Jun [1780].
73 ‘19 Mar 1777, Coxe, Strasbourg, to Lady Pembroke’, in Henry, Elizabeth and
George, 98.
74 Bowhill House, Buccleuch Archive (hereafter BHBA), MSS BS1.19, Henry
Scott, 3rd Duke of Buccleuch, Berlin, to Elizabeth, Duchess of Buccleuch, 3 Jul
1792.
75 BHBA, MSS BS1.19, Buccleuch, Berlin, to Lady Buccleuch, 7 Jul 1792.
76 Ibid.
77 Ibid.
78 Norfolk Record Office, WKC 7/46/8, Robert Price, London, to The Bloods, 19
Dec 1741.
79 Cohen, Fashioning Masculinity, 63; Cohen, ‘“Manners” Make the Man:
Politeness, Chivalry and the Construction of Masculinity, 1750–1830’, Journal
of British Studies, 44 (2005), 313; McCormack, ‘Dance and Drill: Polite
62 Sarah Goldsmith
Accomplishments and Military Masculinities in Georgian Britain’, Cultural and
Social History, 8:3 (2011): 2, 317, 319–20.
80 Alexander Pope, The Dunciad (London, 1742), 20.
81 James Burgh, The Juvenile Citizen of the World (Dublin, 1800), 143.
82 SRO, D(W)1778/V/885, Stevenson, Paris, to Dartmouth, 11 Dec 1775; D(W)
1778/V/874, Lewisham, Paris, to Dartmouth, 22 Dec [1775].
83 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 3 Jan 1776.
84 BL, Add. Ms. 34887 f. 185, John Holroyd, Hanover, to Rev Dr Baker, 23 Dec
1765.
85 Begiato, ‘Poise and Power’, 127, 131, 133. See also Downing, ‘Gentleman
Boxer’, 328–352.
86 BHBA, Buccleuch, Berlin, to Lady Buccleuch, 7 Jul 1792.
87 Harvey, ‘Men of Parts’, 186–82.
88 ‘14 May 1768, William Robert Fitzgerald, Lord Kildare, Turin, to Emily,
Duchess of Leinster’, in Lord Kildare’s Grand Tour, 1766–1769, ed. Elizabeth
Fitzgerald (Wilton: Colins Press, 2000), 99.
89 For a discussion of this and the relevant scholarship, see Goldsmith, ‘Body
Beautiful’.
90 SRO, D(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, Hanover, Lady Dartmouth, 30 Jul 1776; D
(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, Turin, to Dartmouth, 17 Oct 1777.
91 Tim Reinke-Williams, ‘Physical Attractiveness and the Female Life-Cycle in
Seventeenth-Century England’, Cultural and Social History, 15:4 (2018), 470–2;
Borsay, ‘Urban Society’, 55; Toulalan, ‘“Unripe” Bodies’, 35, 137.
92 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 14 Feb 1777.
93 SRO, D(W)1778/V/885, Stevenson, Paris, to Dartmouth, 18 May 1777; D(W)
1778/V/886, Stevenson, Geneva, to Dartmouth, 1 Jul 1777. William’s ‘Roses
and Lillies’ were also praised.
94 Quoted in Borsay, ‘Urban Society’, 55; On the lily as feminine, see David M
Turner, ‘The Body Beautiful’, in Carole Reeves (ed.), A Culture History of the
Human Body in the Enlightenment (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2010),
115, 119.
95 SRO, D(W)1778/V/886, Stevenson, [no location], to Dartmouth, [n.d.]; Ste
venson, Geneva, to Dartmouth, 10 Sep 1777.
96 McCormack, ‘Tall Histories’, 84, 88–89.
97 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Lady Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 3 Oct 1775.
98 SRO, D(W)1778/V/852, Lady Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 30 Sep 1777.
99 WSHC, MS. 2057/F5/6, George, Lord Herbert’s Grand Tour Journal, 28 Nov
1779; WSHC, MS 2057/F4/29, Pembroke, London, to Herbert, 2–8 Apr 1779.
100 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/27, Pembroke, Wilton House, to Coxe, 1 Jan 1779; SRO,
D(W)1778/V/852, Lady Dartmouth, Sandwell, to Lewisham, 3 Oct 1775.
101 London Metropolitan Archives (hereafter LMA), Acc. 510/240, Villiers, Leip
zig, to Lady Jersey, 30 Nov 1754.
102 LMA, Acc. 510/235, Villiers, Middleton Park, to Lady Jersey, 27 Jul 1746.
103 LMA, Acc. 510/242, William Whitehead, The Hague, to William Villiers, 3rd
Earl of Jersey, 7 Sep 1756.
104 McCormack, ‘Tall Histories’, 84, 87, 93–4.
105 SRO, D(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, Paris, to Dartmouth, 28 Jan 1776.
106 WSHC MS. 2057/F4/27, Pembroke, Wilton House, to Coxe, 1 Jan 1779; MS.
2057/F4/29, Pembroke, London, to Herbert, 20 May 1779.
107 McCormack, ‘Tall histories’, 95.
108 See for example, Naomi Baker, Plain Ugly: The Unattractive Body in Early
Modern Culture (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2010), 116–122.
Imagining youth 63
109 Sarah Toulalan, ‘“To[o] Much Eating Stifles the Child”: Fat Bodies and
Reproduction in Early Modern England’, Historical Research, 87:235 (2014),
65–93; Butler, ‘Hidden Mysteries’, 229.
110 BL Add. Ms. 35378 f. 359, Philip Yorke, The Hague, to Philip Yorke, 2nd Earl
of Hardwicke, 7 Jul 1777.
111 BL, Eg. MS. 1711, William Bentinck, 1st Count Bentinck, Luneville, to Eliza
beth Bentinck, Countess Dowager of Portland, 5 Aug 1726.
112 ‘18 Mar 1767, Lady Holland, Naples, to Emily, Duchess of Leinster’, in Lord
Kildare’s Grand Tour, 36.
113 SRO, D(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, Paris, to Dartmouth, 28 Jan 1776.
114 SRO, D(W)1778/V/874, Lewisham, The Hague, to Dartmouth, 27 Jun 1776.
115 SRO, D(W)1778/V/886, Stevenson, Paris, to Dartmouth, 7 Mar 1776.
116 SRO, D(W)1778/V/886, Stevenson, Rennes, to Dartmouth, 29 Mar 1776.
117 ‘Embonpoint’, Oxford English Dictionary, retrieved from www.oed.com/view/
Entry/60936?redirectedFrom=embonpoint#eid (accessed 15 Jun 2020).
118 For example, Batoni’s 1758 portrait of Charles Compton, 7 Earl of North
ampton and his ‘pretty figure’ (Ingamell, Dictionary, 713).
119 Patrick Home, quoted in Ingamell, Dictionary, 778. See John Steegman, ‘Some
English Portraits by Pompeo Batoni’, The Burlington Magazine for Con
noisseurs, 88:516 (1946): 55–63.
120 Jennifer Mori, ‘Hosting the Grand Tour: Civility, Enlightenment and Culture,
c.1740–1790’, in Mary Hilton and Jill Shefrin (eds), Educating the Child in
Enlightenment Britain: Beliefs, Cultures, Practices (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009),
117–30.
121 SRO, D(W)1778/III/365, Sir William Hamilton, Naples, to Dartmouth, 17 Feb
1777.
122 ‘Maturation’, ‘Mature’, ‘Maturity’ in Johnson, Dictionary, vol. 2.
3 Touch me if you can
Paper bodies in letters to and from the
eighteenth-century French Caribbean
Annika Raapke
The letters
This chapter is based on a set of around 300 letters written between 1744
and 1803 (selected from a total of several thousand letters) written in, or to,
the eighteenth-century Caribbean, mostly the French Caribbean colonies, by
men and women from a large variety of social backgrounds. As do the let
ters used in Haggerty’s chapter in this volume, these letters all belong to the
‘Prize Papers’, which are housed at the UK National Archives as part of the
High Court of Admiralty (HCA) collection. This means that these letters
have survived in their original state because the ships on which they were
travelling were intercepted by English capturers – more than 160,000 letters
from around the globe have thus been intercepted in transit, taken off board
and transported to the Admiralty’s archives to be used as evidence in appeal
cases.13
Due to the accident that was their capture, these letters have survived
completely unselected, with the result that the collection contains letters
from men, women and children from almost all social strata. Very often, the
letters do not contain even the most basic information regarding their wri
ters and intended recipients: dates and names are missing, illegible, or
incomplete; spelling and grammar are erratic and unreliable – sometimes,
even addresses and places of origins are lost. This means that many letters
are somewhat disconnected from their context, rather limiting that which
German historian Reinhart Koselleck called the ‘veto of the source’ –
namely, the possibility to detect historical inconsistencies and falsehoods
Touch me if you can 67
14
through thorough source critique. While this makes interpretation more
challenging, the sheer quantity of the letters preserved produces enough
historical data to make reliable statements about whether epistolary phe
nomena were common or unusual. The methodological focus on letter nar
ratives lessens the need for context even more: the key aspect is how the
letter was composed. If a writer chose to present a certain issue in a specific
way, if they chose one phrase or word over another, this will be regarded
here as a decision which that writer made with a specific intent, and in
anticipation of a certain readership. Nor will the writer’s level of literacy or
education be taken into account, assuming that every writer had an element
of choice in how they selected and presented the contents of their letters.
Christina Beckers’s work has been enlightening in this regard, demonstrating
that even ordinary sailors learned lines from Ovid to quote in their love
letters.15
The cast of letter-writers introduced here includes a sailor, several colo
nial merchants, two sailor’s wives, a free woman of colour from St. Dom
ingue residing in France, a colonist’s wife and two or three people of
unknown occupation who resided in the colonies. All wrote in French, yet
with varying degrees of literacy. Many of the letter-writers represented in
the overall source material were semi-literate at best. The letter written by
the sailor François Aubin, for example, contains the phrase, ‘il an par tous
les jour tous les jans de notrenavire on tous us des letre le tousce que les peti
es le grand il an non tous us il a que moiquilnan a pas un’ (every day all the
people from our ship are all having letters they all, that is the small and the
great, they all have had some, it is just me who has not one of them).16 The
spelling, grammar and syntax all indicate a literacy highly influenced by
orality, thus supporting the hypothesis by linguists Marijke van der Waal
and Gijsbert Rutten that letters can be ‘considered to be as close to speech
as non-fictional historical texts can possibly be’.17 This linguistic viewpoint
is especially interesting because it differs from historiographical perspectives
which focus on letters as carefully crafted speech situations which, while
certainly aiming at producing intimacy and trust, were in no way immediate
or spontaneous.18 Indeed, Van der Waal and Rutten quote Edgar W.
Schneider, who argues that a writer, ‘records potential, conceived utterances
by himself which, for lack of the presence of the addressee, need to be
written down rather than said; but he remains in a near-speech mode’.19
They conclude that ‘with their interactive purpose, private letters are clearly
on the side of the language of immediacy, even more so than diaries and
travelogues are’.20
On the one hand, letter-writers like Aubin and their epistolary products
clearly point towards a ‘language of immediacy’ in letters; on the other
hand, it is particularly the less-educated letter-writers whose letters show an
increased level of formulaic language.21 The sailor’s wife Victoire Roux, for
example, used the typical epistolary expression, ‘Je vous fait savoir’ (I let
you know), as a linguistic railing or scaffold in her letter. Almost every new
68 Annika Raapke
phrase, certainly every new thematic passage, began with the expression,
structuring the letter’s content. This phenomenon is very common in the
HCA letters, and it went directly against the French letter-writing ideals of
the period. As early as 1654, Jean Puget de la Serre emphasised in his pro
grammatic letter-writing manual Sécrétaire de la cour that the letter ‘should
taste of negligence, & not differ in any way from ordinary language’.22
According to de la Serre, a letter’s language had to be simple and easy to
understand, without stylised flourishes: ‘One has to … tell the things as they
go & in the same way one would say them from the mouth.’23
While less formal overall, eighteenth-century French letter-writing culture
still prescribed a certain form – most letters contained a salutation, such as
‘Monsieur’, ‘Cher ami’ or ‘matrèschèremère’, a short introductory passage
addressing questions of health and wellbeing, a long, free middle section and
a courtoisie at the end, in which the writer professed to be the recipient’s
‘très humble &très obeisant serviteur/servante’. In this, French letters were
much closer to the contemporary English epistolary style than they were to the
rather elaborate, rigid form of the German letters of the period.24 Letters
written to children sometimes addressed them with pet names, such as ‘ma
chère petite poule’ (my dear little chicken). During the text of the letter, this
address was often repeated several times. However, in most of the letters, the
address was formal; the more polite, distant address ‘vous’ was used even
among close relations. The use of ‘tu’, the informal address, can be taken as a
sign of intimacy or real friendship, according to Laurence Brockliss.25
French letter-writing culture was dominated by these relatively léger
(light) principles all throughout the eighteenth century, yet many letter-wri
ters on the lower end of the literacy spectrum required the guidance of for
mulaic phrases. However, as discussed above, this should not lead to the
assumption that formulaic letters were somehow less ‘authentic’ or less
immediate than the free form, especially if that free form was in itself an
ideal and could thus be artistic and artificial. This was often the case given
the period’s fascination with sensibility and emotive language.26 The ques
tion of authenticity is problematic in general, suggesting that there is a clear
distinction between something that is immediate, felt, lived, and therefore
‘true’, and something that is pre-shaped, follows social conventions and
rules, and is therefore ‘less true’, if not necessarily untrue.27 This distinction,
however, ignores the fact that even though literacy levels in ancien régime
France rose from the mid-seventeenth century onwards, many letter-writers
simply never learned more than basic forms of epistolary conversation, and
never acquired the confidence required for the composition of free-flowing
epistolary conversations. Artless letter-writing was an art in itself, an art
which many well-educated children of the time had to learn by the sweat of
their brows.28 The often highly changeable and unforeseeable conditions
which characterised the separation of family and friends in the eighteenth-
century Atlantic World, however, meant that people had to resort to writing
letters regardless of how well they had mastered it.
Touch me if you can 69
A touch of insecurity: epistolary Atlantic Worlds
The fact that all of the letters discussed in this chapter were captured on
their way to France points to another specific circumstance which most of
them share, that they were written and sent in wartime. The letters pre
sented here were written and sent during the War of the Austrian Succession
(1740–1748), the War of American Independence (1775–1783, with France
entering the conflict in 1778), the War of the First Coalition (1792–1798) and
the Napoleonic Wars (1803–1815), respectively. Capturing enemy ships and
confiscating every last scrap of paper that could be found on board was a
regular, and exceedingly regulated, practice of warfare in the early modern
period. Since European colonial expansion was a highly belligerent devel
opment, the eighteenth century saw, if not altogether constant, at least very
frequent conflicts with shifting and varied alliances, which were carried out
practically across the globe.29 Naval warfare, not only in battles but also,
and far more consistently, in captures, was a reality of everyday life for
much of the period. This meant that lines of provision and supply, but also
communication lines, were frequently unstable and unreliable. However,
lines of supply were more efficiently replaced, re-routed and re-drawn (for
example, by means of smuggling, the establishment of networks and meshes
of contact) than everyday, non-political, non-military lines of communica
tion. Those could be far more unplanned, meandering and spontaneous –
even with, or maybe rather because of, the measures which letter-writers
took to ensure that their letters would reach their destination, such as using
intermediaries or sending duplicata via different routes.30 Even in peacetime,
letters were frequently sent to intermediate addressees, with a request to
send them on to their final destination; many letter-writers had to send let
ters to people who were moving around (like sailors, for example) or whose
current whereabouts they simply did not know. Wartime aggravated these
situations.
All of this means that an eighteenth-century Atlantic World reconstructed
through the lens of an ‘everyday’ epistolary history, one that looks beyond
or below the level of military, political or administrative communication, is
likely to differ somewhat from that which other historiographies have
described.31 It cannot, for example, boast relatively steady, continuous
‘flows’ between Europe and its colonies, like those which the history of
economics has identified regarding the movement of goods and money.32
Throughout the century, hundreds of thousands of letters had to be com
posed in situations where the writer had not been able to communicate with
her or his loved ones successfully for months because of the wars, and was
greatly worried about their welfare. However, many letter-writers also
wondered about their own welfare with regard to their counterparts’ silence.
Insecurity had many facets and stretched into various areas of life because
that silence had so many possible explanations: gaps and interruptions in
epistolary exchanges could be due to the logistic challenges of the war, or to
70 Annika Raapke
bad weather. They could also speak of more sinister and fearsome things, of
illness, death and disaster, or of the loss of affection and the rupturing of
ties. Physical touches in letter narratives have to be considered in this con
text. The languages of affection are often quite physical in themselves –
allowing people to ‘stay in touch’ or to ‘hold on to one another’. Yet those
languages are not without alternatives. In the end, it was every letter-wri
ter’s choice to put touches to paper or not. Gaps, breaks and interruptions,
fears and insecurity had to be bridged and/or handled through words; but if,
and how, these words became touches was a matter which every letter-
writer had to decide for each specific letter narrative, and in anticipation of
their particular reader(s).
This becomes particularly evident in the study of farewell touches, which
are extremely common in letters between family members, spouses, lovers,
and friends. Especially kisses and hugs were sometimes administered with
insistent vocabulary.33 ‘I kiss you a thousand times’, ‘I kiss you more than a
thousand times’, ‘I kiss you a thousand and another thousand times’, ‘I kiss
you very tenderly’, ‘I embrace you most tenderly’, ‘I embrace you from the
bottom of my heart’, ‘I embrace you from the best of my heart’, ‘I embrace
you with all my heart’: phrases like these, found at the end of thousands of
letters, were certainly used repeatedly and could be treated as formulaic, as
discussed above.34 However, this does not mean that sending loving or
sometimes angry touches was not perceived as the best, surest, most unam
biguous way of transporting one’s feelings, of maintaining one’s hierarchical
position within a relationship and making sure one remained present while
absent. After all, as Joseph Amato once put it with regard to the history of
touch, touch ‘connects bodies and things and is operative in the interplay of
act and heart’.35 Moreover, even these goodbye kisses and farewell hugs,
which are located somewhere between the courteous and the passionate, are
far from ubiquitous. Writers could choose to just leave them out. Their
purposeful inclusion indicates not empty words but a meaningful sentiment.
Writers could also choose to include touches from others, and might even
emphasise them over their own.
One example is that of a woman by the name of Claudine Goa, a woman
of colour writing to her mother from revolutionary France. In May 1793,
France was at the brink of the terreur and its colony Saint Domingue was in
the throes of its own revolution which shook the foundations of the slavery-
based Atlantic World.36 In this highly unstable and volatile situation, Julie
Chatelard, a free black woman residing in Saint Domingue stopped replying
to the letters which her daughter Claudine Goa sent her from Bordeaux.37
On 28 May, Claudine wrote to Julie yet again, worriedly asking why neither
she, nor Julie’s granddaughter, Claudine’s own little daughter Aurore, had
received an answer to their letters. She then let Aurore speak through her
writing: ‘Your granddaughter reproaches you for your negligence in writing
to her, she has written you two letters without receiving a reply, but she
hopes that, at the first occasion [that presents itself], you will not forget her,
Touch me if you can 71
38
and she embraces you very tenderly.’ At the end of the letter, Claudine
added her own ‘I embrace you’ as part of the farewell salutation. Aurore’s
embrace, however, was placed in the main body of the epistolary text, and
intensified by a qualifier, with Claudine likely aiming to draw attention to
the embrace that would weigh most with her mother.
While letter-writers would send their own touches, the cases where a
letter-writer chose to convey someone else’s touches are particularly intri
guing. In the case of Claudine Goa highlighting the embrace of her little
daughter Aurore over her own, more inconspicuously phrased and placed
one, contemporary French letter-writing practices suggest that this was done
in order to strengthen the letter’s impact. In the case of Victoire Roux from
Martinique, however, the situation is rather more puzzling. Between 1778
and 1779, Victoire’s husband Jean-Pierre was in France, possibly as a sailor
or soldier. It seems the spouses Roux did not communicate much by letter,
although the reason why it took Victoire more than six months to send her
news to her husband could just as easily have been the seasonal and war-
related scarcity of ships leaving for France. In any case, when Victoire finally
did write to Jean-Pierre in March 1779, she apparently took the task very
seriously, even attesting at the bottom of the page that she had ‘shown to
uncle at my house that I myself have written the letter’.39 This may have
been because the news she had for him was rather important:
I let you know that I have given birth to two children, a boy and a girl.
I have given birth on the 11 of October. I have given one of them to the
wet-nurse and I breastfeed the other. I let you know that your father &
your mother embrace and kiss you with all their hearts.40
Interestingly, this is the only touch in Victoire’s letter. While she called
herself a ‘faithful wife’ and highlighted her constant prayers for Jean-Pierre’s
health and safety, she herself did not add any embraces or kisses of her own
to those of her parents-in-law. The letter was written six months after the
birth of the twins; we do not know how long Jean-Pierre had been away by
this time – it could be close to one and a half years if he had left directly
after the children’s conception. But since Victoire obviously knew how to
put an embrace into words, and since the letter conventions of the time did
not in any way object to a wife sending embraces and kisses to a husband, it
is clear that she chose not to include them here. While, at first glance, the
absence of a hug seems to suggest a withholding of intimacy, it may actually
be a signal that everything was well between the spouses. The Canadian
colonial Louise Dupont, a sailor’s wife like Victoire who also wrote her
own letters with a similar level of literacy and very similar language, com
posed four letters to her husband between November 1702 and 1703,
describing her worsening situation in her husband’s absence, and conveying
more and more fury over his abandonment of her and their children. The
first two letters, in which the family was still doing relatively well and she
72 Annika Raapke
was not angry at her husband, do not contain any touches. The two latter
ones, in which she shows herself both desperate and furious, both conclude
with ‘I kiss you a thousand times.’41 Far from necessarily being a sign of
coldness or distance, a lack of touches can signify that the writers saw no
need to either finish on a conciliatory note or to exert emotional pressure.
Writers could choose to include touches either to appease, to coax, or even
to keep conflicts alive by intensifying the pressure to reply.42 A paper body
could be used to keep a threatened relationship alive – which meant it had
to function well.
to take the greatest care of your teeth, and to clean them every day,
because they are the most beautiful ornament a lady can wear. … Your
maman … kisses you as well as your little sisters. Adieu my dear Benite,
be well, I kiss you a thousand times as well as Pepete and Pauline, I am
always your good friend and Papa.49
Conclusion
Touches are extremely common in eighteenth-century letters, and thus were
also an indispensable part of letter-writing conventions. As this chapter has
shown, touches and paper bodies should be investigated as epistolary stra
tegies which could be used or left out to convey or enforce messages. Letter-
writers from various backgrounds could and would choose not to include
touches in their letters, while just as great a variety of people decided to
employ the physical touch. Hugs, kisses and other touches lent a sensory
78 Annika Raapke
quality and emotional agency to paper bodies. For this, the respective paper
bodies did not need to be described in great detail, nor did they need to be
complete in any way. Created in and for a purely epistolary space of inter
action, paper bodies and their touches could function on sparse, basic or
formulaic descriptions, sometimes even a single word, and yet become lived-
in, sensing physical entities for their readers. The touches which these paper
bodies carried out strengthened hierarchical positions and maintained emo
tional connections when epistolary relationships were impeded by insecure
and dangerous conditions, enabling letter-writers to connect with faraway
loved ones, but also to exert influence and power, even threaten. The final
case presented here, that of the Demoiselle Ourtevan, particularly shows the
potential for violence which epistolary touches could carry across huge geo
graphic distances. At least in this case, it may have been for the best that
ship’s master Thaurin Hebert steered his ship, the Victoire de Honfleur, into
the arms of British capturers in 1793, thereby effectively ending the letter’s
journey to France. The Demoiselle Ourtevan never got this letter; even though
the writer assured her that he would always hold her mother ‘in high esteem’,
this was probably a good thing. Some touches are better left unread.
Notes
1 See for example Russell F. Weigley, The Age of Battles: The Quest for Decisive
Warfare from Breitenfeld to Waterloo (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University
Press 1994); John O’Neill and Mark D. Greenberg (ed.), Europe in the Age of
Revolution and Enlightenment (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art,
1987).
2 Laurence Brockliss, ‘Consultation by Letter in Early Eighteenth-Century Paris:
The Medical Practice of Etienne-François Geoffroy’, in Ann La Berge and Mor
dechai Feingold (eds), French Medical Culture in the Nineteenth Century
(Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994), 79–110, 99; Jennifer Palmer, Intimate Bonds: Family
and Slavery in the French Atlantic (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania
Press, 2016); Dena Goodman, The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the
French Enlightenment (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994).
3 Sarah Pearsall, Atlantic Families: Lives and Letters in the Later Eighteenth Cen
tury (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). See also Anne M. Powers, A Parcel
of Ribbons: The Letters of an Eighteenth Century Family in London & Jamaica
(London: Lulu, 2012) and Konstantin Dierks, In My Power: Letter Writing and
Communication in Early America (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania
Press, 2009).
4 Ibid.
5 See Annika Raapke, Dieses verfluchte Land: Europäische Körper in Brief
erzählungen aus der Karibik, 1744–1826 (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2019).
6 Silvia Marzagalli, ‘The French Atlantic World’, in Nicholas Canny and Philip
Morgan (eds), The Oxford Handbook of the Atlantic World, c.1450–c.1850
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 235–251; Alan Forrest, The Death of
the French Atlantic: Trade, War, and Slavery in the Age of Revolution (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2020).
7 Annika Raapke, ‘The Pain of Senses Escaping: 18th Century Europeans and the
Sensory Challenges of the Caribbean’, in Daniela Hacke and Paul Musselwhite
Touch me if you can 79
(eds), Empire of the Senses: Sensory Practices and Modes of Perception in the
Atlantic World, (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 115–139; Raapke, Dieses verfluchte Land.
8 See, for example, Doris Garraway, The Libertine Colony: Creolization in the
Early French Caribbean (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005) and Geneviève
Léti, Santé et société esclavagiste à la Martinique (1802–1848) (Paris, Fort de
France: Editions Harmattan, 1998).
9 Marzagalli, ‘French Atlantic World’.
10 Martin Stuber, Stefan Hächler, Luc Lienhard, Hallers Netz, Ein europäischer
Gelehrtenbriefwechsel zur Zeit der Aufklärung (Basel: Schwabe 2005), 10.
11 Christina Beckers, ‘Bridging the Gap: Techniques of Appresentation and Familiar
(izing) Narratives in Eighteenth-Century Transmaritime Family Correspondence’,
in Daniela Hacke, Hannes Ziegler and Claudia Jarzebowski (eds), Matters of
Engagement: Emotions, Identity, and Cultural Contact in the Premodern World
(London: Taylor & Francis, 2020), ebook version, ch. 1.
12 On family in absence in the Prize Papers, see also Beckers, ‘Bridging the Gap’.
13 See Amanda Bevan and Randolph Cock, ‘The High Court of Admiralty Prize
Papers, 1652–1815: Challenges in Improving Access to Older Records’, Archives,
53:137 (2018), 34–58.
14 Reinhart Koselleck, ‘Standortbindung und Zeitlichkeit: Ein Beitrag zur historio
graphischen Erschließung der geschichtlichen Welt’, in Reinhart Koselleck,
Wolfgang J. Mommsen, Jörn Rüsen (eds), Objektivität und Parteilichkeit in der
Geschichtswissenschaft (München: dtv, 1977), 17–46.
15 Beckers, ‘Bridging the Gap’, 35.
16 All translations are the author’s own.
17 Marijke Van der Waal and Gisbert Rutten, ‘Ego-Documents in a Historical-
Sociolinguistic Perspective’, in Van der Waal and Rutten (eds), Touching the
Past: Studies in the historical sociolinguistics of Ego-documents (Amsterdam:
Benjamins, 2013), 1–19, 1, 2.
18 See for example, Pearsall, Atlantic Families; Powers, A Parcel of Ribbons;
Dierks, In My Power.
19 Edgar W. Schneider, ‘Investigating Variation and Change in Written Documents’, in
J. K. Chambers, Peter Trudgill and Natalie Schilling-Estes (eds), The Handbook of
Language Variation and Change (Oxford: Blackwell 2002), here quoted after Van
der Waal/Rutten, Ego-documents in a historical-sociolinguistic perspective, 2.
20 Ibid.
22 Carmen Furger, Briefsteller. Das Medium ‘Brief’ im 17. und frühen 18. Jahrhun
dert (Cologne: Böhlau, 2010), 162.
23 Ibid., 163.
24 Ibid.
25 Brockliss, ‘Consultation by Letter’.
26 See for example Christine Roulston, Virtue, Gender, and the Authentic Self in
Eighteenth-Century Fiction: Richardson, Rousseau, and Laclos (Gainesville, FL:
University Press of Florida, 1998), XI.
27 See for example Cynthia Lowenthal, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and the
Eighteenth-Century Familiar Letter (Athens, GA: Georgia University Press, 1994),
21.
28 Susan Whyman, The Pen and the People: English Letter Writers, 1660–1800
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Johannes Anderegg (ed.), Schreibe mir
oft! Das Medium Brief von 1750 bis 1803 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,
2001).
29 It makes sense, for example, to look at the Seven Years’ War under the paradigm
of global warfare/conflict. For a recent microhistorical German-language
80 Annika Raapke
engagement with this perspective, see Marian Füssel, Der Preis des Ruhms:. Eine
Weltgeschichte des Siebenjährigen Krieges (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2019).
30 Tim Ingold, Lines: A Brief History (London: Routledge, 2016).
31 There is a huge amount of scholarship to quote here, but since this is not the
focus of this chapter, I will simply name one classic and influential example:
John McCusker and Kenneth Morgan (eds), The Early Modern Atlantic Econ
omy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000).
32 Ibid.
33 Constance Classen, The Deepest Sense: A Cultural History of Touch (Chi
cago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2012); Helen Berry, ‘Lawful Kisses?
Sexual Ambiguity and Platonic Friendship in England c.1660–1720’, in Karen
Harvey (ed.), The Kiss in History (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
2005), 62–79.
34 For similar results and points, see example Katie Barclay, Love, Intimacy and
Power: Marriage and Patriarchy in Scotland 1650–1850 (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2011).
35 Joseph Amato, ‘Thoughts on a Cultural History of Touch. Review Essay’, Fides
et Historia, 46:1 (2014), 76–84, 76.
36 C. L. R. James, The Black Jacobins: Toussaint Louverture and the San Domingo
Revolution (New York: Dial Press, 1938); Gabriel Debien, Les esclaves aux
Antilles françaises (Guadeloupe: Société d’histoire de la Guadeloupe, 1974); John
D. Garrigus, Before Haiti: Race and Citizenship in French Saint-Domingue (New
York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006); Laurent Dubois, Avengers of the New World.
The Story of the Haitian Revolution (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press,
2004); Carolyn E. Fick, The Making of Haiti: The Saint Domingue Revolution
from Below (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1990); Jeremy D. Popkin,
You Are All Free: The Haitian Revolution and the Abolition of Slavery (New
York, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).
37 The envelope is addressed to Julie Chatelard, négresselibre.
38 High Court Admiralty, UK The National Archives, (hereafter ‘HCA’) 32/XX,
Claudine Goa, Bordeaux, to her mother Julie Châtelard in St Domingue, 28 May
1793.
39 HCA 30/310, Victoire Roux, Martinique, to her husband Jean Pierre Roux in
Brest, 24 Mar 1779.
40 Ibid.
41 HCA 32/1828/3, Louise Dupont to her husband in France, four letters, 1 Nov
1702, 6 Dec 1702, 25 Apr 1703, 13 Nov 1703.
42 On the use of affection as a means of pressure in these letters, see Annika Raapke,
‘“Well, That Escalated Slowly”: Prekäre Balancen, Konflikt und Eskalation in Brief
beziehungen zwischen Frankreich und den Karibikkolonien, 1778–1793’, Historische
Anthropologie, 29.2 (2021): 189–208.
43 Whyman, Pen and the People; Clare Brant, Eighteenth-Century Letters and British
Culture (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2006).
44 HCA 30/286, Désinçay, Martinique, to his parents in Paris, 20 Sep 1778.
45 Rossignol’s kisses are included in several sentences, as well as the farewell, and
they are placed in central segments of the letter’s main section. Rossignol thus
clearly invested quite a substantial part of his available writing paper in sending
kisses.
46 On colonial parenting practices, see for example, Francisca Hoyer, Relations of
Absence. Germans in the East Indies and their families, c. 1750–1820 (Uppsala:
Uppsala University Press, 2021), 200 ff; Rebecca Hartkopf Schloss, Sweet Liberty:
The Final Days of Slavery in Martinique (Philadelphia, PA: University of Penn
sylvania Press, 2009), 75; Palmer, Intimate Bonds, 74 ff.
Touch me if you can 81
47 Claudia Jarzebowski, Kinder und ihre Lebenswelten in der europäischen Frühen
Neuzeit (Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2018), 270 ff, 271.
48 HCA 30/305, Rossignol, Saint Domingue, to his three daughters in Tours, 7 Nov
1778.
49 Rossignol to his daughters, 7 Nov 1778.
50 Stephane Minivelle, La famille en France à l’époque moderne (Paris: Armand
Colin, 2010), kindle edition.
51 Joanne Bailey (Begiato), Parenting in England, 1760–1830: Emotion, Identity &
Generation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); Jarzebowski, Kinder und
ihre Lebenswelten; Hoyer, Relations of Absence.
52 See Pearsall, Atlantic Families, 124 ff.
53 HCA 30/305, Louise Bernard, Saint Domingue, to her daughter Fillette Magenet
in France, 7 Jan 1779.
54 Ibid.
55 Minivelle, La famille en France; Pearsall, Atlantic Families,124 ff.
56 On the ‘powerful existential effects of being or not being touched’, see Kym
Maclaren, ‘Touching Matters: Embodiments of Intimacy’, Emotion, Space and
Society, 13 (2014), 95–102, 95.
57 Although it is also worth considering whether letters which seem intent on
severing ties were actually a means to create new ties. See Raapke, ‘Well, That
Escalated Slowly’.
58 HCA 30/396, Anonymous man, Guadeloupe, to Demoiselle d’Ourtevan, 02 Mar 1793.
59 Hervé Drévillon, ‘L’âme est à Dieu et l’honneur à nous: Honneur et distinction
de soi dans la société d’Ancien Régime’, Revue historique, 2010/2 (654), 361–95;
Léti, Santé et Société esclavagiste.
60 Annika Raapke, ‘In Gelb! Selbstentwürfe eines Mannes im Fieber’, in Dagmar Freist
(ed.), Diskurse-Körper-Artefakte. HistorischePraxeologie in der Frühneuzeitforschung
(Bielefeld: Transcript, 2015), see also Raapke, Dieses verfluchte Land; Debbie Lee,
‘Yellow Fever and the Slave Trade: Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”’,
English Literary History, 65:3 (1998), 675–700; Trevor Burnard ‘“The Countrie
continues sicklie”: White Mortality in Jamaica, 1655–1780’, Social History of Medi
cine, 12:1 (1999), 45–72; Léti, Santé et Société Esclavagiste.
61 HCA 30/396, Anonymous to Demoiselle Ourtevan, no date.
62 Furger, Briefsteller.
63 Helen Berry’s ‘Lawful Kisses’ makes interesting similar points about the binding
nature of kisses in seventeenth- century England.
64 Raapke, Dieses verfluchte Land, 134–149.
Part II
material body
Karen Harvey
Sympathetic practice
In their letters, eighteenth-century men and women together built a culture
of sympathy through a framework of patterns of enquiry, report and
response. In the repeated use of words and phrases that expressly invited
reports of good or bad experiences, and the direct responses to these with
statements of corresponding sentiments, letter-writers recognised the feelings
of their friends and family and brought themselves alongside those feelings
in concord. Across the long eighteenth century, the beginnings and endings
of letters between friends and family were a mechanism for exchanging
news but also established a framework for sympathetic exchange. Some let
ters traded formulaic expressions of this emotion, but in fact most letter-
writers devised their own personal and singular patterns of sympathetic
expression. During the 1680s, for example, the letters to and from the anti
quarian Ralph Thoresby are peppered with such initial enquiries about
family and friends’ health. In summer 1681 Thoresby had written to
Katherine Dockwray of his ill health, and her response began by assuring
him not only that ‘I am very sory to reade yt your are not well’, but also
that she ‘will influence all sorts of Physicians for you, whose powerful
remedies’ would make him well. She ended by thanking him for his kind
90 Karen Harvey
letter, which had further ‘brought me ye news of our families health’.34 Men
shared similar exchanges. Thoresby wrote to another, unnamed and male,
correspondent: ‘This comes to inquire of your Health & yr good familys
whose indisposition was a grt trouble to mee.’35 The survival of longer runs
of letters allows us to see how such enquiries were repeated and deployed in
the context of a developing relationship. In her letters to her adult daughter
in London, for example, Dorothy Wright peppered her frequent letters from
Sheffield with a series of phrases that tied her feeling response to the repor
ted experiences of Catherine: ‘am sorry to hear your brest is so Tender’,36 ‘I
hope this Will Meet you in health’37 and ‘i am but in part happy Till i can
hear a happy avent from you of the Children for you are scarce Ever out of
my Mind for your Dear child is your all’.38 Such comments established the
tenor of this exchange but were more than strategic framing devices. In each
of the three letters Dorothy followed up with, in turn: a plan to secure a
new wet nurse; a lengthy description of her own recent episode of ill-health;
and a discussion of the smallpox currently raging and the pros and cons of
inoculation. The repetition of phrases such as ‘am sorry’ and ‘I hope’
demarcated the epistolary space as a sympathetic one and allowed mean
ingful and substantive discussion to follow.
That these openings and closings generated a response in a returning
letter assured writers that this was an epistolary conversation: that the
intended listener had heard and had recognised the speaker’s experiences.
The idea of the letter as conversation was ‘a commonplace’ in this period.39
Though in most cases we only have one half of that conversation, the repe
ated sympathetic responses in such letters indicate that requests and reports
were met from the other side. The letters of the Sheffield merchant Richard
Dalton to his business associates indicated a regular exchange of informa
tion about health, often that of his wife. He gratefully wrote to his friend
Samuel Mould in 1735, for example: ‘I thank you for your good wishes
towards my Wife she has had a very bad Winter.’40 In rare cases we can
observe both sides of the conversation and see the full pattern. The effusive
letters between husband and wife, John and Rebecca Smith, when separated
due to John’s business are urgent in tone and were exchanged at a high
frequency. John’s plea in March 1726 illustrates this and the way that letters
served as written replacements for spoken exchange and bodily presence:
‘spare a Little time to write to me almost every post I Long very much to
hear from you it will wonderfully oblige me if you will please to do it I
much want your Dear & Sweet Conversation & Company’.41 Some of the
letters from Thomas Ward, the Gray’s Inn clerk of the civil servant Edmund
Herbert, to Agnes Herbert, Edmund’s sister-in-law and sole heir, survive
with Agnes’s draft replies intact. Ward was an overseer of Herbert’s will
and the discussion of property, finance and estate management between he
and Agnes was conducted in a distinctly friendly and sympathetic key. In a
letter of 23 April 1772, Thomas exhorted Agnes to let him know if she
wanted anything, adding the usual phrase, ‘I hope you Mr & Mrs Cooke &
Sympathy in practice 91
Miss Ann are in good Health.’ In her draft letter, Agnes pinned a mirroring
note to her reply: ‘We are all very glad to hear Mrs. Ward is so well recov
ered as to go abroad come into ye. Country.’42 Together, this man and
woman, unrelated by blood or marriage, established a pattern of sympa
thetic conversation.
There was often considerable consistency in the phrases used by indivi
duals. Working in Cornwall, the thirty-seven-year-old servant Elizabeth
Clift framed her letters to her younger nineteen-year-old brother William in
London in regular ways. She began her letter of 14 May 1794, ‘[t]his comes
with my kind Love to you hoping these few Lines will find you in Good
Health as it Leaves me at Present’, and ended with a hope for his ‘Health
and Prosperity’.43 Her letter of the following January similarly began: ‘This
Comes with my Kind Love to you hoping it will find you in good health as
this Lines me at Present & Bless God for it I was happy to recive your Kind
Letter.’44 The repetition of such sympathetic framing devices might be read
as mechanical expressions of civility. Yet it is significant that letter-writers
did not employ identical conventions and that phrases varied between epis
tolary conversations. Nor were these phrases copied from letter-writing
manuals. Such guidebooks sometimes included minor requests and reports
after wellbeing in examples of familiar letters, such as ‘I am in good health’,
but sympathetic comments around the body appear in surprisingly few
model letters.45 In genuine familiar letters, the patterns of enquiry, report
and response were situated in a sympathetic framework by personalised
phrases that conveyed fellow feeling.
This practice did not always align with the idealistic visions of those
social theorists who professed sympathy as an equitable response to other
people’s sufferings. In letters, sympathy was customary and idealised but it
was also contingent and sometimes withheld. As with all language and
emotional practice, sympathy could be used strategically at the same time
that it sprang from deeply felt emotions and concerns for friends and
family.46 Some writers reflected openly on their sympathetic practice. Eliza
beth Hare’s letters to her sister-in-law Ann (married to Elizabeth’s brother,
Thomas), sometimes deployed the openings seen in many familiar letters.
She began one letter, ‘I am sorry to hear that you have got the toothach’,
then quickly moved on to reports of herself and others.47 Sympathetic
expression framed the letter, even if it was rather perfunctory. In another
letter, Elizabeth reflected on the way in which she responded to Ann’s
reports and, on one occasion, admitted to a failure in sympathy: ‘My last
Letter contained too few Civilities but I meant a great deal and tho’ I did
not take notice of your better health yet I do assure you ’tis an agreeable
adition to my small stock of worldly Enjoyments.’48 Regardless of Eliza
beth’s strategic self-confessions of failures in sympathy, her letters suggest a
close relationship. As she expressed it on one occasion, ‘you know my dear
sister you and I are one’.49 Elizabeth knew that sympathy in letters created
links across time and space that assured friends, family and close relations
92 Karen Harvey
that the connections between them were sustained in spite of distance and
absence. Her letters also reveal clearly how this was a crafted linguistic
practice. Adam Smith saw sympathy as a learned ‘social practice through
which ordinary people encounter[ed] one another in shared spaces’.50 Letters
were the principal device through which people practiced sympathy and
forged mutual sympathetic bonds at a distance. As such, writing letters was
‘an emotional practice’, an embodied, physical and cultural process.51 As a
practice, letters made it evident that relationships themselves were a social
process that were made through and in time.
It is difficult to reconstruct the context for this letter, as it is the only one
that survives between these two men, but its existence is testimony to the
centrality of the body in familiar and sympathetic communication between
men.
The sustained sympathetic conversations that might take place around the
body in letters between male friends or associates are amply illustrated by
the letters that the civil servant Edmund Herbert exchanged with his male
colleagues in the middle of the eighteenth century. In 1749, John Yate wrote
from Edmund’s Northamptonshire home on behalf of various neighbours
asking for financial support. Details of each case and the money required are
flanked by comments such as, ‘I hope this will find you in health as I am, &
thank God at present.’58 Herbert’s sympathetic responses survive in pencil
drafts: ‘The Acct. of yor own good health was very agreeable to me, & ye
Enquiry after mine very obliging, I thank God I enjoy it now, thoh have been
confin’d abt. 3 Weeks, in yt Manr [i.e. manner] I was last Yr.’59 Echoes of
this sympathetic framework, again situated within an explicitly Christian
context of friendship, neighbourliness and love, are found in Herbert’s let
ters to his friend John Leighton, the Lieutenant Governor of Fort William in
Scotland. Herbert expressed an irrepressible keenness to hear about his friend
and his wife’s wellbeing in October 1754: ‘I can no longer forbear enquiring
after yor. Health & that of Mrs. Leighton. I hope you both enjoy it.’60 John
responded in kind at the start of his returning letter: ‘Mrs Leighton and I are
much obliged to yu for your kind enquiry after our Healths we thank God we
are boat [i.e. both] enjoy it well.’61 He closed the letter with language that
conveyed clearly how their united concern for Edmund overflowed: ‘Dr Sir Mrs
Leighton and I pour in our most Hearty wishes for your good Health and that
you may long enjoye it.’62 Leighton’s wife, Mary, was mentioned in the letters
often, sometimes as the target of Edmund’s sympathy. When John explained
the lateness of one letter with reference to his own headaches and Mary also
being unwell, Edmund’s reply attended to them both, hoping ‘you are both
recovered, & pray to God to keep you in Health’.63 Situating expressions of
sympathy about health and wellbeing in the context of God and faith was
common in many familiar letters.
A feeling connection between correspondents is palpable in these letters,
not least in the frequent expressions of worry over the correspondent’s
health. The letters that the Quaker merchant, John Eliot, wrote to his wife
in the 1760s expressed love and concern in equal measure. Repeatedly he
bemoaned their separation, reported on his own mood and physical state,
and expressed his anxiety about hers. The couple exchanged intimate details
of their sufferings with coughs and colds, as well as their relief at recovery.
A letter John received from Mary in September 1765 was ‘very acceptable’
because he was ‘truly glad to hear thy Cold was better, & that thou wast
otherwise bravely in Health’.64 Such concern was not reserved only for
John’s wife. He wrote similarly of his sister Mariabella’s ‘present ill State of
94 Karen Harvey
Health’ and admitted his ambivalence at having left her in this state: ‘This
brought Uneasiness over my Mind’.65 John’s letters to Mariabella are pre
dominantly about family health: his, hers, his wife’s, their mother’s, as well
as other people’s. The connection they forged by exchanging information
about the body sometimes edged into what appeared to be a shared experience
of illness. A letter of December 1765 reported that Mary had yet another
cold and presented his household’s experience of the virus as a mirror of
Mariabella’s:
Yesterday we got thine of the 9th with the agreeable account of thy
continuing in pretty good Health, altho’ observing you have not been
free from Colds, which seem to be a common Complaint here. I have
not been free from one since we parted. But my poor Wife has had a
sore time hers.66
I have not yet been favoured with a Line from you. I wish you had not
such a strong aversion to writing. I hope you are all well. If I hear
nothing from you I hear nothing bad, but it would much more
98 Karen Harvey
satisfactory to be assured from you that all is well – a Family is a close
connection. Separation causes tender feelings, hopes & fears respecting
the welfare of the absent parts. I hope you & children are well.92
Conclusion
In their habitual expressions of sympathy to friends and family, eighteenth-
century letters writers enacted some of the principal ideals of their society.
This was enlightened sensibility and harmonious society in practice. That
they did so under the influence of Enlightenment medical and social theory is
without doubt, though charting a clear influence is impossible given that
their letters do not refer to ‘key thinkers’ or their principal concepts. Indeed,
sympathy, identification, embodied connection was well established in
familiar letters from the late seventeenth century. This cautions us not to
over rely on literary or philosophical sources for our chronologies in the
Sympathy in practice 99
history of emotions. Emotional practice among friends, family and kin sug
gests these literary and philosophical works arose out of a longstanding
social practice. Though their sympathetic exchanges appear exemplary of
these specifically Western European ideas of sympathy, within which indi
viduals would indeed make particular strategic moves, these letters speak of
an enduring human desire to generate bonds not as an instrumental path to
a well-functioning society but for the sake of the bonds themselves and the
experience of mutual recognition as an end in itself.
The letter which began this chapter can be safely referred to as a ‘love
letter’. Yet all of the letters that have been discussed – between female
friends, between siblings of the same and of different sexes, between parents
and children – were ‘love letters’. As such, they strove to bring people
together and hold them close, even when they were at a physical distance.
As these letters show, sympathy was not a replacement for Christian love
but for eighteenth-century men and women worked alongside a Christian
faith that persisted in shaping their relationships and emotions.96 Concepts
of sympathy in the fields of medicine, philosophy and social theory pre
dicated their discussions of sympathetic connection between objects on the
distinction between those objects. The ambition of sympathetic practice in
letters was to see those distinctions dissolve. Sympathy, like love, entailed a
degree of selflessness and a disruption of the self.97 If the absence of the
body was the precondition for a letter, the letter was also the tool through
which the body was again made present and loved ones would be united in
sympathy.
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to thank Katie Barclay, Sarah Goldsmith, Sheryllynne
Haggerty and Abigail Williams for their comments on the chapter.
Notes
1 David Anderson to Christina Findley, 14 Dec 1787, f1v, Add MS 82675, British
Library (hereafter BL).
2 Christina Findley to David Anderson, 16 Dec 1787, f3, Add MS 82675, BL.
3 Christina Findley to David Anderson, 24 Jan 1788, f10, Add MS 82675, BL.
4 David Anderson to Christina Anderson, 3 Jul 1789, f77, Add MS 82675, BL.
5 Christina Anderson to David Anderson, 17 May 1789, f26, Add MS 82675, BL.
6 Christina Anderson to David Anderson, 17 May 1789, 27v, Add MS 82675, BL.
7 Sally Holloway, The Game of Love in Georgian England: Courtship, Emotions,
and Material Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 45–68.
8 Ibid., 68.
9 G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth
Century Britain (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1992).
10 Leonie Hannan, Women of Letters: Gender, Writing and the Life of the Mind in
Early Modern England (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), 156,
171–174.
100 Karen Harvey
11 For example, see Sarah M. S. Pearsall, Atlantic Families: Lives and Letters in the
later eighteenth century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 56–79; Abigail
Williams, ‘“I Hope to Write as Bad as Ever”: Swift’s Journal to Stella and the
Intimacy of Correspondence’, Eighteenth-Century Life, 35:1 (2011), 102–118;
Tessa Whitehouse, The Textual Culture of English Protestant Dissent 1720–1800
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 22–54; Isabel Rivers, Vanity Fair and
the Celestial City: Dissenting, Methodist, and Evangelical Literary Culture in
England 1720–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), especially 291–323.
12 Michael Boiger and Batja Mesquita, ‘The Construction of Emotion in Interac
tions, Relationships and Cultures’, Emotion Review (2012), 221–229.
13 Ryan Patrick Hanley, ‘The Eighteenth-Century Context of Sympathy from Spi
noza to Kant’, in Eric Schliesser (ed.), Sympathy: A History (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2015), 171.
14 These helpful definitions are given in Luigi Turco, ‘Sympathy and Moral Sense,
1725–1740’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 7 (1999), 79.
15 Hanley, ‘Eighteenth-Century Context’, 172–173.
16 Barker-Benfield, Culture of Sensibility, 1–23.
17 Fay Bound Alberti, ‘Bodies, Hearts and Minds: Why Emotions Matter to His
torians of Science and Medicine’, Isis, 100:4 (2009), 798–810; Ulinka Rublack,
‘Fluxes: The Early Modern Body and the Emotions’, History Workshop Journal,
53:1 (2002), 1–16; Olivia Weisser, Ill Composed: Sickness, Gender, and Belief in
early modern England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2015), 81–103.
18 Roy Porter, ‘Review of G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and
Society in Eighteenth Century Britain’, Journal of Social History, 28:4 (Summer
1995), 895.
19 Abram Van Engen, Sympathetic Puritans: Calvinist Fellow Feeling in Early New
England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); Christia Mercer, ‘Seventeenth-
Century Universal Sympathy: Stoicism, Platonism, Leibniz, and Conway’, in Eric
Schliesser (ed.), Sympathy: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015),
107–138.
20 Hanley, ‘Eighteenth-Century Context’, 174.
21 Ibid., 183–184, 198.
22 John Mullan, Sentiment and Sociability: The Language of Feeling in the Eight
eenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990).
23 Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759), I.1.1.5, quoted in Michelle
A. Schwarze and John T. Scott, ‘Mutual Sympathy and the Moral Economy:
Adam Smith Reviews Rousseau’, Journal of Politics, 81:1 (2019), 13.
24 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, I.i.2–4, quoted in Schwarze and Scott,
‘Mutual Sympathy’, 73.
25 Schwarze and Scott, ‘Mutual Sympathy’, 66–81.
26 Hanley, ‘Eighteenth-Century Context’, 192–194.
27 Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, I.ii.5.1, I.ii.4.1, quoted in Schwarze and
Scott, ‘Mutual Sympathy’, 77.
28 Fonna Forman-Barzilai, Adam Smith and the Circles of Sympathy: Cosmopoli
tanism and Moral Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).
29 Evan Gottlieb, Feeling British: Sympathy and National Identity in Scottish and
English Writing, 1707–1832 (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 2007).
30 Evelyn L. Forget, ‘Cultivating Sympathy: Sophie Condorcet’s Letters on Sym
pathy’, Journal of the History of Economic Thought, 23:3 (2001), 324–325.
31 Ibid., 319–337; Michael L. Frazer, The Enlightenment of Sympathy: Justice and
the Moral Sentimentalism in the Eighteenth Century and Today (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2010).
32 See Jonathan Lamb, The Evolution of Sympathy in the Long Eighteenth Century
(London: Pickering and Chatto, 2009), Mullan, Sentiment and Sociability and
Sympathy in practice 101
Ann Jessie van Sant, Eighteenth-Century Sensibility and the Novel: The Senses in
Social Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).
33 Jeanne M. Britton, Vicarious Narratives: A Literary History of Sympathy, 1750–
1850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), esp. 1–140.
34 Letter to Ralph Thoresby from Katherine [Catherine] Dockwray, 26 Aug 1681,
YAS/MS6/14, Brotherton Library, University of Leeds.
35 Copy of letter from Ralph Thoresby to ‘Honour’d Sr’, 29 Nov 1684, f1v. YAS/
MS6/43, Brotherton Library, University of Leeds.
36 Dorothy Wright to Catherine Elliott, dated ‘24 1746’ [no month, Apr or May],
f1, LD1576/1, Sheffield Archives (hereafter SA).
37 Dorothy Wright to Catherine Elliott, 23 May [1746?], LD1576/1, SA.
38 Dorothy Wright to Catherine Elliott, 27 May [1746?], LD1576/1, SA.
39 Williams, ‘“I Hope to Write as Bad as Ever”’, 103.
40 Richard Dalton to Samuel Mould, 10 Mar 1736, BAG/5/4/1/68, John Rylands
Library, Manchester.
41 John Smith to Rebecca Smith, 10 Mar 1726, LC/70/6, SA. See also Karen Harvey,
‘Epochs of Embodiment: Sex and the Material Body in the Eighteenth Century’,
Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies, 42:4 (2019), 458, 462–464.
42 Thomas Ward to ‘Mrs Herbert’ 23 Apr 1772 (with draft reply 28 Apr), f1r, f1v,
HE378, Huntington Library (hereafter HL).
43 Elizabeth Clift to William Clift 14 May 1794, f35, f36v, Add MS 39955, BL.
44 Elizabeth Clift to William Clift 18 Jan 1795, f39, Add MS 39955, BL.
45 ‘A Letter from a Person at Sea to his Friends on Shore’, Thomas Goodman, The
Experienc’d Secretary: or, Citizen and Countryman’s Companion (London, 1707),11.
46 On goal-based and rational views of emotions see: Robert Solomon, Not Pas
sion’s Slave: Emotions and Choice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003);
Martha Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions (Cam
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001).
47 Elizabeth Hare to Ann Hare, 13 Feb 1772, LD1576/4 (1), SA.
48 Elizabeth Hare to Ann Hare, no date, LD1576/4 (3), f1, SA.
49 Elizabeth Hare to Ann Hare, Saturday 19 Oct [no year], LD1576/4 (11), SA.
50 Forman-Barzilai, Adam Smith and the Circles of Sympathy, 62.
51 Monique Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice (and Is That What Makes
Them Have a History?) A Bourdieuian Approach to Understanding’, History and
Theory (2012), 193–220.
52 Williams, ‘“I Hope to Write as Bad as Ever”’, 105.
53 Elizabeth Cook, Epistolary Bodies: Gender and Genre in the Eighteenth-Century
Republic of Letters (Stanford, CA.: Stanford University Press, 1996), 12.
54 Ibid., 168, 169.
55 Konstantin Dierks, In My Power: Letter Writing and Communications in Early
America (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 107.
56 Lindsay O’Neill, The Opened Letter: Networking in the Early Modern British
World (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 118.
57 George Howell to John Rawlinson, 28 May 1698, f1r, DDHJ2/2/3, Rawlinson
family of Graythwaite, 1687–1806, Barrow Archives Centre.
58 John Yate to Edmund Herbert, 7 Nov 1749, with Herbert’s draft reply, F1r,
HE368, HL.
59 John Yate to Edmund Herbert, 7 Nov 1749, with Herbert’s draft reply, F1v,
HE368, HL.
60 Edmund Herbert to Col John Leighton, 17 Oct 1754. Copy, F1r, HE144, HL.
61 John Leighton to Edmund Herbert, 10 Dec 1754, F1r, HM145, HL.
62 John Leighton to Edmund Herbert, 10 Dec 1754, F1v, HM145, HL.
63 John Leighton to Edmund Herbert 15 Jun 1758, and Edmund’s draft reply of 28
Jul 1758, f2r, HE269, HL.
102 Karen Harvey
64 John Eliot to Mary Eliot, 30 Sep 1765, Acc.1017/1034, London Metropolitan
Archives [hereafter LMA].
65 John Eliot to Mariabella Eliot, 22 Jul 1761, ACC/1017/1024, LMA.
66 John Eliot to Mariabella Eliot, 12 Dec 1765, f1, ACC/1017/1025, LMA.
67 Mariabella Eliot to John Eliot, 20th Dec 1759, ACC/1017/1019, LMA.
68 Clare Brant, Eighteenth-Century Letters and British Culture (Basingstoke: Pal-
grave Macmillan, 2006), 19–21.
69 Christiana Shuttleworth to Ann Hare, 5 Aug 1780, f1, LD1576/5, SA.
70 Christiana Shuttleworth to Ann Hare, 5 Aug 1780, f1, LD1576/5, SA.
71 John Stutterd to Thomas Stutterd 16 May 1789, f1, SFP275, HL.
72 Jabez Stutterd to John Stutterd 20 May 1789, f1, SFP279, HL.
73 Evelyn L Forget, ‘Evocations of Sympathy: Sympathetic Imagery in Eighteenth-
Century Social Theory and Physiology’, History of Political Economy, 35:5
(2003), 284–288.
74 Pearsall, Atlantic Families, 83–89.
75 Forget, ‘Evocations of Sympathy’, 304.
76 Ibid., 294–295.
77 The Complete Letter-Writer: or, New and Polite English Secretary, 2nd edition
(London, 1756), 93.
78 Michael Stolberg, Experiencing Illness and the Sick Body in Early Modern
Europe (Basingstoke: Springer, 2011), 87–88.
79 The Complete Letter-Writer, 110.
80 William Rawlinson to his wife, 19 May 1706, DDHJ2/2/1, Barrow Archives Centre.
81 Lisa Wynne Smith, ‘“An Account of an Unaccountable Distemper”: The Experi
ence of Pain in Early Eighteenth-Century England and France’, Eighteenth-Cen
tury Studies, 41 (2008), 459.
82 Susanna Wesley to John and Charles Wesley, 21 Feb 1732, 2r, DDWF/2/9, John
Rylands Library.
83 Harvey, ‘Epochs of Embodiment’, 463–4.
84 John Stutterd to Thomas Stutterd 15 Dec 1780, f3, SFP35, HL.
85 John Stutterd to Thomas Stutterd 15 Jul 1780, SFP23, HL.
86 John Stutterd to Thomas Stutterd 26 Mar 1787, f4, SFP146, HL.
87 Thomas Stutterd to John Stutterd Mar 26–27 1787, f1–3, SFP147, HL.
88 John Stutterd to Thomas Stutterd 8 Apr 1787, SFP148, HL.
89 Thomas to John 16 Mar 1790, f1, SFP340, HL.
90 John Stutterd to Jabez Stutterd 2–5 Jul 1796, f1r, SFP681, HL.
91 Weisser, Ill Composed, 81–103.
92 Thomas Stutterd to Mary Stutterd 25 Sep 1788, SFP221, HL.
93 Noah Robert Black to Alick [Alexander Black] 11 Feb 1814, f1r-f1v, HM49197,
HL.
94 John Stutterd to Jabez Stutterd 12 Oct 1788, f2, SFP225, HL.
95 George Dyson to Thomas Stutterd, 17 Dec 1791, f1r, SFP440, HL.
96 See also Katie Barclay, Caritas: Neighbourly Love and the Early Modern Self
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021).
97 See for example Shiah, Yung-Jong, ‘From Self to Nonself: The Nonself Theory’,
Frontiers in Psychology, 7:124 (4 Feb 2016); Ildiko Csengei, Sympathy, Sensibility
and the Literature of Feeling in the Eighteenth Century (New York: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2012), 172–194.
5 ‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing’
Pain, play and the material text in
Jonathan Swift’s Journal to Stella
Abigail Williams
‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing …’.1 So ended a letter written by Jonathan
Swift on 30 March 1712. The cryptic phrase shows him struggling to
describe the torment of his recent attack of shingles, searching for a sound
and a metaphor to capture his physical discomfort. In its physicality and
aurality it is not unusual – the letter is one of a series written between 1710
and 1713 and published posthumously as the Journal to Stella, in which the
exiled Irish clergyman offered a detailed and often graphic account of his life
in London to his two closest female friends, Esther Johnson and Rebecca
Dingley, who were living in Dublin. Part diary, part political history, part
personal correspondence, the Journal to Stella offers a remarkable insight
into the varied intersections between body and letter in this period. In the
public and political context, Swift used his text to record the physical ail
ments of the notable figures who dominated his working life in London: his
sense of professional vulnerability is reflected in his preoccupation with the
failing health of Queen Anne and the Lord Treasurer, Robert Harley. The let
ters often seem to link these very public bodies to Swift’s own physical experi
ences, which, as seen in the title quotation, he charted with some attention.
What we also find in the Journal to Stella is an acute self-awareness of the way
the letter can substitute for the body, and create a form of textual intimacy.
Swift frequently reminds Johnson and Dingley not only of the haptic qualities
of the letter, but also of the bodily circumstances in which he writes, making
them look anew at the paper in their hands. And finally, within the surviving
manuscripts of the letters, we see a text materially shaped by the corporeal:
unable to control his pen while he was ill, Swift stopped writing the dis
tinctively cramped and playfully obscured letters with which he used to
tease his friends: the letters written in illness look very different from those
composed in health. This chapter uses the printed and manuscript sources
for the Journal to Stella to tease out some of the many ways in which
eighteenth-century correspondence and its material presentation offered
insights into public and private bodies, real and imagined.
Over the past three decades there has been sustained critical interest in
Swift’s depiction of the human body. His imaginative and political works
draw powerfully on the shock of the physical and, as has been widely
DOI: 10.4324/9781003027256-8
104 Abigail Williams
recognised, he frequently uses images of the body to question the con
temporary understanding of the civilised or the ideal. In his satirical
pamphlet, A Modest Proposal (1729), he evokes the tender young flesh of
Irish infants in order to attack English economic and political policy in Ire
land. Graphic descriptions of monstrous Brobdingnagian breasts and child
ish defecation in Gulliver’s Travels (1726) are used to mock the truth-telling
rhetoric of contemporary travel narratives, and to defamiliarise the norms of
contemporary society. As has been well documented, poems which seem to
mock the idealisation of the female form, such as ‘A Beautiful Young
Nymph Going to Bed’ (1734), or ‘The Lady’s Dressing Room’ (1732) with
its climactic revelation that ‘Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!’, return obsessively
to the hidden flaws and secretions of the natural female body.2 In ostensibly
satirising the naivety of the narrator, such poems effectively force the reader
into complicity with his acts of horrified witnessing. Carol Houlihan Flynn
has argued that Swift’s writings about the body and, in particular, the
female body, show him trying to control appetite by demystifying the female
body, containing it through nursery games that he controls.3 She examines
the trope of fascinated revulsion that recurs throughout the works, and the
way in which this offers a form of mediation of Swift’s personal responses.
Other critics have drawn attention to the way Swift uses resemblances
between the political and natural body to explore the problematic nature of
individuality, or have discussed the deployment of images of physical bru
tality and cannibalism across his works.4 This chapter explores the way in
which the epistolary framework of Journal to Stella links the Swiftian return
to the body with the materiality of the text. It argues that the letter series
offers us new perspectives on ideas of public and private bodies, orality and
the representation of speech and intimacy and materiality.
Public bodies
The letters that make up the Journal to Stella were all written between 1710
and 1713, and were first published posthumously as a discrete collection
entitled the Journal to Stella in Thomas Sheridan’s collected The Works of
the Rev. Dr Swift in 1784.5 Not one of the replies from the two women
survives; and only a third of Swift’s letters still exist in manuscript.6 The
Journal to Stella recounts Swift’s experiences of the three most politically
active and exciting years of his career in a series of familiar and apparently
unguarded epistles to the two women. The letters are a curious blend of
high political narrative, personal memoir, business transaction, and flirta
tious exchange. As this suggests, the Journal to Stella is at once a private
and a public document. It is a form of life-writing: a journal communicated
in letter form to at least two external readers. And at the same time, it is a
narrative of contemporary political events. During the period covered by the
Journal to Stella series, Swift was working in London on government busi
ness, sent on behalf of the Church of Ireland to negotiate with the English
‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing’ 105
authorities and gain for the Irish clergy remission by the Crown of England
of a set of clerical levies known as the First Fruits and Twentieth Parts. For
Swift, this period brought about both a political realignment and a profes
sional transformation from a relatively obscure Irish clergyman to one con
sidered for an English bishopric, and finally appointed Dean of St Patrick’s
in Dublin. It was an episode in his career which marked his closest point of
contact with political power in England, a time during which he saw himself
as central to the fraught governmental dynamics of the final years of Queen
Anne’s reign.
Across the course of three years of correspondence with Johnson and
Dingley, Swift relates both his daily social encounters with the political elite
and the broader events of his time. We hear first-hand of the furious par
liamentary debates around the conduct of the war of the Spanish Succession,
the rivalry between Harley and St John, the ongoing presence of Jacobite
intrigue, alongside the workings of the coffeehouse culture of the period and
the social lives of the political elite. Because of the first-hand, detailed nature
of their content, Swift’s observations have become a primary source for
many historical accounts of the period. While we have no evidence to sug
gest that he ever intended the Journal to Stella letters to be published, he
was clearly aware of their historiographical potential as a memoir of a life
lived in exciting times. At times he seems to present the Journal to Stella as
a first draft of contemporary history, and we can glimpse some of his exci
tement in being present as history is made: ‘this is a long journal, and of a
day that may produce great alterations, and hazard the ruin of England … I
shall know more soon, and my letters will at least be a good history to shew
you the steps of this change.’7 Here the notion of journal is not so much
daily intimate record of domestic routine but journal as historical memoir.
Elsewhere he seems to think of the letters as something more like a secret
history, a behind-the-scenes narrative of high political life, comparable with
the eyewitness revelations of contemporary authors such as Daniel Defoe
and Delariviere Manley. Swift’s self-conscious recognition of the correspon
dence as a form of historical record is evident in his early description of the
series: ‘These letters of mine are a sort of journal, where matters open by
degrees; and, as I tell true or false, you will find by the event whether my
intelligence be good.’8
We might assume that Swift’s representation of the body would be con
fined to the personal, familiar aspect of the Journal to Stella and his direct
exchanges with his two female friends. But this is not the case: his accounts
of the high political life of the nation have a recursive move towards the
physical, and it is through the lens of bodily illness and its described symp
toms that Swift reflects his anxiety over the precariousness of the con
temporary political context. In some ways this is not surprising – the health
of the childless and frequently bedridden Queen Anne was a matter of
national concern, a constant reminder of the fragile nature of the Protestant
succession. Her body and its repeated failures and losses was at the heart of
106 Abigail Williams
ongoing anxiety about the future of the nation.9 While the Act of Settlement
of 1702 had theoretically secured the throne after Anne’s death for the
Hanoverian heirs of the German Protestant Electress Sophia, this arrange
ment was potentially open to contest from a Jacobite claimant, and thus the
prospect of Catholic rule. The vexed question of the succession and all its
national and international implications runs through the political debates of
the first decade of the eighteenth century and is reflected in a wide range of
texts. Ambrose Phillips’s 1709 pastoral poems refashioned contemporary
Whig anxiety over the Queen’s frailty as a series of bucolic interludes in
which shepherds worried over the fate of their flock:
Here Swift’s record of his own symptoms seems to overlap with his map
ping of the Queen’s illness, further reinforcing the seemingly symbiotic
relationship between the political health of the nation and the wellbeing of
the letter-writer.
Swift’s physical lens on contemporary public life was not confined to
Queen Anne: the other significant figure around whom his life, happiness
and prospects depended was his chief patron, the Lord Treasurer, Robert
Harley. Swift’s sense of emotional connection with the man to whom he
owed a large part of his public success is nowhere more manifest than in his
account of the failed assassination attempt on Harley in March 1711. On 8
March, Antoine de Guiscard, a French spy, was being examined in a cabinet
meeting, when he suddenly moved forward, produced a knife and stabbed
Harley twice. Although the knife broke, lessening the impact, the Treasurer
was seriously injured, and he spent the next six weeks in bed. During the
period of this confinement, Swift published a formal account of the failed
assassination in a pamphlet, and kept careful track of the progress of Harley’s
health in his Journal to Stella. In the letters, his own physical and emotional
suffering feature prominently, and it is notable that in this context, ‘pain’ is
both an emotional and a physical sensation. Swift wrote immediately after the
attack to Johnson and Dingley ‘I am in mortal pain for him. … Pray pardon my
distraction; I now think of all his kindness to me – The poor creature now lies
stabbed in his bed by a desperate French popish villain. Good night, and God
preserve you both, and pity me; I want it.’19 Two days later, he is clearly
cheered by the first signs of recovery from Harley:
This morning Mr. secretary and I met at Court, where he went to the
queen, who is out of order and aguish: I doubt the worse for this acci
dent to Mr. Harley. We went together to his house, and his wound
looks well, and he is not feverish at all, and I think it is foolish in me to
be so much in pain as I am.20
Swift was to continue to link the two incidents in his letters to Johnson and
Dingley: ‘My journals are like to be very diverting, now I cannot stir
abroad, between accounts of Mr. Harley’s mending, and of my broken
shin.’23 The assassination attempt releases a fascination with the sick and
injured body that colours all he sees. Confined at first by his injury to his
sick bed, he resorts to telling Johnson and Dingley about their mutual friend
Biddy Floyd’s battle with the smallpox, of another woman recently dead of
the same disease, and of the assassin, Guiscard’s painful death of his
wounds and blood loss. Once able to get out and about again, he visits his
friends and brings back further bodily encounters:
Mr. Harley is not yet well, but his extravasated blood continues, and I
doubt he will not be quite well in a good while: I find you have heard of
the fact by Southwell’s letters from Ireland: What do you think of it? I
dined with Sir John Percival, and saw his lady sitting in the bed, in the
forms of a lying-in woman; and coming home my sore shin itched, and I
forgot what it was, and rubbed off the s—b, and blood came; but I am
now got into bed, and have put on allum curd, and it is almost well.24
In this passage, Swift moves from his reportage of Harley’s recovery, to the
appearance of an acquaintance during her confinement, to his own recent
injury. While they are none of them causally connected, we can see the way
in which Swift circles around public bodies and private bodies, to return,
rather graphically, to the skin and blood of his own. It is a move repeated
elsewhere in the Journal to Stella, where Swift continually grounds his
anxiety and fascination with the physical within the detail of his own
corporeality.
One of the most striking aspects of the story of the failed assassination,
particularly from a modern perspective, is the way in which Swift memor
ialised his connection to the event through material objects. He writes in the
immediate aftermath of the stabbing: ‘I had the penknife in my hand, which
is broken within a quarter inch of the handle. I have a mind to write and
publish an account of all the particularities of this fact: it will be very cur
ious.’25 He kept both the knife and the plaster from Harley’s wound until
his death, when they were handed back to the Harley family. A letter from
John Lyon, his executor, records:
The broken knife, the discarded plaster – these seem to come to bear a
totemic significance for Swift, a connection through objects to the threa
tened body, and the threatened body politic, to which he was bound in such
close connection, and an emblem of recovery. It is interesting that although
he would later come to feel he had been failed by the Tory ministry, and
write a series of poems and prose pieces representing Harley in a less flat
tering light, he nonetheless held on to these relics. The attempted assassi
nation was a moment when his political status was assured: he was close to
those at the heart of power, and he was valued. Political intimacy endured
through the affairs and things of the body.?
What’s all this to you? What care you for Atterburys and Smallridges?
No, you care for nothing but Presto, faith. So I’ll rise, and bid you
farewel; yet I’m loth to do so, because there is a great bit of paper yet to
talk upon; but Dingley will have it so: Yes, says she, make your journals
shorter, and send them oftener; and so I will.37
Or
I was this morning to visit the dean, or Mr. Prolocutor, I think you call
him, don’t you? Why should not I go to the dean’s as well as you? A
little black man of pretty near fifty? Aye, the same, A good pleasant
man? Aye, the same. Cunning enough? Yes. One that understands his
own interests? As well as any body. How comes it MD and I don’t meet
‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing’ 111
there sometimes? A very good face, and abundance of wit; do you know
his lady? O Lord! whom do you mean? I mean Dr. Atterbury, dean of
Carlisle and Prolocutor. Pshaw, pdfr, you are a fool: I thought you had
meant our dean of St. Patrick’s. – Silly, silly, silly, you are silly, both are
silly, every kind of thing is silly.38
experience of language of this kind and evidence from the forms Swift
writes shows that the lips must be strongly pursed and the speech in
consequence would be markedly labialised. This posture is the ‘com
forting’ position used in baby-talk to infants, chiefly by women.45
Swift returns again and again to the figure of the nurse and wet nurse in his
writings, and through the little language of the Journal to Stella, that figure
is mediated in linguistic terms.46 We see the insistent physicality of speech in
the Journal to Stella letters: part written in a form of language which insis
ted upon oral presentation, in the act of reading aloud the reader was forced
to adopt physical postures which reflected early childhood intimacies. The
physical, oral delivery demanded by Swift’s writing is intrinsically connected
to emotional intimacy within the group. In letter 10, he writes of one of his
corrections: ‘Faith, I could hardly forbear our little language about a nasty
dead chancellor, as you may see by the blot.’47 The chancellor was evidently
an unworthy subject of the special language that the three friends used.
There is an explicit link between the choice of linguistic form and the ideal
of a separation of emotional space within the form of the letter. The little
language seems here to be associated with an innocence, or an intimacy
untainted by the rest of the world it excludes.48
In other places his writing is charged with sexual innuendo. He conjures his
body for the two women in various states of undress, his and their bodies
imagined in ways they were almost certainly not mutually known. On 5
February 1711 he writes: ‘’tis still terribly cold – I wish my cold hand was in
the warmest place about you, young women.’58 He refers to them as ‘dee
lestsawcy doxes’ and ‘extravagant sluttikins’. Throughout, they are made
complicit in risqué jokes that would have been deeply inappropriate for two
virginal maiden ladies in their middle years. He writes of the ladies of Ire
land, ‘who never walk at all, as if their legs were of no use, but to be laid
aside’.59 He repeats verses written on St John: ‘Gently I wait the call of
Charon’s boat, / Still drinking like a fish and —— like a stoat.’60 Within this
letter series, absence seems to enable virtual intimacies, and virtual liberties
which were not possible, or perhaps even desirable in real life. Located at
great geographical and temporal distance from his readers, Swift imagines a
present-tense intimacy in which the letter creates a bodily connection far
surpassing that ever likely to have been realised – he once claimed never to
have been on his own in a room alone with Esther Johnson in his life.61 The
epistolary form of the Journal to Stella created bodily encounters that
transgressed most of the norms of the relationships underpinning it. It
enabled Swift to ‘speak’ and imagine acting in ways that were not otherwise
permitted.
And now let us come and see what this saucy dear letter of MD says.
Come out, letter, come out from between the sheets; here it is under
neath, and it won’t come out. Come out again, I say: so there. Here it
‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing’ 115
is. What says pdfr to me, pray? says it. Come, and let me answer for
you to your ladies. Hold up your head then, like a good letter. There.
Pray, how have you got up with pdfr? madam Ppt. You write your
eighth when you receive mine: now I write my twelfth, when I receive
your eighth. Don’t you allow for what are upon the road, simpleton?
What say you to that?62
The extant manuscript letters from this period of good health show us a con
sistent presentation: individually numbered letters with a cramped patchwork
of dense script, in which each daily entry begins on the left hand side and fin
ishes pushed up to the margin on the right hand side. The endearments and
little language are often obliterated with a swirled form of crossing out. The
margins are almost non-existent; the compressed hand often hard to read.
However, this changes with Swift’s prolonged attack of shingles in the spring
of 1712. He began to feel ill on 29 March, plagued with pains in his shoulder,
which he first attributed to rheumatism, and then he became sicker, resuming
his journal after a period of days missed. When he did resume, he offered a very
detailed description of his illness and symptoms:
31. Ap. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,–8. All these days I have been extreamly ill, tho I
twice crawld out a week ago; but am now recovering, thô very weak; The
violence of my Pain abated the night before last; I will just tell Y how I was
& then send away this Lettr wch ought to have gone Saterday last. The
Pain encreasd with mighty Violence in my left Shouldr & Collar bone &
that side my Neck. On Thursday morning appeared great Red Spots in all
those Places where my Pain was, & the violence of the Pain was confined
to my Neck behind a little on the left side; which was so violent that I not a
minutes ease nor hardly a minutes sleep in 3 days & nights. the Spots
encreasd every day & had little Pimples which are now grown white & full
of corruption [tho] small. the Red still continues too, and most prodigious
hott & inflamed. The Disease is the Shingles I eat nothing but Water
gruell; I am very weak but out of all violent Pain. The Doctrs say it would
have ended in some violent Disease if it had not came out thus. I shall now
recover fast. I have been in no danger of Life, but miserable Torture, I must
not write too much – so adieu.63
Conclusion
Swift’s Journal to Stella letters foreground many aspects of the epistolary
body that are explored elsewhere in this collection. We can see the way in
which the body mediates private and public concerns, how writing for
reading aloud can create its own striking and immediate orality, and how
the letter can forge intimacy through a range of textual and material strate
gies. The Journal to Stella demonstrates the degree to which the somatic can
operate as a reflection of external concerns, at the same time as it performs
versions of erotic intimacy. What is perhaps most striking reading across the
textual and material evidence of these missives is the insight they offer into
the letter as a genre which enables forms of physicality not possible in the
real world. It can enable the writer to say and imagine words and scenarios
very far from the lived reality of the relationships underpinning the corre
spondence. In the Journal to Stella, letters embody imagined situations and
intimacies that extend far beyond those known or probably even desired by
Swift and his friends. As the twenty-first-century reader pries into the dimly
lit word games of this curious threesome, she is struck by the creative lib
erties unleashed by the epistolary form, its ability to take both reader and
writer into newly imagined physical and mental spaces. Yet at the same
time, the letters manifest the very real limitations of the body, its weak
nesses and discomforts a context which shapes the very form of the epistle
itself.
Notes
1 Jonathan Swift, Journal to Stella: Letters to Esther Johnson and Rebecca Dingley
1710–1713, (ed.), Abigail Williams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2013), 419.
2 See, for example, Carol Houlihan Flynn, The Body in Swift and Defoe (Cam
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).
3 Ibid., 5.
4 James Ward, ‘Personations: The Political Body in Jonathan Swift’s Fiction’, Irish
University Review, 41 (2011), 40–53; Claude Rawson, God, Gulliver and Geno
cide: Barbarism and the European Imagination (Oxford: Cambridge University
Press, 2002); Julia K. Callander, ‘Cannibalism and Communion in Swift’s
“Receipt to Restore Stella’s Youth”’, Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900, 54
(2014), 585–604; Ronald Paulson, ‘Swift, Stella, and Permanence’, ELH, 27
(1960), 298–314.
‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing’ 119
5 The works of the Rev. Dr. Jonathan Swift, Dean of St. Patrick’s, Dublin.
Arranged, Revised, and Corrected, with Notes, by Thomas Sheridan, A. M.
(London, 1784).
6 For an account of the textual history of the journal and its combination of
printed and manuscript copy texts, see Abigail Williams’s introduction in Swift,
Journal to Stella, lxxi–lxxxiv.
7 Swift, Journal to Stella, 342.
8 Ibid., 36.
9 Anne experienced seventeen pregnancies over the course of her reign. There were
multiple miscarriages, six still-born infants, two babies who died within hours of
birth, and two daughters who died as infants. Her son and heir William, Duke of
Gloucester died at 11 years old.
10 Ambrose Philips, second pastoral, Poems of Ambrose Philips, (ed.), M. G. Segar
(Oxford: Blackwell, 1937), 50.
11 Daniel Defoe, An Answer to a Question that No Body Thinks of, viz, But What
If the Queen Should Die? (London, 1713).
12 Swift, Journal to Stella, 260.
13 Ibid., 409.
14 Ibid., 520.
15 Ibid., 243.
16 For history and interpretation of the theory of the monarch’s two bodies, see E.
H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieval Political Theol
ogy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957). On the literary repre
sentation of Elizabeth’s body and succession anxieties, see Marie Axton, The
Queen’s Two Bodies, Drama and the Elizabethan Succession (London: Royal
Historical Society, 1977). For studies of shifting political mythologies around
Elizabeth I, James I, and Charles I, and their literary and artistic uses, see Jona
than Goldberg, James I and the Politics of Literature: Jonson, Shakespeare,
Donne and their Contemporaries (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1983).
17 On the link between humoral theory and models of authority and the body
politic, see Roy Porter and G. S. Rousseau, Gout: The Patrician Malady (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press,1998); Mark Harrison, Medicine in an Age of
Commerce & Empire: Britain and its Tropical Colonies 1660–1830 (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2010).
18 Swift, Journal to Stella, 445.
19 Ibid., 159.
20 Ibid., 161.
21 Ibid., 161.
22 Ibid., 162.
23 Ibid., 163.
24 Ibid., 167–168.
25 Ibid., 161–162.
26 John Lyon to Deane Swift, 8 Mar 1783, National Art Library, Forster MS
570.
27 ‘On the death of Mrs Johnson’, Miscellaneous and Autobiographical Pieces,
Fragments and Marginalia, in Prose Works of Jonathan Swift, (ed.), Herbert
Davis (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1939–1968), 5, 227–236.
28 On Rebecca Dingley’s family background, see Margaret Toynbee, ‘The Two Sir
John Dingleys’, Notes & Queries, 198 (1953), 478–483.
29 The Account Books of Jonathan Swift, eds. Paul V Thompson and Dorothy Jay
Thompson (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 1984), xxxv.
30 Swift, Journal to Stella, 187.
120 Abigail Williams
31 Ibid., 362.
32 Ibid., 251.
33 Ibid., 432.
34 Ibid., 350. On Swift’s attitudes to and depiction of pregnancy and maternity, see
Louise Barnett, Jonathan Swift in the Company of Women (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2006), 103–124.
35 See Gary Schneider, Vernacular Letters and Letter-Writing in Early Modern
England, 1500–1700 (Delaware: University of Delaware, 2005), 29; Janet Gurkin
Altman, Epistolarity: Approaches to a Form (Ohio: Ohio State University Press,
1982), 135; Clare Brant, Eighteenth-Century Letters and British Culture (Basing
stoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 22.
36 Frederik N. Smith, ‘Dramatic Elements in Swift’s Journal to Stella’, Eighteenth-
Century Studies, 1 (1968), 332–52.
37 Swift, Journal to Stella, 111.
38 Ibid., 113.
39 Ibid., 51.
40 Ibid., 452, 472, 493, 486.
41 Ibid., 440.
42 On the tropes of sight and vision and the reading aloud of the letters, see Aileen
Douglas, ‘Mrs. Dingley’s Spectacles: Swift, Print and Desire’, Eighteenth-Century
Ireland / Iris an Dá Chultúr 10 (1995), 69–77.
43 Swift, Journal to Stella, 157–158.
44 Ibid., 62.
45 E. M. Whitley, ‘Contextual Analysis and Swift’s Little Language of the Journal
to Stella’, in In Memory of J. R. Firth, (ed.), C. E. Bazell et al. (London: Long-
man, 1966), 475–500, 490.
46 On Swift’s recurring interest in nurse and wet nursing, see Flynn, The Body in
Swift and Defoe, 100–105.
47 Swift, Journal to Stella, 77.
48 For further discussion, see Abigail Williams, ‘“I Hope to Write as Bad as Ever”:
Swift’s Journal to Stella and the Intimacy of Correspondence’, Eighteenth-Cen
tury Life, 35 (2011), 102–118.
49 Swift, Journal to Stella, 16.
50 Ibid., 84.
51 Ibid., 38.
52 Ibid., 86.
53 Ibid., 172.
54 Ibid., 19.
55 Ibid., 133.
56 Ibid., 202.
57 Ibid., 115.
58 Ibid., 134.
59 Ibid., 208.
60 Ibid., 119. On Swift’s complex attitude towards gender and sexual innuendo
in the Journal, see Barnett, Jonathan Swift in the Company of Women,
47–48.
61 There has been considerable critical discussion of the nature of the relationship
between Swift and Johnson, including theories of a secret marriage, which date
back to the mid eighteenth century. For a summary of the various theories, see
Barnett, Jonathan Swift in the Company of Women, 40–42.
62 Swift, Journal to Stella, 105–106.
63 Ibid., 420.
‘Urge, urge, urge, dogs gnawing’ 121
64 For a fuller discussion of Swift’s relationship with Vanhomrigh, see Barnett,
Swift in the Company of Women, 60–72.
65 Swift, Journal to Stella, 422.
66 Ibid., 425.
67 Ibid., 429.
68 See Abigail Williams, ‘The Difficulties of Swift’s Journal to Stella’, The Review
of English Studies, New Series, 62:257 (November 2011), 758–776.
6 Blackness, whiteness and bodily
degeneration in British women’s
letters from India
Onni Gust
I will not pretend to determine (on a point which has been often urged)
whether black people are by nature inferior in understanding to white,
who can judge it here, where the nature of the government checks the
growth of every virtue … In such a government can we wonder, that
the general character of the inhabitants should be stupidity and low
cunning?63
Conclusion
Historians of white women’s travel writing from ‘the East’ in general, and
India in particular, have focused on the ways in which women used their
observations of different cultures to negotiate and construct white feminin
ity. This important discussion has shown how, despite the oppressions of
patriarchy under which white women lived and wrote, the knowledge that
they produced and the subjecthood that they were able to claim as a result
of their whiteness rendered them complicit in the colonial project. As Feli
city Nussbaum has argued, during the eighteenth century this culture and its
intersections with white femininity were in the process of being configured.
In this context, British women travel writers to ‘the East’ used travel less as
a means of upholding ‘British femininity’ and more as a way of evading,
critiquing and reframing it.96 This chapter has shown how British women’s
letters brought race, beauty and ideals of femininity together to construct
the meaning of whiteness. It has argued that their letters reconfigured, rein
forced and recirculated ideas of ‘blackness’ and ‘whiteness’ that formed an
integral part of emergent ‘race’ science that was a critical part of Enlight
enment knowledge formation. Unlike natural history, philosophy and medi
cal treatises, however, British women’s letters offer a more personal
relationship to questions of ‘race’. Their proximity to difference and the
increasing threat posed by that difference to their own whiteness meant that
their assertions of the superiority of whiteness were themselves perfor
mances of belonging to a ‘white’, British community of readers.
Eighteenth-century British women’s published and unpublished letters
from India engaged with, and contributed to, wider Enlightenment debates
about human variation. The differences between these debates and their
own, internal contradictions over the meaning of skin colour reflect the
ambivalences, uncertainties and overlapping theories that were circulating
during this period. In different ways and to different extents, Smart, Kin
dersley, Fay and Mackintosh engaged with the questions of racial difference
that were taking place in the wider literary and philosophical world around
them. None of these letter-writers, however, developed their thoughts on
‘race’ in any systematic fashion, neither were they intended to provide in-
depth commentary on the meaning of human variation. In many ways, it is
the lack of systemisation in these letters that reveal the ways in which the
ories of human variation were woven into the fabric of epistolary con
versation as modes of thinking that generated and recited a common-sense
understanding of difference. Surrounded by people whose skin colours and
cultures were remarkably different from their own, these British women
Blackness, whiteness and bodily degeneration 137
letter-writers drew on the wider discourse human variation and emergent
discourses of ‘race’, in part to make sense of that alterity and in part to
speak to an audience for whom that discourse represented a shared point of
encounter. From Jane Smart’s brief account of her meeting with the elite
women of the Nawab of Arcot’s household to Mackintosh’s derisive repre
sentation of the physical and moral decay she witnessed among Anglo-
Indians in Bombay, all four letter-writers positioned themselves as observers
of a strange, unfamiliar, and increasingly undesirable, world.
Notes
1 Anne Bulley, The Bombay Country Ships, 1790–1833 (London: Routledge, 2013),
58, 100.
2 Catherine Mackintosh, ‘A Political Epistle to Sir J M on his return to Bombay
from Point de Galle with notes. Cumbrian at Sea, 1 May 1810’, British Library
[hereafter BL], Add MS 78771a, 139–145.
3 Ibid., 144.
4 Kevin Siena, Rotten Bodies: Class and Contagion in 18th-Century Britain (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2019), 21–27.
5 See Antoinette Burton and Tony Ballantyne (eds), Bodies in Contact: Rethinking
Colonial Encounters in World History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005).
6 Mark Harrison, Climates and Constitutions: Health, Race, Environment and
British Imperialism in India (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
7 Roxann Wheeler, The Complexion of Race: Categories of Difference in Eight
eenth-Century British Culture (Philadelphia, PA: Philadelphia University Press,
2010); Andrew Curran, The Anatomy of Blackness: Science and Slavery in an
Age of Enlightenment (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011).
8 Dena Goodman, The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French
Enlightenment (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994), 5–6.
9 Margot Finn, ‘Presidential Address: Material Turns in British History: III. Col
lecting: Colonial Bombay, Basra, Baghdad and the Enlightenment Museum’,
Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 30 (2020): 1–28.
10 Liz Stanley, ‘The Epistolarium: on Theorizing Letters and Correspondences’,
Auto/Biography, 12 (2004): 201–235.
11 Rebecca Earle, ‘Introduction: Letters, Writers and the Historian,’ Epistolary Selves:
Letters and Letter-Writers 1600–1945, Rebecca Earle (ed.), (Aldershot: Ashgate,
1999), 1–11; Susan Whyman, The Pen and the People: English Letter-Writers 1660–
1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Roger Chartier, Alain Boureau and
Cécile Dauphin, Correspondence: Models of Letter-Writing from the Middle Ages
to the Nineteenth Century, trans., Christopher Woodall (Cambridge: Polity Press,
1997); Eve Tavor Bannet, Empire of Letters: Letter Manuals and Transatlantic
Correspondence, 1688–1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).
12 See Onni Gust, ‘The Perilous Territory of Not Belonging: Exile and Empire in Sir
James Mackintosh’s Letters from Early Nineteenth-Century Bombay’, History
Workshop Journal, 86 (2018): 22–43; Sarah Pearsall, Atlantic Families: Lives and
Letters in the Later Eighteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008);
Laura Ishiguro, Nothing to Write Home About: British Family Correspondence
and the Settler-Colonial Everyday (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2019).
13 [Jane Smart], ‘Part of a Letter from a Lady at Fort St George, 1742’, Nottingham
University Manuscripts and Special Collections, MeX1/3, n. See H. D. Love,
Vestiges of Old Madras, 1640–1800 (London: J. Murray, 1913), 280–284.
138 Onni Gust
14 Mrs Kindersley, Letters from the Island of Teneriffe, Brazil, the Cape of Good
Hope, and the East Indies (London: J. Norse, 1777); Carl Thompson, ‘Introduc
tion’, in Carl Thompson (ed.), Women’s Travel Writing in India, 1777–1854
(Abingdon: Routledge, 2020), xiii; Felicity Nussbaum, ‘British Women Write the
East after 1750: Revisiting a “Feminine” Orient’, in J. Batchelor and C. Kaplan
(eds), British Women’s Writing in the Long Eighteenth Century: Authorship,
Politics and History (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 121–139; Rosem
ary Raza, ‘The Role of Early British Women Writers in Shaping Perspectives of
India’, South Asian Review, 30:2 (2009):192–216.
15 Eliza Fay, Original Letters from India, introduction Simon Winchester, annotated
by E. M. Forster (New York: New York Review Books, 2010); Nussbaum,
‘British Women’, 132–133.
16 Mackintosh, ‘Political Epistle’.
17 Kindersley, Letters, 1. For Kindersley’s part in Enlightenment literature, see Karen
O’Brien, Women and Enlightenment in Eighteenth-Century Britain (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2009), 97–98.
18 Anon., ‘Letters from the Island of Teneriffe, Brazi, the Cape of Good Hope, and
the East Indies. By Mrs Kindersley. 8vo.3s.6d. Nourse’, in The Westminster
Magazine (London, 1777), 434.
19 E.M. Forster, ‘Introductory Notes’, in Eliza Fay, Original Letters, 7–8.
20 On the political epistle as a genre, see Catriona Kennedy, ‘“Womanish Epistles?”
Martha McTier, Female Epistolary and Late Eighteenth-Century Irish Radical
ism’, Women’s History Review, 13:4 (2004), 649–668.
21 31 Jan 1820, BL Add MS 52444, 40; ‘Extreme Heat at Bagdad’, The Edinburgh
Philosophical Journal, 3 (Edinburgh: Archibald Constable and Company, April–
October 1820), 197.
22 Joan Mickelson Gaughan, The ‘Incumberances’: British Women in India, 1615–
1856 (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2013), 103–115.
23 Tillman W. Nechtman, ‘Nabobinas: Luxury, Gender, and the Sexual Politics of
British Imperialism in India in the Late Eighteenth Century’, Journal of Women’s
History, 18:4 (2006), p.11.
24 See Nechtman, ‘Nabobinas’; Margot Finn, ‘The Female World of Love and
Empire: Women, Family and East India Company Politics at the End of the
Eighteenth Century’, Gender and History, 31:1 (2019), 7–24; Katherine Butler
Schofield, ‘Sophia Plowden, Khanum Jan, and Hindustani airs’, retrieved from
http://blogs.bl.uk/asian-and-african/2018/06/sophia-plowden-khanum-jan-and-hin
dustani-airs.html (accessed 9 January 2022).
25 For discussion of nineteenth-century British women in India, see Margaret MacMil
lan, Women of the Raj: the Mothers, Wives and Daughters of the British Empire in
India (London: Thames and Hudson, 1988); Sara Mills, Discourses of Difference: An
Analysis of Women’s Travel Writing and Colonialism (London: Psychology Press,
1991); Indira Ghose, Women Travellers in Colonial India: The Power of the Female
Gaze (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998); and Rosemary Raza, In Their Own
Words: British Women Writers and India, 1740–1857 (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2006). Much of the published writing has been recently re-edited and introduced
here: Carl Thompson, Kartina O’Loughlin, Éadaoin Agnew, Betty Hagglund,
Women’s Travel Writings in India, 1777–1854 (New York: Routledge, 2020).
26 See Sekhar Bandyopadhyay, From Plassey to Partition: A History of Modern
India (Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan, 2009), ch. 1.
27 For Anglo-Mysore wars, see Irfan Habib (ed.), Confronting Colonialism: Resis
tance and Modernization Under Haidar Ali and Tipu Sultan (London: Anthem
Press, 2002).
28 See Robert Travers, Ideology and Empire in Eighteenth-Century India (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2007), ch. 6.
Blackness, whiteness and bodily degeneration 139
29 Durba Ghosh, Sex and the Family in Colonial India: The Making of Empire
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 8.
30 See Balachandra Rajan, Under Western Eyes: India from Milton to Macaulay
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999); Kate Teltscher, India Inscribed:
European and British Writing on India, 1600–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1995).
31 Ghose, Women Travellers; Raza, In Their Own Words.
32 Mills, Discourses of Difference.
33 Smart, ‘Part of a Letter’, n.p.
34 Ibid.
35 See Indrani Chatterjee, ‘Introduction’, in Indrani Chatterjee (ed.), Unfamiliar
Relations: Family and History in South Asia (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers Uni
versity Press, 2004), 22–30.
36 Smart, ‘Part of a Letter’, n.p.
37 Ibid.
38 Arthur Weitzman, ‘Voyeurism and Aesthetics in the Turkish Bath: Lady Mary’s
School of Female Beauty’, Comparative Literature Studies, 39:4 (2002), 347–359.
39 See Dror Warhman, The Making of the Modern Self: Identity and Culture in
Eighteenth-Century England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004).
40 For the South Asian context, see David Arnold, ‘Race, Place and Bodily Differ
ence in Early Nineteenth-Century India’, Historical Research, 77:196 (2004), 254–
273; Peter Robb (ed.), The Concept of Race in South Asia (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1998); Mark Harrison, Climates and Constitutions.
41 Arnold, ‘Race, Place and Bodily Difference in Early Nineteenth-Century India’,
254–273; Nuria López, ‘British Women versus Indian Women: The Victorian
Myth of European Superiority’, in Richard Littlejohns and Sara Soncini, Myths
of Europe (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 183–195.
42 Ghose, Women Travellers, 5.
49 Ibid., 249–250.
Pray destroy all my letters, least [sic] any one should see them by axcedent.
– Peniston Lamb, Lord Melbourne, letter to Sophia Baddeley, c.17711
The letters discussed here were written by Peniston Lamb, then Lord Mel
bourne (1745–1828), to Sophia Baddeley (1745–1786), an actress and cour
tesan. Melbourne featured as Baddeley’s most significant client of the early
1770s in the memoir by her close friend and companion Elizabeth Steele
(1740–1787), who lived with Baddeley from 1769–1774. Elizabeth Steele’s
The Memoirs of Mrs. Sophia Baddeley, Late of Drury Lane Theatre (1787)
not only described relations between courtesan and client, detailing the
events that led to Melbourne and Baddeley’s longstanding companionate
and sexual relationship, it also included seven of Melbourne’s letters in the
appendix. These were provided as evidence to support Steele’s claims about
Baddeley and Melbourne’s affair, published without Melbourne’s permission
and used by Steele to imperil his reputation. According to Steele, Melbourne
had been married only ten months to the ‘very amiable’ Elizabeth Lamb,
who was pregnant with their first child, when he attempted to ‘prove him
self one of [Baddeley’s] admirers’ and began their affair.2 Eighteenth-century
familiar letters often contained rich and varied records of the life of the
body, but Melbourne’s letters were sparing in their descriptions of his or
Baddeley’s body despite including thousands of postscript kisses and pro
fessions of love and longing. The letters were therefore at once a testament
to bodily desire and a site of absence, entangled in the complexities of the
eighteenth-century courtesan model.
Steele’s ‘sentimental satire’, to use Amy Culley’s useful description, is a
scandal memoir that combined gossipy comments about late eighteenth-
century London’s elite with details of Steele and Baddeley’s long-standing
partnership.3 While Steele’s Memoirs have received limited critical attention,
both Emma Donoghue and Culley’s analyses are attentive to power relations
between Baddeley, Steele and the elite men who funded their household.
Donoghue reads Steele’s Memoirs as a queer partnership in her survey of
eighteenth-century lesbian culture, while Culley argues that the text’s generic
flexibility allows for an anarchic reordering of power relations between
DOI: 10.4324/9781003027256-10
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 143
4
aristocratic men and working women. Grounded in historical materialism
which holds that the interaction between people and nature in the labour
process is an ‘everlasting nature-imposed condition of human existence’, this
chapter builds on Culley and Donoghue’s observations in order to create a
materialist analysis of the eighteenth-century courtesan model.5 Kieran
Allen’s assertion that it is the labour process that ‘makes us social animals’
is particularly relevant to analysis of sex work. In applying a materialist
lens, this chapter will more fully demonstrate the power dynamics implicit
in Baddeley’s dependence on clients.
The Memoirs were slated by the press who assumed that they had been
ghost written by a man in order to blackmail Baddeley’s suitors.6 The Cri
tical Review presented Steele’s memoir as a work in which ‘[c]haracters are
unfeelingly wounded, and the peace of families wantonly sported with’,
while the Monthly Review declared, ‘“Gallants, beware! look sharp! take
care!” For, sooner or later, all will out: and then, brothers, uncles, fathers,
aye and grandfathers too, will stand exposed, as in these volumes.’7 The
accusations of extortion were not unfounded, yet the attempts to dismiss
Steele’s gossipy biography are revealing. They betrayed an anxiety that this
scandal memoir overly exposed men to criticism of their romantic relationships
and affairs.
Using the memoir and letters together, this chapter is chiefly concerned
with desire, sexuality, and the strategies Melbourne and Steele employed to
make their respective claims on Baddeley. As with Williams’s chapter in this
volume on Jonathan Swift’s Journal to Stella, this discussion concerns a
hybrid document that was both public and private; the focus here, though, is
on the tensions arising from the two authors in the Memoirs. The letters
detail Melbourne’s attempts to conduct a private romantic relationship with
Baddeley and his efforts to exercise control over her from a distance. Simi
larly, Steele used the letters in her memoir to publicly make a superior claim
on Baddeley’s affections, emphasising the depth of their emotional bond,
and deliberately undermining Melbourne in the process. This chapter also
explores conceptions of the actress-courtesan’s body in various ways. It
begins by considering the increased scrutiny and taxonomical standards of
beauty and class to which actresses, as public spectacles, were subjected, and
the ways in which these standards were related to, and dependent on, each
other. This chapter next draws on a materialist analysis of eighteenth-century
sex work by Laura Rosenthal, Markman Ellis and Anne Lewis to offer a fresh
analysis of Baddeley’s sex work that focuses on the coercion of the wage rela
tion between Baddeley and Melbourne.8 The final section considers Steele’s
own power over Baddeley and Melbourne. While Steele used affective strategies
to reorder power relations between Baddeley and the elite men in the text, she
too was guilty of reproducing gendered expectations of Baddeley’s behaviour,
and did so for financial gain.
Steele’s selection of anecdotes and letters was a kind of curation, an
arrangement that can be read as an act of care. In creating the narrative,
144 Frith Taylor
Steele deepened and enriched the public understanding of Baddeley with
their relationship and household at the centre. In curating a discrete capsule
of letters, Steele further created a miniature narrative appended to the main
text. That this was done explicitly against Melbourne’s wishes – who, as the
opening quote shows, had implored Baddeley to destroy them – is sig
nificant.9 In doing so, Steele revealed his pursuit of Baddeley and exposed
him to ridicule. By humiliating him, Steele contextualised Baddeley’s work
as a courtesan. This act of hostility towards Melbourne can be read as fur
ther proof of her devotion to Baddeley, a relationship that some scholars
have posited had queer-romantic elements.10
Steele emphasised the value of her bond with Baddeley by foregrounding
emotion. The biography blended the generic conventions of sensibility,
satire and farce, as well as including long conversations that infused the
memoir with the liveliness of theatre. By framing Baddeley as a sentimental
heroine, Steele created a more detailed version of her in print for a public
only familiar with fleeting descriptions in reviews and gossip columns. Part
of Steele’s effort to rehabilitate Baddeley’s reputation was her emphasis on
their shared domestic life. As Culley observes, the eighteenth-century cour
tesan ‘was typically presented in opposition to a domestic ideal of privacy,
frugality, self-regulation, and modesty’, and so in fleshing out these private
spaces Steele connected Baddeley with the rich interiority and sensibility of
the sentimental novel.11 What is crucial, however, is that their domestic
model typically resisted normativity. Steele’s memoir reveals a network of
unorthodox kinship bonds and patterns of sociability: a household run by
women bonded by some degree of queer-romantic desire, funded by acting
and sex work, and largely preoccupied with the pursuit of pleasure.
Steele’s inclusion of Melbourne’s letters went some way towards redres
sing the power imbalance otherwise present. Melbourne was a man with
society influence and political power, but within Steele’s memoir his letters
were subject to her editing and curation. Chronology was significant in the
competing claims made over Baddeley. Melbourne’s letters were written to
Baddeley during their relationship and were concerned with their arrange
ments to spend time together (more often than not making excuses for his
absence). Steele gained the upper hand by publishing a memoir that exploi
ted Melbourne’s letters, using his words against him and annexing his letters
(and voice) to the appendix. Melbourne’s letters were subsumed by Steele’s
framing in her memoir published after Baddeley’s death.
Steele’s reasons for including Melbourne’s letters were not, however, an
uncomplicated expression of devotion to Baddeley. Like many scandal
memoirs, Steele’s narrative was premised on assessing Baddeley’s moral
character. While often sympathetic, it exposed her secrets and exploited
gendered stereotypes. In his 1804 review of Samuel Richardson’s work,
Francis Jeffrey praised the epistolary novel for the way it allowed readers to
‘slip invisible, into the domestic privacy of [their] characters and hear and
see everything that is said and done’.12 To ‘slip invisible’ is to cross a
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 145
threshold without consent, and so reading epistolary exchanges was invari
ably intertwined with questions of intrusion, stealth and exposure. Steele’s
exposure of Melbourne is evident in her decision to publish his personal
letters, but her exposure of Baddeley was more subtle.
While her memoir may have fleshed out Baddeley’s character beyond
sensationalist snippets, her project was nevertheless entangled with various
financial imperatives. Steele’s choice of subjects depended on who was or
was not willing to extricate themselves from scandal. Melbourne was one of
many society men exposed in the memoir because they failed to pay Steele
off. Moreover, Steele’s inclusion of Melbourne’s letters had commercial
advantages. First, the sensational details and direct evidence of Melbourne’s
relationship with a courtesan made the Memoirs a tempting, marketable
read. While the letters and affair were presented as scandalous, it was no
secret among London’s ton that such a relationship existed, nor was it par
ticularly shocking or unusual for men of Melbourne’s class and position.
The appeal of the letters had as much to do with the ridicule of a young
nobleman as with the erotic and voyeuristic thrill that came with reading
someone else’s love letters. Second, the letters functioned as what Jacques
Lacan calls a point de capiton for the credibility of Steele’s narrative.13
While readers may have expected anecdotes to be embellished, the letters
served as an anchoring device, lending credibility to claims made in the text.
The Morning Herald suggested that Steele’s memoir was an act of
‘extortion’, not an ‘authoritative history’, and that the 140 aristocrats who
appeared in Steele’s Memoirs represent only those ‘who refused to buy
themselves out rather than a full cast of characters’.14 These objections were
part of a wider debate about taste, privacy and ownership in epistolary
exchanges. Louise Curran observes that ‘As long as one had a stash of let
ters in one’s pocket to sell on to an unscrupulous publisher, there was no
fear of lacking for anything important. Letters had become metonymic of
ready cash.’15 Nevertheless, Curran identifies a squeamishness regarding the
trading of intellectual property. Not only did the transformation of letters
into material goods bring up the question of taste (namely the recipient’s
willingness to sell letters they received in confidence), but there was also the
matter of classifying letters. Were they now commodities? And if so, who
had the right to trade in them? Now that letter-writing was within the reach
of many ranks and subject to the ‘vulgar’ demands of the literary market
place, there was concern regarding the quality of epistolary exchanges.
Reputations also hung in the balance. Those who took part in publishing
letters without permission, such as Steele, were seen to have entered into a
kind of Faustian bargain for material gain.
Melbourne’s interest in Baddeley and Steele’s ability to write a memoir
that traded on Baddeley’s reputation were a result of changes to the eight
eenth-century public sphere, celebrity and spectacle. As a politician
(Member of Parliament for Ludgershall, 1768–1793) and aristocrat, Mel
bourne was very much in the public eye. His wife Elizabeth was a close
146 Frith Taylor
personal friend of the duchess of Devonshire and, as part of the Devonshire
set, the Melbournes were included in the lively metropolitan social circle
that revolved around the Whig party. A leading performer in London’s
entertainment industry, Sophia Baddeley was an early celebrity and the
object of much press attention throughout the highpoint of her acting and
singing career in the 1770s. This chapter draws on Felicity Nussbaum’s
argument that eighteenth-century actresses played a pivotal role in shaping
public perceptions of femininity, as well as the work of Brian Cowan, Jim
Davis and Cheryl Wanko, who argue that eighteenth-century celebrity was
an experience of affect and contemporaneity. It also discusses Hannah Grieg,
who argues that perceptions of beauty among the beau monde were inse
parable from rank, and Marilyn Morris, who observes that a culture of
‘institutionalised hypocrisy’ lay at the heart of eighteenth-century sex scan
dals.16 In doing so this case study serves as a microcosm for London’s culture of
intense sociability, revealing the close interrelation between fashion, politics
and sex in London’s beau monde and changes to the eighteenth-century public
sphere.
Sheridan’s comments made clear the close association between the actress
and the body, as well as identifying the actress as a locus of anxieties and
desires in the eighteenth-century imagination. Sheridan became the manager
of Drury Lane Theatre a year later, despite describing the theatre as ‘the
greatest Nursery of Vice and Misery on the Face of the Earth’.18 His com
ments were teasing, but nevertheless reveal the complex cultural coding to
which actresses were subject: a heady combination of profligacy, sex work
and scandal. Sheridan also gestured towards the paradoxical nature of
eighteenth-century celebrity. Famous actresses were at once embodied (phy
sically present, sexualised and associated with venereal disease and con
tagion) and abstracted through the reproduction of their likenesses and
reviews of their performances in print (‘News-Paper Criticism’). The imme
diacy of performance and proximity of the crowd made eighteenth-century
theatre an embodied experience for performer and audience alike. It was this
experience of shared sensations, an expansion in size and number of public
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 147
spaces, and the increased circulation of actresses’ likenesses in print and
material culture that created the cultural phenomenon that was the celebrity
actress-courtesan.
Sheridan was uncomfortable with actresses trading the private for the
public and connected their canny exploitation of the economy of spectacle
with sex work. In leaving ‘a situation comparatively private’ to become a
public spectacle for financial gain, actresses made themselves fair game for
exploitation, and began an apparently inevitable ‘fall’ into sex work. In his
other comment on theatres, the hallowed female space of the nursery
became perversely refigured as a spawning ground of ‘Vice and Misery’.
Central to current scholarly conceptions of the power and expression of
eighteenth-century actresses is the staging of the personal, what Felicity
Nussbaum has referred to as the ‘interiority effect’ and Joseph Roach has
termed ‘public intimacy’.19 This staging of the intimate or interior was, as
Nussbaum argues, not ‘transparent but rather a provisional, multitiered, and
situational interiority bolstered by the circulation of celebrity news and
gossip, and one that, reduced to a fetishized version of itself, comes to sub
stitute for the living, evolving person that is the actress herself’.20
As Nussbaum observes, there was an enduring fascination with this
‘fetishised version’ of the actress owing to the eroticised gaze of the theatre
and public gallery. This eroticised gaze revelled in the spectacle of the
actress while admonishing her for moral failings. As Culley observes, Bad
deley was portrayed by Characters of the Present Most Celebrated Courte
zans (1780) as the ‘victim of her unruly desires’, with her final years
characterised ‘by a dreadful and excessive indulgence in love, liquor, lust
and laudanum’. In John Williams’s satirical poem The Children of Thepsis
(1787), she was configured as ‘an eminent instance of feminine terror/ A
public example to keep us from error’, and was chastised by the Town and
Country Magazine as being in need of ‘prudence and economy’.21 These
contemporary assessments of Baddeley posited a causal relation between
indulgence and ruin, demonstrating the censure that actress-courtesans faced
for their celebrity. However, as Rosenthal argues, analysis of eighteenth-
century actresses has been preoccupied with whether contemporaries con
sidered actresses as ‘prostitutes or ladies’, as ‘reified objects or emergent
professionals’. She stresses the need to ‘place this important question in the
broader context of changing constructions of gender, the marketplace and
the distinctiveness of eighteenth-century theatre culture instead of debating
what might be a false opposition’.22
Baddeley appealed to Melbourne directly because of her position as a
famous actress-courtesan. Indeed, Sheridan’s criticism of actresses demon
strates their increased visibility, and the ways in which their presence in
magazines and gossip columns meant that they occupied more space in the
eighteenth-century imagination. As Roach observes, the celebrity and fame
of eighteenth-century actresses ‘was at least anticipatory and perhaps gen
erative of modern celebrity because their images began to circulate widely in
148 Frith Taylor
the absence of their persons, a privilege once reserved for anointed sover
eigns and saints’.23 As Nussbaum, Rosenthal and Wanko have argued, the
rise of the eighteenth-century actress signified an unprecedented develop
ment in social dynamics as non-elite women were able to wield consider
able cultural and financial power.24 Over the long eighteenth century,
London theatre culture underwent profound change. The expansion in the
number and size of London theatres and performance spaces, the emer
gence of female performers and the formation of modern celebrity were all
part of broader societal transformations that saw the formation of the
public sphere, facilitated in turn by a printed press revolution and a new
culture of sociability. While still subject to gendered expectations and
more public scrutiny than their male counterparts, actresses were never
theless influential figures who were able to shape public conceptions of
femininity.25
Cowan argues that eighteenth-century celebrity was a ‘certain kind of
fame’ that was the intersection of ‘[c]ontemporaneity, publicity, and per
sonality’.26 This differed from the old regime’s ‘preferred form of notoriety:
la gloire’.27 Glory was ‘a lasting recognition of achievement; if it might be
recognized incipiently during the lifetime of its recipient, it could only be
confirmed posthumously’.28 Celebrity, however, as Stella Tillyard argues,
was about contemporaneous experience: ‘possessing celebrity was at a
simple level someone celebrated, the centre of a throng, a person sur
rounded, the object of joyous attention. Celebrity was about being with
others, together, adored in the here and now by an audience.’29
The adoration of actresses, this newly visible category of celebrity, was
magnified by an explosion in print culture. Jim Davis notes that eighteenth-
century celebrity was created by the affective strategies employed by artists
and a rapid increase in ‘the number of graphic images – satirical prints,
engravings, lithographs, mezzotints – in circulation. In effect vision began to
be mediated by new technologies of viewing which shaped the individual’s
perceptions of the surrounding world.’30 Gill Perry has examined how this
was utilised in ‘actresses’ flirtatious relationships with the audience … con
ducted via stage and canvas’.31 As Wanko notes, Perry’s reference to
‘“double mediation” – the woman plays a role on stage which is then pre
sented in a portrait – dissects complex representational machinery of sexu
ality and gender’.32
Throughout the Memoirs, Steele shows Baddeley’s instinctive and skilful
understanding of the economy of spectacle. Her theatrical use of public
space ensured that she captivated London society, which in turn yielded
professional acting opportunities, and attracted the interest of clients like
Melbourne. Tillyard’s description of celebrity as a communal, pleasurable
experience suggests that actress’s fame was closely connected to the senses,
to perceptions of the body, and to the idea that bodies are legible. In her
memoirs, Steele described Baddeley’s fame as extending ‘through every circle
of fashionable and middling life’, and that she ‘became caressed, adored and
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 149
followed by the first persons of the nation’. Celebrity was an experience in
33
Mr. Foote enlarged much on the beauty of the Maid of Bath, he added,
‘Not even the beauty of the nine muses, nor even that of the divine
Baddeley herself, who there sits, (pointing to the box where we sat,)
would exceed that of the Maid of Bath.’ This drew a thunder of
applause from all parts of the house; he was encored, and Mr. Foote
repeated the words three times. Every eye was on Mrs. Baddeley, and I
do not recollect ever seeing her so confused before. She rose from her
seat, and curtsied to the audience, and it was near a quarter of an hour
before she could discontinue her obedience, the plaudits lasting so long.
This trick of Mr. Foote’s, put her to the blush, that the colour did not
leave her face the whole evening. Mrs. Baddeley’s face, was not,
according to the fashion of modern beauties, made up by art, for she
never used any rouge but on the stage.38
150 Frith Taylor
Steele emphasised the overwhelming attention Baddeley received from the
public and her apparent confusion at being so singled out. She did not seek
attention, reacted to the public’s praise with ‘obedience’, and was so over
whelmed by the experience that her blushes did not fade ‘the whole eve
ning’. The compliment from Foote was also curiously framed. The Maid of
Bath was more beautiful, but Baddeley’s beauty was enough to compare
them, so she should therefore be grateful for the recognition. Baddeley’s
behaviour was not represented by Steele as performance or affectation. This,
and most especially her involuntary blushes, was in line with eighteenth-
century conceptions of feminine virtue.39 As Angela Rosenthal and David
Turner argue, eighteenth-century depictions of the beauty of ‘the fair sex’
were inseparable from constructions of whiteness. In the many treatises on
beauty over the long eighteenth century, blushes signalled the apparent leg
ibility of white skin, and therefore its superiority.40
Baddeley’s blushes were used by Steele to reflect virtue, modesty, and
crucially, an emotional innocence and frankness that countered the pre
sumed immorality of actresses. Steele’s description also revealed the imbal
ance of power at play. As Rosenthal argues, the blush ‘secures the object-
subject hierarchy of traditional Western amorous tropes, of the Pygmalion
like agency of the man and the materiality of the woman.’41 Baddeley’s
embarrassment was the proper response for the attention she received; she
was presented by Steele as irresistible but somehow unaware of her appeal.
As an actress and courtesan, however, Baddeley would have been keenly
aware of the importance of performing a specific version of herself. Badde
ley’s mastery of spectacle and her ability to combine charm and notoriety
ensured that she remained an enduring subject of public fascination. Badde
ley’s appeal was premised on her naiveté, that she was apparently insensible
of her performative and sexual power. By emphasising Baddeley’s modesty
and embarrassment Steele was able to demonstrate her appeal without
appearing to endorse vanity or immorality. In doing so, Steele set up a pro
blematic subject–object hierarchy between audience and performer.
Steele’s description of Baddeley’s beauty not only emphasised her innocent
appeal, but was an attempt to reframe her class position. Steele indicated
that Baddeley’s blushes must have been real because she was not ‘made up
by art’, distinguishing Baddeley’s natural beauty from the ‘fashion of
modern beauties’. Greig argues that mid-late eighteenth-century conceptions
of beauty were governed by behaviours rather than physical appearance.42
Beauty was not subjective and could be reduced to specific qualities. Several
publications created grading systems for beauty. In October 1776, the
Morning Post published a ‘Scale of Bon Ton’ in which women of fashion
were assessed according to ‘beauty, figure, elegance, wit, sense, grace,
expression, sensibility, and principles’.43 Public praise of a woman’s beauty
was really a confirmation of her social status as a fashionable woman,
‘could not, by definition, be anything but “beautiful”’.44 Baddeley’s lower
social status placed her outside of this taxonomy of beauty and meant that
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 151
the ‘art’ of tasteful cosmetics was not available to her as any make-up she
did wear would be read differently to an elite woman. While it was per
missible for ‘virtuous’ women to use products to improve their complexion,
stereotypes regarding cosmetics endured; sex workers who solicited in the
street were depicted either with theatrically painted faces or as using cos
metics to deceive clients.45 Baddeley’s virtue was already imperilled by her
work as an actress. Steele’s readership would have assumed that Baddeley
wore make-up on the stage, and so giving an example of Baddeley’s fresh
appearance off-stage countered the image of the painted actress-courtesan.
Her lack of social prestige and sophistication was reimagined as an unstu
died freshness and natural beauty.
My dear Love,
I have just seen your picture at Reynold’s [sic], and think it will be
well done. I send you a million of kisses, and long to see you, on which
account I will stay as short a time as I can in the country. I hope to see
you by Wednesday next. My life, think of me: remember I love you
Satturday, Sunday, and every day.
Yours ever,
Melbourne61
You will I know excuse my not calling now, as you know the hazard I
run in being seen in the day time, otherwise I should be happey in
seeing my love every minnitt, with sending you a thousand kisses.
Yours ever,
Melbourne64
Melbourne acknowledged the scandal that would result from his relation
ship with Baddeley being made public. He was perhaps concerned about
being included in Town and Country Magazine’s ‘Tête-à-Tête’ series which
had previously featured small portraits of Baddeley and her previous client,
John Hanger. As Culley observes, the series ran from 1769–1792,
156 Frith Taylor
demonstrating an enduring appetite for ‘textual and visual couplings of the
demimonde and bon ton’.65 Colin Brown notes that Steele’s house on the
King’s Road in Chelsea was ideal to meet Baddeley ‘because it was suffi
ciently far away from Piccadilly to enable him to visit her by Hackney cab
without being identified by the coat of arms … of his own carriage’.66 In
order to maintain his relationship with Baddeley and avoid scandal, Mel
bourne had to compartmentalise his marital and extramarital lives. His let
ters reveal his attempts to contain her both temporally and spatially: he
would only visit Baddeley at her house at night.
Read in the context of Steele’s letter curation, Melbourne’s assertions
become unstable: how could he be ‘ever’ Baddeley’s if he refused to see her
in the daytime? What emerges is a clear power dynamic. Rather than apol
ogising for not calling, he wrote, ‘You will I know excuse my not calling.’67
Melbourne’s sentences ramble, but were nevertheless phrased as commands
softened with ‘a thousand kisses’. Melbourne’s combination of coercive and
persuasive strategies were exposed by Steele’s inclusion in her memoir, and
demonstrate the power dynamics implicit in conducting extramarital sexual
relationships across class lines.
Melbourne’s feelings were typical of elite men over the eighteenth century.
While he clearly had no moral qualms about conducting an extramarital
affair, he was understandably eager to limit public embarrassment in the
press. Sexuality and sexual behaviour over the long eighteenth century were
subject to complex interrelated moral codes. While these codes were pre
mised on the sanctity of marriage, community approval and the preservation
of virginity, there were also a number of licit sexual behaviours that were
widespread in eighteenth-century culture. Much of this depended on class.
Katie Barclay observes that advice given to young Scottish elite men ‘often
assumed that they had some sexual experience before marriage’.68 Julie
Hardwick argues that public, physical intimacy, time alone and even sexual
relationships were perfectly acceptable between young couples of the same
rank who intended to marry.69 Certainly there was social stigma attached to
actress-courtesans, but, as Nussbaum argues, the celebrity of famous
actresses eclipsed their association with extramarital sex; actresses’ ‘alluring
linkage between the aristocratic and the commonplace meant that celebrity
competed with class in determining their social standing and revised the
tenacious residue of the whore’.70
In light of this, Melbourne seemed overly anxious, especially considering
the tacit assumption among aristocratic society that most elite men would
engage in extramarital sex of some kind. However, while members of the
elite may have been frank about their affairs between themselves, ridicule in
gossip columns was not meaningless. Melbourne lived in a culture that
condoned extramarital affairs but may still have wanted to avoid embar
rassment in his wider social circle and the public, certainly considering that
he was a young MP who had only recently married, and whose wife was
expecting their first child. As he wrote to Baddeley, ‘Pray be carefull not to
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 157
mention my name at Brighthelmston, or any where that whe [sic] may not
be plagued again by the ill-natured world.’71 It was anxiety about his name
and public persona, rather than about marital fidelity, that dictated their
contact and public associations.
As Barclay has demonstrated, for elite eighteenth-century circles these
views on sexuality were entangled with Enlightenment ideals, and the need
for distinction from the ‘uncivilised’ lower orders.72 Fidelity, then, had as
much to do with performing rank and maturity as with the sanctity of
marriage. It is this class relation that is the key to understanding eighteenth-
century scandal and Melbourne’s evasive behaviour, which may be more
simply explained as a symptom of his entitlement. Irrespective of Mel
bourne’s true feelings, he made it clear to Baddeley that they were not
enough to weather a scandal, despite his professions of love and adoration.
Of equal significance was the power dynamic between them. He cancelled
appointments with ease and attempted to coerce her into acquiescing to his
demands while she bore the financial burden of his absence.
the fright you put me in, so alarmed me, that I would have promised
any thing. I then foolishly told you I would occasionally see you, though
I never designed it; and you made me swear I would go to Paris to meet
you which to get rid of you I did swear, though I now repent it. To
keep my oath I went, but not to gratify any wishes of your’s … My
intent was to mortify you … Don’t persuade yourself that any regard
for you took me there; a wish to see the country, and an opportunity of
revenging myself were my sole motives.85
The following are a few of Lord Melbourne’s Letters. No. 1. was sent
to Mrs. Steele, the Day after he fled out of the Parlour Window, in St.
James’s-place.91
When I was absent from my new house, Lord Melbourne got admit
tance in St. James’s Place to drink tea with her [Baddeley]. On my
return, I found them together. She came out to me, and on my remon
strating her on the impropriety of her encouraging any gentleman’s
visits, his Lordship … overheard me, and fearing an attack on him
personally, threw up the parlour window, and precipitately leaped out.
Being too much in a hurry to take sufficient precaution about a safe
landing place, he fell down the area; however, receiving no material
hurt, he scrambled up again and took to his heels.93
This extraordinary scene was typical of the farcical, slapstick moments that
punctuated the narrative. In it, Melbourne’s relationship with Baddeley was
represented as secondary to the focus of the narrative, which was Baddeley’s
relationship with Steele. Steele positioned herself as the wronged spouse who
returned home to an unfaithful wife. As Culley observes, Steele often took on
male roles in order to inhabit a ‘heroic masculine persona’ and to imply that her
life with Baddeley was a ‘romance’.94 In addition to this, Steele also pre
sented herself as a knowing third party in a text replete with game-playing
and mischief in order to destabilise male and female categories.
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 161
Steele’s curatorial and editorial choices were leveraged for comic effect.
For example, she preserved Melbourne’s poor spelling throughout. Letter
Seven’s claim – that he would be ‘happey’ in seeing Baddeley ‘every min
nitt’ – is a typical example.95 By the late 1780s, such spelling errors would
have been conspicuous in print, if not in manuscript, letters. Steele’s pre
servation of orthographical ineptitude was therefore a pointed editorial
decision that exposed his lack of intelligence and education. Melbourne’s
contemporaries commonly observed that ‘his education at Eton left a lot to
be desired’ and that he was known primarily for burning through his
inheritance ‘in pursuit of pleasure’.96 Steele herself claimed that Melbourne
was ‘not the brightest man of the age’, ‘acquainted neither with good
grammar or orthography’.97 She affirmed and evidenced this consensus,
using Melbourne’s poor spelling to render the man himself infantile and
ridiculous. Strikingly, she seized the opportunity to further subvert gendered
notions of education and authority by allowing an implicit contrast between
his words and Baddeley and Steele’s sophisticated grasp of the English lan
guage. Here it was the working women, not the aristocratic man, who were
the gatekeepers of grammatical and orthographic standards.
Conclusion
Lord Melbourne’s letters to Sophia Baddeley serve as a microcosm for the
desires and anxieties of late eighteenth-century London society. Beguiled by
spectacle, but anxious regarding scandal, Melbourne was exposed by Steele
who marshalled his contradictory feelings against him. Melbourne’s repe
ated declarations of love and longing made visible unrestrained romantic
impulses that would otherwise be shielded from view, while his fickleness
and unreliability showed him to be characteristic of a political class plagued
by entitlement and indulgence.
In foregrounding her deep bond with Baddeley and demonstrating the
value of the life they shared, Steele countered the charges levelled at Badde
ley for her work as an actress-courtesan. This new form of celebrity was
closely associated with the body, and explicitly gendered. Steele capitalised
on Baddeley’s proximity to theatre culture by including heartfelt mono
logues whose dramatic intensity gave a palpable sense of Baddeley’s pre
sence. Metropolitan sociability increased opportunities to see and be seen,
and brought with it explicit relations between spectator and spectacle. For
actresses this meant the eroticised gaze of the public gallery as well as the
abstraction of their image through widespread reproduction in the press.
The personalisation of politics and explosion in print technologies created a
media culture preoccupied with the manufacture of scandal. The relation
ship between text and body was particularly acute for actresses-courtesans;
few other professions were as reliant on media coverage, nor personally
scrutinised by gossip columns. Steele repudiated the characterisation of
Baddeley in the press, and gossip was turned on elite men instead. Steele’s
162 Frith Taylor
skilful editing of Melbourne’s letters implicitly contrasted his treatment of
Baddeley to her own. As Baddeley’s responses were not included by Steele in
the appendix, Melbourne’s letters read as a rapid accumulation of his pro
mises and excuses; the letters swing wildly from ardent declarations of love
and affection to flimsy excuses for not keeping appointments. The cumula
tive effect of Melbourne’s letters was one of caprice, vanity and indifference.
Steele allowed eleven pages for Melbourne’s letters in a memoir that spans
six volumes and over one thousand pages. Steele’s skill was to cannily lure
the reader in with details of Baddeley’s famous relationships, and then
diminish them in light of her own relationship with Baddeley.
Steele’s blending of genre was subversive and allowed her to destabilise
male authority. In presenting Baddeley as a sentimental heroine within a text
that maintained a sharp satirical eye on elite men, she invited readers into a
space in which social hierarchies were disrupted, entertainment was privi
leged over industry and sensibility and desire were the guiding principles.
This generic flexibility allowed for several farcical interludes that relied on
the ridicule of aristocratic men. As Culley notes, these scenes concluded with
an ‘audience of women … convened around images of deflated male power
in a text that resounds with anarchic female laughter’.98 Steele’s skilful
management of scandal throughout the memoir allowed readers into spaces
that would otherwise carry some level of censure. In tempering Baddeley’s
excesses with cautionary admonitions and softening the edges of the narra
tive with farcical interludes, Steele invited readers into a tantalising world of
balls and masquerades, making space for cross-dressing, queer romanticism
and a domestic model disinterested in normative constructions of morality.
Steele’s reasons for writing her memoir were nevertheless not a straightfor
ward expression of her devotion to Baddeley nor a clear-cut effort to recuperate
her reputation. Intrusion and exposure were among the central tension of
Steele’s memoir. She exposed Baddeley’s secrets for financial gain and depicted
Baddeley’s appearance and behaviour in ways designed to appeal to conven
tional eighteenth-century constructions of femininity that were riddled with
power imbalances and reliant on a performance of naivete. In trading in Bad
deley’s secrets and Melbourne’s letters, Steele made a Faustian bargain that laid
her open to charges of extortion, the reliance on ghost writers and voyeurism.
Culley argues that the aim of Steele’s memoir was to recuperate Badde
ley’s reputation through its emphasis on their domesticity, depiction of
their significant emotional connection and refusal to be wholly dependent
on the elite men who finance their lifestyle.99 As this chapter demonstrates,
however, the material cost to Baddeley of Melbourne’s missed appoint
ments destabilises the claim that Steele and Baddeley were able to fully
exploit wealthy men. Baddeley had to endure some level of precarity and inse
curity in order to live as she did. Melbourne’s discomfort with Baddeley’s
profession was evident in his wish to be her sole benefactor, and both he and
Steele obscured sex work, representing his relationship with Baddeley primarily
in romantic terms.
PS ‘A thousand kisses’ 163
Melbourne’s letters to Baddeley were a mass of contradictions, with an ever-
present complex negotiation between privacy and exposure, affection and
embarrassment, invitation and apology. Melbourne’s pleasure in seeing Badde
ley’s portrait closely linked to her fame, and yet he bowed to social pressures and
refused to be seen in public with her. Steele exploited these contradictory impul
ses in order to recuperate Baddeley’s reputation. By placing Melbourne’s words
as an appendix to her narrative, she implicitly presented Melbourne as secondary
to Baddeley’s other concerns, skilfully defending Baddeley by damning
Melbourne with his own letters. Melbourne’s narrative became a super
fluous appendage; his clumsiness, excuses and poor spelling magnified as
they repeated in letter after letter. This curious triangulation of Steele,
Baddeley and Melbourne reveals the complexities of eighteenth-century sex
work, queer romanticism and scandal.
Notes
1 Elizabeth Steele, The Memoirs of Mrs. Sophia Baddeley, Late of Drury Lane
Theatre (Dublin, 1787), vol. 1, 124.
2 Ibid., vol. 1, 28, 41.
3 Amy Culley, ‘The Sentimental Satire of Sophia Baddeley’, SEL Studies in English
Literature 1500–1900, 48:3 (2008), 677–692.
4 Emma Donoghue, Passions between Women: British lesbian culture 1668–1801
(London: Scarlett Press, 1993), 167; Culley, ‘The Sentimental Satire’, 677–692.
89 Ibid., 682.
92 Ibid.
99 Ibid., 677.
Part III
Bodies deployed
8 I ‘never had the happeness of
Receivin one Letter from You’
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756
Sheryllynne Haggerty
DOI: 10.4324/9781003027256-12
170 Sheryllynne Haggerty
has demonstrated how an ‘epistolary moment’ in the eighteenth century
meant that not only did letters have a significant impact on culture, but also
promoted literacy, even if many wrote phonetically.6 Indeed, Steven King
has argued that it is exactly these spelling mistakes, lack of punctuation and
random capitalisation that demonstrates these letters were penned by the
signatories, a point underlined in his chapter in this volume. People learnt
from other people’s letters, from chapbooks and balladry, and from each
other.7 George Farmer, whose letters are also used here, was well aware of
epistolary standards; he knew that his handwriting was supposed to be
relatively neat. ‘This I have wrote in a hurry’, he noted, ‘yt I believe yu ownt
[ought] be Able to read it’.8 Equally, the apprentice carpenter Ewbank Ogle
wrote home to his mother himself.9 Nor was money necessarily a problem.
Lindsay O’Neill has shown that despite the fact that the post was costly and
far from reliable, especially across the Atlantic, even the poor knew how to
work the system and might send letters within parcels that were to be
redirected or sent by hand via friends to save money.10 Indeed, merchant
seaman Robert Nelson posted a letter on the Europa to his friend Robert
Smith to pass on. As ‘a friend youll Be So good as to Send this Letter of min
hom if it Comes to your hand’.11 These were ordinary men, yet they
understood the usual conventions and uses of letter-writing. The Europa’s
letters therefore provide an opportunity to write a corrective to the domi
nant story of elite letter-writing in the British Atlantic world, and add to the
evidence for a more literate society further down the social scale in Britain.
The letters
The letters posted on the Europa are a rare source for historians of Britain’s
empire and only exist due to the vagaries of war. Nearly home from
Jamaica in December, the Europa was taken by a French privateer, Le
Machault, on the 21st. However, two days later, as the French were taking
the Europa south en route to Spain, she was retaken by the British. When
the British crew searched the Europa, they found ‘Concealed under one of the
Guns in the Cabin, A Bagg Containing a Great Number of Letters or Papers’.12
The bag of letters was taken, along with all the cargo on board and the vessel
itself, to be used as evidence in the High Court of Admiralty (HCA). This was
always done to prove the title of captors, or the claims of neutrals, as to whom
owned the profits from the prize.13 These letters were therefore never delivered
and remain extant at the National Archives, London. It was unusual for vessels
to be retaken in this way, and this is the only set of such letters of this type
remaining for the British Caribbean for the whole of the Seven Years’ War in?
the records of the HCA.14 There are many letters from other nations, including
the French of course, and recent work – including Raapke’s chapter in this
volume – has shown the marvellous potential of such caches of letters in
understanding the lives of ordinary people, and especially those whose letters
would not normally have survived.15
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 171
The Europa’s post bag contained over four hundred letters and other
documents which were written mostly by merchants, planters, attorneys,
overseers, lawyers and ships’ captains. There were also some letters from
women.16 However, this chapter focuses on nine ‘unlettered’ letters by eight
ordinary sailors. They are not representative of the collection as a whole,
nor are they intended to be. Most of the letters in this collection are well-
written and contain relatively standardised spelling (according to eighteenth-
century standards), including those written by the majority of the ships’
captains and by women. In contrast, the letters used here have been chosen
specifically because they exhibited poor penmanship, poor spelling, phonetic
spelling, or a combination of all three, in order the highlight the letter-writing
of practices of less-well educated, working people. It is for this reason I have
called them ‘unlettered’ letters.17
An unintended consequence of this choice is that all the letters are from
ordinary seamen working on either Royal Navy ships or merchant vessels.
The writers are: William Nickell, Robert Nelson and Joseph Fraizer, sailors
on three different merchant vessels; Edward Magnar, a sailor who jumped
off a slave trade vessel and joined HMS Shoram; George Farmer, an ordin
ary seaman on HMS Dreadnought; Patrick Kelly, an ordinary sailor on
HMS Greenwich; Martin Swords an ordinary seaman on HMS Princess
Mary; and John Smith, on another unidentified Royal Navy vessel. John
Smith was from Somerset, William Nickell was from Belfast and George
Farmer was from Cork, but Edward Magnar, Joseph Fraizer, Patrick Kelly,
Robert Nelson and Martin Swords were all from Dublin.18 The number of
Irishmen is not surprising given that the Europa was Dublin-owned and
heading home; and this may also explain much of the phonetic spelling. The
original spelling, punctuation and capitalisation have been kept throughout
to highlight this regionality, and the authenticity and character of these let
ters. Indeed, if you read the letters out loud, the letter writers’ broad accents
come alive, as do their words. While these nine letters usually conform to
certain formats or rhetorics in terms of salutations and valedictions, none of
them conform to a formal letter-writing style that could be classed as ‘sen
timental’ or of the ‘cult of sensibility’.19 In this these letters appear extre
mely honest, open and guileless. This is not to say that these letters were
only intended for the recipient, or were not shaped for a wider audience. As
we shall see, news was meant to be shared and passed on to family and
friends.20 The letters also speak to several themes around which the remainder
of this chapter is centred. The first section considers concerns over being for
gotten. The following sections deal in turn with love (consanguineal, affinal
and friendship), health, and war. A close reading of these ‘unlettered’ letters
shows us that it was not only merchants and elites that wrote transatlantic
letters. It demonstrates that even poorer sections of society understood formal
letter conventions and that they deployed their letters to bridge the distance of
the Atlantic, to send and maintain love, and to inform and express fears and
hopes about health and the war surrounding them.
172 Sheryllynne Haggerty
Remembrances, reminders and reassurances
The very format of these letters shows that the writers were well aware of
basic protocols regarding letter-writing. Five of the letters have the word
‘opportunity’ in the first line. In the context of transatlantic letters, this
would most likely have meant a ship leaving for Britain with a post bag,
though for some it might mean asking a friend to write something for them
in their own letter.21 The writers thereby suggested both that there had not
been previous opportunities to write, and that they were being conscientious
correspondents. Edward Magnar wrote to his wife: ‘haveing this oportunitie
to wright to you I Send these Fue Lines’.22 William Nickell wrote: ‘Dr
Brother having this opertunity …’.23 Joseph Fraizer similarly wrote to his
sister, ‘I gladly embraced this Oportunity By the Bearer Mr Murphy on the
Europe Capt Cook’.24 Clearly he wanted to avoid her having to pay postage
by sending it to her with someone rather than in the mail.25 George Farm
er’s letter to his brother began ‘I’m glad of this Opportunity to Acquaint
you how the world goes with me’;26 whereas, to a non-family member,
Richard Hull, who seems to have helped him get work, he wrote more for
mally: ‘Dear Sir, I take this opportunity to thank you, & assure you that
nothing Shall Ever make me for get the many Obligations I am under to
you’.27 He also referred to a letter that he had received by hand. Four of the
letters start differently. Patrick Kelly simply said: ‘My Dear Brothers this is
to lett you know …’.28 Martin Swords began, ‘Dear Brother this Coms with
my kind Love to you’, as did John Smith’s letter to his wife, ‘this is Come with
my Cind love to you and my Duty to my Child’.29 Robert Nelson’s letter to his
friend opens with ‘friend Robert this Coms to Let you Know …’.30 All of these
letters maintained the convention of a formal greeting, even if the particular
choice of phrasing was used affectionately to express and send love home
across the Atlantic with the letter.
Valedictions were similarly varied according to the hierarchical and familial
relationship between the writer and the recipient.31 William Nickell signed, ‘So
Remans your Loving Brother’, while Joseph Fraizer signed, ‘your Ever Loving
and Duttifull Brother till Death’.32 Similarly Martin Swords ended his letter,
‘from your Ever Loving Brother till Death’.33 Patrick Kelly also wrote, ‘no
more at present from your Loven Brother’.34 George Farmer simply signed, ‘Yr
most Afft[affectionate] Loving Brother’.35 Writing to wives sometimes, but not
always, demanded different language. John Smith simply wrote, ‘Remain your
loving husband’, but Edward Magnar wrote to his wife that he was her ‘true
Love’.36 Deference appears in two valedictions. In Edward Magnar’s covering
note to his mother-in-law, he signed ‘from your Respectfull Son’,37 while
George Farmer’s letter to the family friend who had helped him ended ‘Yr most
Oblig’d Humblest To Command’.38 This shows knowledge of, and conformity
with, letter protocols regarding deference and hierarchy.
Importantly, these letters also tell us something about notions of family, home
and friendship. In eighteenth-century England, the family was synonymous with
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 173
39
the household, rather than modern notions of the nuclear family. This would
include, most likely, a man, his wife, their child or children and any dependents
and servants living in the house. This created a family ‘emanating from rela
tionships of co-residence and authority’.40 This family, however, might in turn
exclude blood-relatives who did not live in the household. At the same time the
eighteenth-century meaning of friends was wider than we now understand it to
be, and ‘could comprise a very broad spectrum of relationships’.41 These might
include relations by blood and marriage, but also someone who was good to you,
or supported you in one way or another, such as George Farmer’s family
friend.42 For the poor at least, the idea of ‘home’ might be similarly broad and
mean the dwelling or homestead itself, but also the parish or township, or even a
district. It might also encompass shared memories, family, residency, employ
ment or reputation.43
These complex relationships regarding household and family, and the
extra challenges of maintaining them at a distance, can be seen in some of
the longer valedictions and other comments added to the letters. Some were
dutiful, such as when George Farmer extended his regards to Mrs and Miss
Hull, Richard Hull’s closest family. However, he also asked Mr Hull to
‘Rembr my Duty to my Uncles & Aunts, & Kind Regards to all Others that
Enquire for Me’.44 Clearly Mr Hull was known to the whole of Farmer’s
kinship networks. William Nickell asked his brother to ‘Give my Dutey to
my father and Mother and Sisters all friends that asketh of me’.45 Duty, paid
to senior family, was a common expression of deference. Joseph Fraizer had
a longer list of people to whom he wanted to be remembered: ‘My kind
Love and Servise to Mrs Doyell, Mr Dreaper and his famelly and tell Miss
Nancy Dreaper That I houp to See Hir in Liverpool Before Long’.46 Some
times, not all names could be remembered. John Smith wrote another long
list: ‘My Dear Rembembr me to my father And mother and Both Your Sis
ters and your Brother Daniell and your Brother in Law for I have for got his
name’.47 Clearly managing extended family relationships was a complex
business, especially when distant sailors might not always have met new
family members by birth or marriage. Sometimes writers would also pass
similar messages on for others; perhaps they could not write, could not
afford the paper, or simply did not have the time. This may also have been a
function of the communal spaces in which letters were written, possibly on
ship, or in a tavern or coffee house.48 James Nickell wrote on behalf of
Captain Hathorn, who wanted to let his wife know ‘he heas Roatt Seaveral
tims he Wroat from St Estate [St Eustacia?] by the Way of Holand [probably
a captain or a vessel, not the country] and all other opertunities’.49 Simi
larly, Edward Magnar added that ‘Antony Viccar’s Joyns me in Comply
ments with me to my Dear Jane [his wife]’.50 Opportunities of being
remembered back home were not to be wasted, even if the sender was not
able to write themselves at that time.
Yet feeling that friends had forgotten them was a constant refrain among
all the letter-writers.51 This could lead to a sense of betrayal and hurt.
174 Sheryllynne Haggerty
George Farmer wrote to his brother, ‘My Friends I believe have all Forgot
me, For I have not heard a word From um yet, tho it’s now Six months
Since I wrote home’.52 In his letter to his brother his valediction noted first
his brother’s Master, & Mistress, but added, ‘& all Other Friends in Corke,
My Duty to my Aunts, & Love to my Sisters (& Kind regards to all Others
that enquire for me)’; he also added that he had heard nothing from some
one called Robin, but believed he would soon hear in a ‘letter from my Sis
ters’.53 In his letter to his brother he was even more insistent; ‘I believe All
my Friends have Forgot me For it’s Six months Since I wrote home & have
had noe answer they can have no Excuses for there are Ships come here
Daily from Corke.’54 George was deploying his letters to make his family
feel guilty about not writing, and his brother was supposed to encourage his
sisters to write. Such tactics could not be used with superiors, however, and
George had to write more deferentially to Mr Hull: ‘P.S. If it’s not too much
trouble, I beg You’l Favour me with a Line’.55
The time delay in transatlantic post meant that correspondents could not
always hold a ‘conversation’, but nonetheless, family members were clearly
expected to write. Martin Swords wrote to his brother that he would be,
‘very glad to her[hear] from you and My Sister and Give my kind Love to
her And to All Absent friends give My Kin John Lynham And his family
And to Jane … Send word as soon as Possible’; he continued, ‘kind Love to
Cosen Mikel Swords And our friends at Hom’.56 Yet again the letter was
used to send love home. Patrick Kelly was even more insistent that letters
should be reciprocated: ‘I have wrote to you several times but never had the
happeness of Receivin one Letter from You – Which give me a great Deal of
Concern to think you Should be so ungreatfull[,] nothing in the World
would given me a greater happeness than to hear of Your Welfare and to
hear how you get on in the World.’57 He wanted a commentary on daily life.
Yet even when faced with epistolary silence, he did not forget his own
remembrances, writing, ‘Love to my Brothers and Sisters and to all friends
atome’.58 Just for good measure he added, ‘Be sure to Send me an Answer
by the first Oppertunity and when you Direct Your Letter Derected for the
Grennige Man of War Lying in Port Royal’.59 People wanted news of
deaths, births, marriages, who was courting whom and who was on which
ship. At a distance, gossip was wanted in addition to reassurances of peo
ple’s health; it was part of the exchange, a kind of gift.60
Correspondents knew that post could go awry, especially across the
Atlantic.61 Martin Swords let people know at home that sailor friends of his
had been moved to another Royal Navy vessel, just in case their own letters
failed. For example, ‘M and Ferons[?] Malovney [now] be Long to the
Drednot’.62 However, whether it was the distance between them, or the time
lag, this knowledge did not stop people from fretting and fearing the worst
when letters were not received. John Smith wrote to his wife: ‘My Dier I
hope that you Will Ansur this as soon as it Coms to your hand for I have
write a Grat Many and never had an Ansur which Maks me verey un
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 175
63
Easy’. Joseph Fraizer appeared frantic after not hearing from his wife,
telling his sister: ‘I have wrote 4 Letters to Hir Besides Since We Have Been
Here and Hav Not Goat one Line from Hir.’64 Similarly Edward Magnar
was writing his sixth letter to his wife but had, ‘Nevr Receivd an Anwr from
your hands’; ‘Nothing could doo me a greater pleasure than to hear from your
My Dr’, he added.65 Edward feared she was dead: ‘My Dr att present my
having to Importune you to Answer my Letters which as yet not being Done
gives me room to Despair of your being alive’.66 However, he was still in
‘Hopes yt you are Yett Surviving which is ye Real wish of your true love’.67
These letters were therefore far more than courtesies; they were reassurances
that loved ones were alive and well, and that the depths of their affections had
not been altered by time and distance. For some, the lack of letters from their
loved ones added mental anguish above and beyond simply missing home.
Certainly Joseph Fraizer wished that ‘He coud Have the Happeness of Seeing
His Mother once more Before she Dyed’ (see Figures 8.1–8.3).68 Working at
such distances from home meant that many important life events were missed,
just when family should have been able to comfort each other. Letters were a
physical reminder of the absent person, a way of sending ‘cind love’, a reminder
not to forget the sender, and, for our ordinary people in Jamaica, a way of
seeking assurance that in turn they were not forgotten.
Figure 8.1 Page one of Joseph Fraizer’s letter to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
The National Archives, UK. Permission Courtesy: The National Archives, ref.
HCA30/259.
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 177
Figure 8.2 Page two of Joseph Fraizer’s letter to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
The National Archives, UK. Permission Courtesy: The National Archives, ref.
HCA30/259.
178 Sheryllynne Haggerty
Figure 8.3 Envelope of Joseph Fraizer’s letter to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
The National Archives, UK. Permission Courtesy: The National Archives, ref.
HCA30/259.
of his wife being alive. Hoping to earn around £50 from prizes (French ships
taken in war) which was around a yearly wage for an artisan at home, he
promised that if they were ‘Detained Longer’ he would remit the ‘greatest
part’ home ‘by ye first shure hand’.74 Before arriving in Jamaica he had been
ill on the Coast of Guinea and had sent his mother his Will and a Power of
Attorney. He must have thought he was going to die. It was relatively unu
sual for men in this period to entrust a woman with such powers to act for
them, so clearly he also trusted his mother.75 In his letter from Jamaica he
added, ‘ill or well you Should have it and all ways will’.76 George Farmer on
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 179
HMS Dreadnought clearly had a younger brother, Jeremiah. Apart from
news about the war, the main body of his letter was devoted to giving
brotherly advice and support. It would appear that Jeremiah was appren
ticed. George began: ‘I hope You & Yr Masters Agree, You are now to
Come to Years of Discretion, & you must Certainly Know, tho You, have
not Felt them the many Difficulty’s I have Under gone not to be Depending
on others.’77 Possibly George had paid for Jeremiah’s apprenticeship to an
Apothecary, Richard Maguire, as that was to whom the envelope was
addressed. George said that he would do anything in his power to assist
Jeremiah, but also encouraged him to be ‘an honest Industrious Young
Fellow’, and advised him to go ‘to the Hospital, turn it to the best Acct, &
get all in the insight in Surgery You can, as it May be of particular Service
to You hereafter’.78 It would seem that the family had lost their parents
quite young and that George had fought hard for his financial independence:
‘Never Forget Yr Sisters that took so much care of you when You were not
Able to take care of Yr Self’.79 His tight-knit family were looking after each
other at a distance and trying to better themselves at the same time.
Joseph Fraizer was busy loading the merchant vessel on which he worked
for Liverpool, but he was very concerned for his wife. After telling his sister
Ann that he was healthy and had had a good journey to the Caribbean, he
quickly turned to the subject of his spouse.80 He had written to her in
Liverpool, but was ‘afraid That she will Not Be Left Dubing [Dublin] By It
geats there’.81 Joseph then reminded Ann of a promise she had made to find
his wife in Liverpool if she had left Dublin already:
Dr Sister I Houp that you Have Been as Good as Your word In Going
over to Liverpool Which if That you Have I will Teake it as Very Great
fiver Dr Sister I feeds my Self With the Thoughts of spending Some of
my Day In mirth and Plesure In Liverpool Which Please God Will Be
Some Time In January.82
He signed off hoping for ‘a happy meeting of my Dr Wife and You Which Is the
Constent Prayers of your Ever Loving and Duttifull Brother till Death’.83 Per
haps his wife came from Liverpool and was going back there while he was
away, or possibly she had run off with another man and Joseph could not face
the truth. These sailors wrote letters that sent heartfelt messages to their wives
and concern for their kin. Being in the strange world of the Caribbean they may
have felt not only the distance more sharply, but witnessing the Jamaican
household which was often so different from their own, may have made them
yearn only more for their own family, friends and lovers.
Waging war
For sailors, this dire disease environment heightened the risks of war and
troops were rightly fearful of the tropics. No wonder when even the normal
death rate in peace time for servicemen in the Caribbean was 250 per 1,000.
This is not surprising given the standard of medical care (or lack thereof).
Of the troops sent to besiege Cartagena in 1741 around 70–80 per cent died
from disease.109 Furthermore, by autumn 1756, the Seven Years’ War, which
had been formally declared on 17 May 1756, was in full swing. The start of
the war did not bode well for Britain and the French Fleet which had arrived
182 Sheryllynne Haggerty
in St. Domingue was reported as vastly superior to the British.110 Indeed,
several of the Europa’s letters comment on the relative weakness of the
British fleet. Worse, there were rumours that the French fleet was going to
attack Jamaica, which the governor relayed to London.111 In November
Admiral Townsend moored the larger naval vessels in Kingston harbour,
but this only increased the sense of panic.112 There were only six vessels
stationed at Jamaica in July: HMS Dreadnought, HMS Princess Mary, HMS
Greenwich, HMS Shoram (the latter sometimes stationed at Havana), HMS
Sphynx and HMS Rye.113 The first four at least were still in Jamaica
throughout the autumn. As we have seen, some of our letter-writers were
serving on these ships.
For the merchant seamen, however, trade continued amidst the war, as
Robert Nelson, William Nickell and Joseph Fraizer knew. Robert wrote to
his correspondent in Dublin that the Birmingham, on which he was sailing,
was ‘Now taken in Showgers[sugars] for London and I Expect that We Will
Sail gien [by/before] the 20 of this mownth’.114 In fact this was unlikely
because vessels usually had to wait for the fleet to provide a convoy, or pay
even higher insurance.115 Indeed, William, who had arrived in Jamaica on 6
October, reported to his brother that they had, ‘Got Som of the Cargoe on
her Bott When We shall be cler to Sail I canot teel But as Soun as I know I
will Send you Word’.116 Although William was sending the letter to his
brother James via a friend in Belfast, it was clear that James too was a
sailor, possibly with the Royal Navy: ‘I herd that you was in Sant Christo
pors With ye flite Which I wase Varey Satisfied to heare that you was in God
health’. Joseph had arrived on 14 August and was still in Kingston harbour
with his merchant vessel. They had travelled from Cork in convoy with a
‘40 Goon[gun] ship Who Convoy’d us about 100 Leags from the Land’.117
He continued, perhaps to put his sister Ann at ease, that he had had ‘the
Plasentest Pasage and the Best wether that Ever I was at Sea in all my Life’.
They were ‘Now a Loading Know for L[iver]pool and Expect That we will
Be Ready to Sail by the 10th of Next Month’. This was not only relevant
news for Ann, but also for the families of anyone else serving on the same
merchant vessel, who then could work out roughly when their loved ones
might be due home.
At the same time, Patrick Kelly was on HMS Greenwich and Martin
Swords on HMS Princess Mary. Both of their letters are relatively short, and
Patrick did not mention the war at all, possibly not to worry his family and
friends. It was noted above that Martin had let people at home know that
M. and Ferons Molvney were now on HMS Dreadnought. He added that,
‘Pat Fulham be long[s] to the Humber her[e]’.118 As with advising of possi
ble dates for travel, this was important news as sailors could be transferred
to another Royal Navy vessel with no warning and future letters needed to
be addressed accordingly. It also hints at whole naval communities back
home in Ireland.119 For example, Lieutenant Edward ONeal had arrived on
HMS Wager, but was transferred onto HMS Dreadnought with twenty of
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 183
120
his marines. ONeal was treated well and was happy with the transfer, but
one wonders whether the twenty marines were made to feel so welcome.
Martin made a point of asking his brother to send his mail to him, ‘on bord
the Prinses Mary Captin Craven Commander in Jamaica’.121 George Farmer,
who was a marine serving on HMS Dreadnought, had written home to his
brother in October. He also noted the relative states of the French and British
fleet: ‘our fleet are Far Inferior to the French (which Obliges us) to keep (in the
Harbour) but we Expect a supply of Ships from England Every Day’.122 George
was enthusiastic about the war, however.123 He said of the French: I ‘Shall, I
hope be Soon able to trash their Jackets well’. He also conveyed these brave
sentiments to Richard Hull. ‘I hope in a short time, be Able to Trash um well’,
he enthused. George clearly thought that it was an expectation that a sailor like
him should report on the war, to keep the community at home updated. In his
letter to Richard Hull he noted: ‘I suppose you’l Expect to hear how Affairs
stand in this part of America’. He wrote something very similar to his brother.
However, in his letter to Hull he noted that there were in terms of Royal Navy
Ships only ‘two Sixtys, one Fifty, one Forty and Four twentys’, making eight
large Naval vessels in total.124 At least there were two more than there were in
July. He also passed on the rumours about a French invasion of Jamaica. We
had, ‘an Acct that they Intend to Invade the Island, with Twenty Sail of Men of
War which made all Jamaica betake to their Arms’. However, he also noted
that a British vessel had reported ‘their Fleet is not above half that Number’.
George had also heard that Port Mahon [Minorca] had been taken, but added,
‘I hope it is not true’. In fact it was true and was a very embarrassing defeat for
the British.125 More personally, George complained about the price of food in
Jamaica to both his brother and Richard Hull. ‘Provisions of all Sorts Are
Expensive, Deer, Beef from three to four pounds P Barrell Butr[butter] three
pounds PCt, & Every thing else in proportion’.126 Prices would rise in periods
of war, but provisions in Jamaica were always particularly expensive due to the
carriage costs involved in importing food into an economy dominated by
sugar.127
For some, of course, war was a potential way of making money beyond
their normal wages. Writing home to his wife and her mother in Dublin,
Edward Magnar boasted, ‘we have taken Soom prises and Expect to Share
50 pounds a man and we hope to Sail for England before Christmas’.128
Similarly, when John Smith wrote home to his wife and child in Somerset,
he hoped that they would be able to ‘live with Satisfaction The Remendar
years of our Days’.129 This was because they had ‘taken a grat maney prises
[since] we have bein in this Cuntrey’ and he was ‘expecting to be payed for
them Every Day as I am sure that my Sher will bee Dubell and tribell to a
privet mans Sher Which I hope Will Come to a hundred pounds Sterling’.130
If Edward and John were on the same ship, Edward was possibly an ordin
ary seaman and John an able seaman, as the latter always got more pay than
the former.131 Of course, these men knew that French sailors would also
join their own privateers. Indeed, it was exactly this fate that befell the
184 Sheryllynne Haggerty
Europa on which these letters were sent. Despite the best intentions of these
sailors to use their letters to keep their families and communities informed,
their letters often never made it home.
Acknowledgements
This research has been funded by a Leverhulme Research Fellowship, 2019–
2021; Francesca Carnevali Small Research Grant, Economic History Society,
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 185
2018; Small Research Grant, Historical Society of Lancashire and Cheshire,
2014, both for the project ‘Merchants and Managers: Sojourners and Slaves’.
I would also like my fellow editors for their insightful comments on drafts
of this chapter. Any errors, of course, are mine alone.
Notes
1 The National Archives, London (hereafter TNA), HCA 30/259, f.68, Patrick
Kelly to Christopher Kelly, Jamaica, 8 Sep 1756.
2 The letters can be found at HCA 30/259 and HCA 32/189/22, TNA.
3 Marisa J. Fuentes, Dispossessed Lives: Enslaved Women, Violence, and the
Archive (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), 1.
4 Nathan Perl-Rosenthal, ‘Atlantic cultures and the age of revolution’, William
and Mary Quarterly 74:4 (Oct 2017), 667–696 (see also his chapter in this
volume); Konstantin Dierks, In My Power: Letter Writing and Communica
tions in Early America (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press,
2009); Kenneth Morgan (ed.), The Bright-Meyler Papers: A Bristol West India
Connection, 1732–1837 (Oxford: Oxford University Press for the British
Academy, 2007). See also David Hancock, Citizens of the World: London
Merchants and the Integration of the British Atlantic Community, 1735–1785
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Simon D. Smith, Slavery,
Family, and Gentry Capitalism in the British Atlantic: The World of the Las
celles, 1648–1834 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).
5 Sarah M. S. Pearsall, Atlantic Families: Lives and Letters in the Later Eight
eenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press [2008] 2010), 18. See also
Susan Clair Imbarrato, Sarah Gray Cary, From Boston to Grenada: Shifting
Fortunes of an American Family, 1764–1826 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2018).
6 Susan Whyman, The Pen and the People: English Letter Writers 1660–1800
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 5–6.
7 Steven King, Writing the Lives of the English Poor, 1750s to 1830s (Montreal:
McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2019), 137, 131.
8 TNA, HCA/30/239, f.63, George Farmer to Jeremiah Farmer, on board the
Dreadnought, Port Royal, 12 Oct 1756.
9 TNA, HCA 30/259, f.18, Ewbank Ogle to Mrs Ogle, Kingston, 9 Oct 1756.
10 Lindsay O’Neill, The Opened Letter: Networking in the Early Modern Period
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), 30–33.
11 TNA, HCA 32/189/22, f.142, Robert Nelson to Robert Smith, Kingston, 2 Nov
1756.
12 TNA, HCA 32/189, CP4, Examination of Andrew Mitchelson. For the full set
of questions and interrogatories see TNA, HCA 32/189 CP 1–6 and TNA,
HCA/32/189 SP 1–2.
13 Amanda Bevan and Randolph Cock, ‘High Court of Admiralty Prize Papers,
1652–1815: Challenges in Improving Access to Older Records’, Archives, 53:127
(2018), 34–58, 35. On British privateering more generally see David Starkey,
British Privateering Enterprise in the Eighteenth Century (Exeter: University of
Exeter Press, 1990).
14 Ship Papers and Court Papers do exist for thirteen other British vessels from
the Seven Years’ War at TNA, but not the letters. There are many letters from
other nations, including the French of course, because it was usual for the
British to take as ‘prizes’ the vessels of other nations in war. Just before pub
lication, one other smaller set of letters came to light for the Fortune of Bristol
186 Sheryllynne Haggerty
from 1757, at HCA 32/191/25. There was not any material which would change
any of the analysis presented here.
15 See the large project under way at the TNA, www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/a
bout/news/prize-papers-project-launches-at-oldenburg-castle (accessed 5 Oct
2020). See the case of the undelivered letters of a seventeenth-century Dutch
postmasters at http://brienne.org/unlockedbriennearchive (accessed 5 Oct 1756).
Xavier Lamikiz was the first to use such letters extensively, Xabier Lamikiz,
Trade and Trust in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic: Spanish Merchants and
Their Overseas Networks (Woodbridge: Boydell Press for the Royal Historical
Society, 2010).
16 For examples of letters from women see TNA, HCA 32/189//22, f.127, Sarah
Folkes to her child, Kingston, 1 Oct 1756; TNA, HCA 30/259, f.177, Ann
Morley to James and Isaac Henchells, Kingston, 2 Oct 1756.
17 King calls them ‘oral’ letters. King, Writing the Lives, 17.
18 The letter-writers were identified from a mixture of their letter headers, the
envelopes to the recipients, cross referencing with other letters in the collection
and with Secretary of State records at TNA, CO 137/60, f.239.
19 G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-
Century Britain (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press [1992], 1996), xix.
20 As Toby Ditz has shown for mercantile letters, they were often intended to be
read in taverns and coffee houses, ‘Shipwrecked; or, Masculinity Imperiled:
Mercantile Representations of Failure and the Gendered Self in Eighteenth-
Century Philadelphia’, Journal of American History, 81:1 (June 1994), 51–80;
Toby L. Ditz, ‘Formative Ventures: Eighteenth-Century Commercial Letters
and the Articulation of Experience’, in Rebecca Earle (ed.), Epistolary Selves:
Letters and Letter Writers, 1600–1945 (Aldershot: Ashgate, c.1999), 59–78.
21 On the postal system generally Kenneth Ellis, The Post Office in the Eighteenth
Century: A Study in Administrative History (London: Oxford University Press,
1958).
22 TNA, HCA 30/259, f.48, Edward Magnar to his Mother, Port Royal, 10 Oct
1756.
23 TNA, HCA 32/189/22, f.159, William Nickell to James Nickell, Kingston, 8
Oct 1756.
24 TNA, HCA 30/259, f.64, Joseph Frazier to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
25 Postage was paid by the recipient in Britain. Ellis, The Post Office, 38.
26 TNA HCA 30/259, f.63, George Farmer to Jeremiah Farmer, on board HMS
Dreadnought, Port Royal, 12 Oct 1756.
27 TNA HCA 30/259, f.158, George Farmer to Richard Edward Hull, n.g., n.d.
28 TNA, HCA 30/259, f.68, Patrick Kelly to Christopher Kelly, Jamaica, 8 Sep
1756.
29 TNA, 30/259, f.192, Martin Swords to James Swords, Port Royal, 8 Oct 1756;
TNA, HCA 32/189/22, f.171, John Smith to his Wife, Port Royal 3 Oct 1756.
The envelope shows that this letter was sent via Robert Smith. On ‘cind love’
see also Karen Harvey’s chapter in this volume.
30 HCA 32/189/22, f.142, Robert Nelson to Robert Smith, Kingston, 2 Nov 1756.
31 Many of these fit with King’s rhetorics in Writing the Lives, 134–225.
32 William Nickell to James Nickell, Kingston, 8 Oct 1756; Joseph Fraizer to Ann
Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
33 Martin Swords to James Swords, Port Royal, 8 Oct 1756.
34 Patrick Kelly to Christopher Kelly, Jamaica, 8 Sep 1756.
35 George Farmer to Jeremiah Farmer, on board the Dreadnought, Port Royal, 12
Oct 1756.
36 John Smith to his wife, Port Royal, 3 Oct 1756; Edward Magnar to his mother,
Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756.
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 187
37 Edward Magnar to his mother, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756. On deference see
Whyman, The Pen and the People, 8, 21–22, 34.
38 George Farmer to Richard Edward Hull, n/g, n.d.
39 Peter Laslett, ‘Size and Structure of the Household in England over Three
Centuries’, Population Studies, 23:2 (1969), 199–223, 202.
40 Naomi Tadmor, ‘The Concept of the Household-Family in Eighteenth-Century
England’, Past and Present, 151 (May 1996), 111–140, 113.
41 Naomi Tadmor, Family and Friends in Eighteenth-Century England: Household,
Kinship and Patronage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 171.
42 Tadmor, Family and Friends, 174; K. D. M. Snell, ‘Belonging and Community:
Understandings of “Home” and “Friends” among the English Poor, 1750–1850’,
Economic History Review, 65:1 (2012), 1–25.
43 Snell, ‘Belonging and Community’, 6.
44 TNA, HCA/30/259, f.158, George Farmer to Richard Edward Hull, n/g, n.d.
45 William Nickell to James Nickell, Kingston, 8 Oct 1756.
46 Joseph Fraizer to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756. Nancy must have been a
family friend as Joseph was already married.
47 John Smith to his wife, Port Royal, 3 Oct 1756. Even writers that supposedly
were more well educated wrote these long lists, and also forgot to ‘be remem
bered’ to them in the main body. See for example a letter from a Lieutenant on
HMS Dreadnought. TNA, HCA 30/259, f.127, Edward ONeal to Jean ONeal,
Jamaica, 4 Oct 1756.
48 King, Writing the Lives, 88.
49 William Nickell to James Nickell, Kingston, 8 Oct 1756.
50 Edward Magnar to his mother, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756.
51 This was true of the wider collection of letters, including more permanent
residents in Jamaica.
52 George Farmer to Richard Edward Hull, n/g, n.d.
53 George Farmer to Jeremiah Farmer, on board the Dreadnought, Port Royal, 12
Oct 1756.
54 Ibid.
55 George Farmer to Richard Edward Hull, n/g, n.d.
56 Martin Swords to James Swords, Port Royal, 8 Oct 1756.
57 Patrick Kelly to Christopher Kelly, Jamaica, 8 Sep 1756. Note that Patrick
corrected his own spelling in this quotation, adding the ‘a’ to hear.
58 Patrick Kelly to Christopher Kelly, Jamaica, 8 Sep 1756.
59 Ibid.
60 Lindsay O’Neill, ‘Dealing with Newsmongers: Trust and Letters in the British
World, c.167–1730’, Huntingdon Library Quarterly, 75:2 (Summer 2013), 215–
33, 220.
61 See for example, TNA, HCA, 30/259, f.156, Ann Graham to Mrs Littlejohn,
Jamaica, n.d.
62 Martin Swords to James Swords, Port Royal, 8 Oct 1756.
63 John Smith to his wife, Port Royal, 3 Oct 1756.
64 Joseph Frazier to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
65 Edward Magnar to his wife’s mother, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756.
66 Ibid.
67 Edward Magnar to his wife, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756.
68 Joseph Frazier to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
69 There was also a small population of free people of colour, Trevor Burnard,
‘European Migration to Jamaica, 1655–1780’, William and Mary Quarterly,
3rd Ser., 53:4 (Oct 1996), 769–96, 772, 776.
70 Burnard, ‘European Migration’; Trevor Burnard, ‘“The Countrie Continues
Sicklie”: White Mortality in Jamaica, 1655–1780’, Social History of Medicine,
188 Sheryllynne Haggerty
12:1 (1999), 45–72, 48–61, 52; Trevor Burnard, ‘“Not a Place for Whites”?
Demographic Failure and Settlement in Comparative Context, Jamaica 1665–
1780’, in Kathleen E. A. Monteith and Glen Richards (eds), Jamaica in Slavery
and Freedom: History, Heritage and Culture (University of West Indies Press,
2002), 73–88.
71 Trevor Burnard, ‘“Rioting in Goatish Embraces”: Marriage and Improvement
in Early British Jamaica, 1660–1780’, History of the Family, 11:4 (2006), 185–
97, 190. ‘Housekeeper’ was a euphemism for a forced or at least very unequal
sexual relationship.
72 Karen Harvey, The Little Republic: Masculinity & Domestic Authority in
Eighteenth-Century Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 1. By the
later eighteenth century Jamaican mores came increasingly under attack along
with the rise in abolitionism. Christer Petley, ‘Gluttony, Excess, and the Fall of
the Planter Class in the British Caribbean’, Atlantic Studies, 9:1 (2012), 85–106.
73 John Smith to his wife, Port Royal, 3 Oct 1756.
74 Edward Magnar to his mother, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756. Starkey, British Pri
vateering Enterprise.
75 On women and the law see Amy Louise Erickson, Women & Property in Early
Modern England (London: Routledge, 1993).
76 Edward Magnar to his mother, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756.
77 George Farmer to Jeremiah Farmer, On board the Dreadnought, Port Royal,
12 Oct 1756.
78 Ibid.
79 Ibid.
80 We are not told her name.
81 Joseph Fraizer to Ann Shuwell, 5 Oct 1756, HCA 30/259, f.64.
82 Ibid.
83 Ibid.
84 See for example, TNA, HCA 30/259, f.207, Sarah Folkes to Mrs Eatley, King
ston, 1 Oct 1756.
85 Thirty-seven have hit Jamaica since 1687. The most notorious was in 1692
when Port Royal was mostly consigned to the sea, killing around 3,000 people
Colin Clarke, Kingston, Jamaica: Urban Development and Social Change,
1692–2002 (Jamaica: Ian Randle Publishers, 2006), ch. 1, ‘Physical Environ
ment’, 1–5.
86 Burnard, ‘“The Countrie Continues Sicklie”’, 48–61.
87 Ibid., 58.
88 Compared to 50 per cent of deaths of native-born Kingstonians. Burnard,
‘“The Countrie Continues Sicklie”’, 58.
89 The one exception was George Farmer to Richard Edward Hull, n/g, n.d.
90 William Nickell to James Nickell, Kingston, 8 Oct 1756.
91 Peter L. Bernstein, Against the Gods: The Remarkable Story of Risk (New
York: Wiley & Sons, 1966), 121.
92 Edward Magnar to his wife, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756.
93 Slave ship crew were particularly susceptible to fevers, while the enslaved were
more likely to die from gastrointestinal problems, Richard H. Steckel and
Richard A. Jensen, ‘New Evidence of the Causes of Slave and Crew Mortality
in the Atlantic Slave Trade’, Journal of Economic History, 46:1 (Mar. 1876),
57–77, 60–61.
94 This happened in the Royal Navy too, N. A. M. Rodger, The Wooden World:
An Anatomy of the Georgian Navy (London: Fontana Press, 1988), 188–204.
95 You can hear the broad Irish accent if you read this aloud. Robert Nelson to
Robert Smith, Kingston 2 Nov 1756. Saltcoats is on the North Ayrshire coast
of the Firth of Clyde opposite the Isle of Arran.
Unlettered letters from Jamaica, 1756 189
96 Burnard, ‘“The Countrie Continues Sicklie”’, 54.
Oct 1756.
98 George Farmer to Richard Edward Hull, n/g, n.d.
99 Mark Harrison, Medicine in an Age of Commerce & Empire: Britain and its
Tropical Colonies 1660–1830 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 19.
100 British Library, C. S. F. 150, Vol. IV, Journals of the House of Assembly, Mar
1746–Dec 1756, ff.688, 721.
101 Journals of the House of Assembly, ff.640, 687.
102 Harrison, Medicine in an Age of Commerce, 122.
103 John Smith to his wife, Port Royal, 3 Oct 1756.
104 Kenneth F. Kiple, The Caribbean Slave: A Biological History (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1984), 64–65. Ideas around seasoning were so
malleable they were used with regards to enslaved Africans by pro-slavers and
abolitionists, Sean Morey Smith, ‘Seasoning and Abolition: Humoural Medi
cine in the Eighteenth-Century British Atlantic’, Slavery & Abolition, 36:4
(2015), 684–703.
105 Suman Seth, Difference and Disease: Medicine, Race, and the Eighteenth-Cen
tury British Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), chapter
three, ‘Seasoning Sickness and Imaginative Geography’, 91–111. Quotation is
Seth quoting Hans Sloane, 93.
106 Petley, ‘Gluttony, Excess’.
107 Seth, Disease and Difference, 95; Burnard, ‘“The Countrie Continues Sick-
lie”’, 67.
108 Rodger, The Wooden World, 74.
109 The normal death rate for troops in Britain was around 4 per cent. Harrison,
Medicine in an Age of Commerce, 15.
110 Stephen Conway, War, State and Society in the Mid-Eighteenth Century
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 22–26.
111 TNA, Original Correspondence, Secretary of State, CO 137/60, f.243 Henry
Moore to n/k, Spanish Town, 8 Nov 1756. See also TNA, HCA 30/259, f.129,
Hibberts & Millan to Francis Wightwick, Kingston, 1 Oct 1756.
112 In fact, Jamaica was not really threatened until the last year of the war. The
Admiralty decided in May 1757 to keep eight ships of the line and eleven
smaller vessels regularly stationed at Jamaica, but it could not always fulfil this
objective, Richard Pares, War & Trade in the West Indies, 1739–1763 (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1936), 267.
113 Henry Moore to n/g, Kingston, 26 Jul 1756, Original Correspondence, Secre
tary of State, CO 137/60, f.239. It was not possible to create a definitive list of
the Royal Navy vessels stationed at Jamaica at any one time.
114 Robert Nelson to Robert Smith, Kingston 2 Nov 1756.
115 Sheryllynne Haggerty, ‘Merely for Money’? Business Culture in the British
Atlantic, 1750–1815 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2012), 48–49.
116 William Nickell to James Nickell, Kingston, 8 Oct 1756.
117 Joseph Frazier to Ann Shuwell, Kingston, 5 Oct 1756.
118 Martin Swords to James Swords, Port Royal, 8 Oct 1756.
119 The Irish were a significant part of the growth in Britain’s armed forces in the
mid-eighteenth century, Conway, War, State and Society, 56–82.
120 TNA, HCA 32/189/22, f.145, Edward ONeal to John Day, Jamaica, 4 Oct
1756. All ONeal’s letters direct the recipient to write to him on the
Dreadnought.
121 Martin Swords to James Swords, Port Royal, 8 Oct 1756, HCA 30/259, f.192.
122 George Farmer to Jeremiah Farmer, On Board the Dreadnought, Port Royal,
12 Oct 1756.
190 Sheryllynne Haggerty
123 His optimism was not well placed, as extra vessels and men were not sent to
Jamaica until 1757. Pares, War & Trade, 267.
124 George Farmer to Richard Hull, n/g, n/d.
125 Rodger, The Wooden World, 246–249.
126 George Farmer to Jeremiah Farmer, On Board the Dreadnought, Port Royal,
12 Oct 1756.
127 Trevor Burnard, Laura Panza and Jeffrey Williamson, ‘Living Costs, Real
Incomes and Inequality in colonial Jamaica’, Explorations in Economic His
tory, 71 (2019), 55–71.
128 Edward Magnar to His Mother, Port Royal, 10 Oct 1756.
129 John Smith to his Wife, Port Royal, 3 Oct 1756.
130 Ibid.
131 Prizes were larger in the Navy than for merchant seamen because all of the
prize money was allocated to the captors. On a merchant privateer only one
half went to the captors, and usually expenses were taken out before the money
was distributed. Seamen in private men of war did not receive wages. Starkey,
British Privateering Enterprise, 66, 72. One quarter went to the ordinary
seamen, Rodger, The Wooden World, 128–129.
9 Constructing the body in English
pauper letters, 1780–1834
Steven King
Whether writers like Pearson told the truth is a matter to which we return.
If momentarily we assume that he did, then this letter is a remarkable
window onto the emotional state of a man approaching destitution (he was
very low and weak), his intimate suffering (racked by uncontrolled shivering
and pain), his sense of natural justice (Pearson’s situation was deplorable),
and his ultimate dependence in what was a discretionary welfare system.
Above all, the letter affords us a remarkable perspective on the living pauper
body.3 Pearson mentioned twice that he was confined to bed, clearly sig
nifying his withdrawal from the world of the public. The shivering fit that
resulted in the breaking of his bed is described in vivid detail, conveying lack
of control, an invasion of the body by disease, and mental despair.4 His
body had become weak (much as his mind had become low) because he had
struggled for a week before writing to seek welfare. The body, in short, was
at the heart of this case, and the letter that conveyed the information was a
graphic embodiment of his pain and despair.
Research on how bodies were culturally, medically, philosophically and
rhetorically constructed and represented during the long eighteenth-century
has grown vigorously in the last two decades. We now understand that
contemporaries saw physical and mental impairment as compromising mas
culinity, the potential for public and community service, and the ability to
labour that was a primary identifier of the labouring poor.5 The fascination
with monstrosity, traced by Karen Harvey for the early eighteenth-century,
gathered vigour and pace thereafter.6 Clean, ordered and healthy selves
DOI: 10.4324/9781003027256-13
192 Steven King
became central to medical constructions of the body, while cleanliness
became a core concern for elite groups and those who worked for them,
both as a medical issue and a potent symbol of respectability.7 And the
ability to know, record and publicise the exact condition of bodies (from
height and weight, to skin tone and birthmarks) became an increasingly
precise tool through which the powerful sought to control the notionally
powerless.8 Despite this rich literature, the history of the body is fundamentally
influenced by work on elite groups, or by their perspectives on and engagement
with the bodies of people from the lower orders. Our knowledge of those who
probably had the most diseased and vulnerable bodies (the 10–20 per cent of
the long eighteenth-century population on, or on the margins of, state welfare),
is remarkably thin.9 We know more about their houses, clothing and diet than
we do about the poor bodies which lived, wore and ate. Similarly, while com
mentary on the physical and mental state of the poor by middling commenta
tors is plentiful, our understanding of the perspectives and experiences of the
poor themselves, and of their sense of selfhood and body, is vanishingly rare.
Letters like that of John Pearson help here. Using them we can ask: how did the
poor construct bodies and suffering? How did they use bodies as a rhetorical
and strategic instrument? How did bodies shape the immediate reception of
appeals? How did a rhetorical focus on bodies influence subsequent discussion
and development of the case? And what can we learn about the selfhood of
these writers? This is the agenda for the rest of the chapter. First we turn to the
question of pauper letters and their extent and interpretation.
This letter is more boldly written than any of the other Garlick correspon
dence, in a different hand (though he also signed this one), and with a
stronger and more direct authorial line. Clearly (and logically), a man on the
verge of losing one eye and with problems in the other was unlikely to be
able to write and thus sought and found a scribe. It would have been
obvious to the recipient overseer that the authorial hand was of a very dif
ferent character to the ‘usual’ Garlick letters. The sense that the injury had
affected his whole being – it had disordered his frame – is nonetheless clear
and the sentiment, even if not the exact phrasing, almost certainly came
from Garlick himself. A follow-up letter from Henry Brasewell of West
Clough (Lancashire, Garlick’s landlord) on 7 May 1834 tells us:
Richd Garlick … the Pore man is not able to Pay himself he as nothing
but bad Forten [fortune] he as got cut with a stone on his Eye and as
lost it and the Paine of it as mede him very tinder of the other that he
canot mentane is Laber [cannot maintain his labour] at all times for is
Helth as not ben so well Since the Eye was cut.28
our serkamstanc is wors since ther has Ben so Much tik it is tuno one
that we Could Be trasted one Pane whear We Coude have Ben trasad a
Pound Befor Bot it was on the same Ground that you Brot me from
Ingleton by ranen me doun that Was in Your Ppaur I donat men to say
hou in pertekler Bot it sems a Great Comfert30
She has been … for several weeks past so ill, as not to be able to feed
herself: she is not in a state that will admit of a removal by any con
veyance whatever, or she would be for now comfortable and much
better served for, if she was with you. She humbly begs you will be so
Kind as to take her case into consideration, and be so kind as send her a
little more relief, to all human appearance she will not need it long.37
This pessimism was unwarranted; the Bainbridges claimed parish relief into
the late 1820s. In turn narratives of domestic confinement and consequent
unemployment are replete in the corpus, especially when claimants faced
sudden crisis. Christopher Grime, for instance, wrote from Langcliff (Lan
cashire) on 25 November 1825 that his legs had nearly been amputated when
a flag (presumably a flagpole or flagstone) fell on him. His central (and he
hoped telling) claim was that ‘I ham Condfind [confined] to my roum
[room] and Cannot help My self and My young Childeren’.38 Similarly,
John Pearson, writing from Whitehaven (Cumberland) on 21 March 1823,
noted that he ‘was 10 weeks and never brought one penny into the hous’.
This was not his fault, but reflected the fact that ‘my wife is lying and not
able to turn hir self in bed and has been now going in three weeks she may
survive till you Recd. this and she may not for the Doctor now Can Reco
mend nothing but Nurishment for hir and it is not in my Power to gett it for
hir’. Pearson appropriated the voice and authority of the doctor to empha
sise the severity of the familial case, but the core issue was that his wife’s
198 Steven King
illness had confined them both to the domestic sphere with dire con
sequences for his ability to act as a working husband should.39
Ann Bainbridge and John Pearson’s wife were beyond childbearing when
we encounter them, but younger women (and their advocates) regularly
elided ‘confinement’ for childbirth and assumed deservingness. On 13
August 1810, for instance, Rachel Boothman of Carlisle (Cumberland) was
‘laying in Childbed’ and her husband could not maintain his regular work.40
Similarly William Winder wrote from Kendal (Cumberland) on 2 November
1831 ‘to let you know that my Wife was brought to Bed yesterday morning
& is in a very weak state’. He begged assistance because her ‘confinement’
meant he could not himself leave the house and earn money.41 The rhetoric
of confinement was more clearly used when William and his wife wrote a
joint letter on 2 November 1834, soon after another birth. Claiming ‘cir
cumstances of a very hard Kind’ William (it was his hand, though both
signed) was ‘myself confined to my bed in sickness and my Wife likewise on
a bed of sickness & child-bed’. Emphasising their confinement, he elided
their domestic situation and bodily needs: ‘it is now a house of distress and
poverty.’ To further convey their precarious situation, William added, ‘I
cant offer to rise out of bed without the assistance of two men’.42 As women’s
historians have demonstrated, a key aspect of the lying-in period was the
withdrawal of the self and body from the public world, but in this case dis
abling sickness for William Winder heavily exacerbated the multiple costs of
‘confinement’. The Winders were socially, culturally and economically disabled
through no fault of their own and they assumed that officials would understand
this submersion of the public body as conferring entitlement.43
Most of those employing confinement rhetoric had (and conveyed) a sense
that if helped they would return themselves and their bodies to something
broadly ‘normal’ in terms of a healthy ability to work. For others, however,
a second core trope was the failing/decaying body and a related or con
sequent sense of hopelessness.44 Ann Bainbridge, writing from Manchester
on 17 January 1825, could point to a litany of bodily misfortune. Now she
apologised for further communication, claiming: ‘I should not have troubled
you with writing but that otherwise you might not know whether I was still
alive.’ Bainbridge implied that her accumulated state meant that a reason
able person would have doubts about her very ability to live.45 Eleanor
Beck, writing from Mold (Wales) on 6 September 1822, rhetoricised more
eloquently on accumulated misfortune, asking that her correspondent,
‘obtain for me a little to blunt the shafts of penury [and] you will ensure
yourself the blessings of Him who is styled the Judge of the Widow’.46 This
appropriation of biblical text spoke to the assumed Christian philanthropy
of officials but also adopted well-known imagery of the body and personae
of the poor friendless widow.47 Usually, this rhetorical model involved
detailing at length both the nature of decay and its impact on the ability to
play the normative roles (husband, wife, earner) that might be expected of
writers. Ruth Kitchen wrote from Preston (Lancashire) on 2 March 1826: ‘as
Constructing the body in English pauper letters, 1780–1834 199
my advanced years is now arived to that State when I am Sinking under old
age and infirmity’. The aged body was not, in and of itself, a signal of
deservingness and Kitchen knew this, noting she had:
now Gotten Past doing any thing Towards my Support and Trade and
other things is now in a deploreable Situation this may Perhaps be Some
things better but I shall never be younger but shall Continue to Worsten
and as men and Christians I think you will Easily Suppose that Persons
at 75 years are Past doing much and I hope and Trust I shall be assisted
in a reasonable manner.48
Here then bodily decay was a heavy burden, emphasised by the juxtaposi
tion of a definite age – 75 – with the abilities that accrued to her younger
self. A failing body prompted withdrawal from labour and the public world
of work, and raised the prospect of lifelong domestic confinement. Others
had less time. When John Haley wrote from Horton (Lancashire) in
November 1814 for ‘Old Joseph’ Nelson, he was: ‘Verry porley and has
given over work three weeks since will be next thursday and he is Realey
Verry Short of Breath and spits a great Deal whether he will be Better or not
I Canot tell but I think he is almost done now’.49 Nelson’s body was literally
decaying with every breath. To augment the weight of his observations
Haley noted that ‘I have written the truth as I Can and I am an eye witt
ness’.50 Decay was more than a rhetorical strategy; its stark reality dripped
from the pen.
When writers wanted to establish long-term relief eligibility, constructing
a narrative of decay might require a long series of letters and thus a period
of no or inadequate relief while they were written, sent, and responded to.
Thus, we can also detect a subtly different trope of the fragile body, one
which necessarily meant from the outset of correspondence that dependence
would be life-long. The argument was made most commonly about chil
dren.51 Rachel Boothman, encountered already above, is a good but not
untypical example. She wrote from Carlisle on 21 July 1833 to thank the
overseer for previous relief and respond to his request for the ages of her
children. Officials often asked this question to ascertain whether the children
should be contributing to the family economy, or as a precursor to their
forced apprenticeship, a ripping apart of the body of the household.52
Recognising the intent of the overseer’s letter, Boothman noted that ‘their
earnings never has amounted to aney thing as yet’, and suggested that her
daughter had been prevented from working by ‘a Dry Scald [ringworm] in
her head’. But she reserved the most telling comments for her son James
who ‘Likewise has Been under the Dispensrey Doctors for at Different times
for the space of eight and nine Month at a time they – and he a Very Small
Delicate Boy’.53 This language of delicacy was not accidental. While the
term has multiple potential meanings during the long eighteenth century, in
relation to poor children it categorised and characterised those who were
200 Steven King
small, slight, prone to repeated illness and often with some physical dis
ability short of being completely incapacitating. Boothman reinforced the
message on 20 May 1835, claiming that, ‘as for the oldest Boy, I think he
will never be fit for any thing he is so dilicate’.54 Delicate in this sense sig
nalled long-term dependency on family and parish. In similar fashion Mary
Grime wrote from Langcliff on 17 May 1835 having been abandoned by her
husband. Clearly aware that abandonment did not equate to deservingness
Grime claimed she had been unable to work because: ‘my son he is a very
delicate boy he is scarcely ever well’. Her focus on delicacy worked and the
letter is annotated with a note that the overseer sent her five shillings.55
Sometimes the physical manifestations of delicacy were specified with more
precision, as in the case of William Lowry of Clitheroe (Lancashire), one of
whose step-children was considered delicate because he ‘will always have
Lame hand as he never can move his fingers’.56 All of these writers sought
ongoing relief for the children, and the range of impairments tacitly
encompassed by the word delicate constitute a rare occasion in the corpus
(both for Kirkby Lonsdale and more widely) where poor people fail to
construct degrees of ability rather than simply disability.57
A broader rhetoric of what we might understand as fragility or frailty
cohered to other life-cycle groups. John Garnett, writing from Kendal on 2
April 1831 asked for help because, ‘I feel my Boodly weekness [bodily
weakness] still to incrace [increase]’, while William Garnett of Preston
claimed in April 1836 that his allowance should be maintained because ‘I am
now strugglen [struggling] hard aganst grate Weeknes of Body to do a littel
Work and Keep on my feet’, by which he meant to avoid being confined to
the home.58 John Pearson, encountered already, was a rhetorical master at
signalling bodily frailty. His letter of 3 August 1820 said that he was unable
to manage on his wages, claiming that ‘I have been allmost fainting at work
but I was still hoping for better but it is wors’.59 By 30 October 1822 his
personal fragilities had magnified. Pearson was ‘born to Crisis and hard
fortune’. Having injured his leg at work, he now talked of it as a dis
embodied limb: ‘which I had but viry bad hopes of it [the leg] at one time
and I am not able to work mutch with it yeat [yet]’. Pearson remained pes
simistic about the ability of his body to hold out because ‘there is a pain still
lays in my Side ever since winter’. He also elided fragility of body and mind,
exercising a rhetorical flourish with his assertion that; ‘when I take a Serous
thought of my hard fortune it trouble me till I Call again to Recolection that
the Lords will must be don and I must submitt to it all’. For Pearson then, it
was not simply a lame leg that directed his unwilling application, but a
sense that his body and mind was susceptible to a God-given life of
misfortune.60
In these adult cases writers expected to regain bodily strength, with all
that this implied for perceptions of deservingness in the present and the
nourishing ability to work and sustain an independent household in the
future. For a subset of poor adult writers, however, recovery was (in their
Constructing the body in English pauper letters, 1780–1834 201
eyes) unlikely. In such cases we very rarely encounter the rhetoric of com
plete disability, but that of the less able body is plentiful. George Boothman,
writing from Little Corby (Westmorland) on 30 May 1822 claimed:
Boothman constructed himself and his body as able to work for some of his
subsistence and perhaps more if helped in the present. Christopher Grime,
encountered already above, also constructed himself as partially able, writ
ing on 6 May 1830 that his wages were insufficient because: ‘I have had bad
turns In my body several times the past winter and I have been Very bad
Now for this last week or more through my belt being bad and I Cannot
Get a truss Covered and made under 14s’.62 Grime invited the overseer to
think how he must be situated for physical labour and to send him the
money for a truss, clearly assuming his reader would understand the bodily
and mental effects of a ‘rupture’.
This narrative of degrees of bodily (and mental) ability plays out most
keenly in the context of young adults, where cases of compromised bodies
threatened long-term parochial and familial dependence. Thus, we learn on
1 August 1821 that Grace Nelson’s (unnamed) daughter ‘has been much
afflicted Both in her Body and Eys but as She grows Elder I think her Eye
Rather Strengthes but She has a good appetite’.63 This narrative deepened
over a number of letters from Horton (Lancashire) and the daughter was to
undergo (in an epistolary sense) a radical physical and moral transforma
tion. By 5 June 1828, she was ‘Verrey Deficient in Memorey and sence and
Can see not weell on one Eye a Verrey Simple foolish Creator [creature] and
Cannot Learn hardley any thing’.64 Shortly afterwards (24 October 1828) we
learn that the daughter was called Betty but such naming did not improve
perceptions of her worth: She ‘Canot see verry well & bad memorey tis
Impossable to Learn her anything she is so short of witt memory and
Understanding I Cannot tell what must Cum of her’. Adopting a philoso
phical bent, the respondent suggested: ‘but we are short sighted Creatures
Canot tell what a Day may bring forth’, conveying an implied hope that
Betty Nelson might not end up as a parochial burden. Indeed, ‘my Daughter
likes Bett and Rather than she should Com to you this Winter she will take
a Trial of her this next 20 weeks with you allowing the 2 shillings per
Week’.65 This experiment with informal apprenticeship ended badly. By 23
February 1829, we learn that:
I Canot but give her a bad Caracter she is a dirty slothful Nasty Idle
Creator and a Verey great Liear I think She Can See Verry porley she
202 Steven King
Canot Learn anything dull Stuped Sleepy Verry little sence or Ever will
have I think … I have Cleared my Concience66
In the space of eight years, Betty Nelson had moved from being someone
with a little potential to being a young woman with no future. A final letter
on 15 October 1829 noted that Betty was homeless. John Haley said of her:
‘there is Nothing But Loss at that and greef and Truble with her sumtimes I
think she Borders on Idoitesm and she Can Never Come of herself’.67 Betty
was not physically unable but her mental incapacity and associated mis
behaviours pushed her inexorably towards the less able and more dependent
end of the spectrum that contemporaries constructed.
These are important examples of how fact and rhetoric entwined to con
struct particular images, layers, and versions of the poor body. This process
reaches its most sophisticated in constructions of the neglected body. When
parishes left letters unanswered, delayed responses, and paid less than was
requested or with conditions that were deemed unwarranted, poor writers
often fashioned new claims. In particular, we see them yoking delay or
denial with worsening bodily conditions such that writers needed more
relief, more intensive relief and of longer duration than if parish officers had
responded as they should have done initially. James Wilson, living in
Blackburn (Lancashire), is a good but not untypical example. On 7 August
1822, he was ‘greatly Surprised that the person you spak of [as coming to
inspect him] has never calld nor yet have I received aney answer to my last
[letter]’. The parish, he argued ‘can not be unacquainted with my Situation’
given frequent prior correspondence. Outlining a litany of woes, Wilson
asked for help with rent arrears.68 We learn from a letter of 20 November
1822 that the request was successful, but also that Wilson considered the relief
insufficient given his ‘third misfortune in two years and six weeks’. While his
bodily health was tolerable, his mood was brought low by the requirement to
struggle continually on a pittance. By acting now the overseers would save
themselves money – his situation was sure to worsen – and relieve his mental
suffering: ‘by so doing you will ease a mind already overburdend and save my
familey from Further Misery’.69 On this occasion, the parish did not act and
Wilson was obliged to ‘trouble you again and hope you will take my case into
Immediate consideration’ on 10 December 1822. In turn, non-response had
hindered physical recovery from a broken leg (which ‘mend verry slowly,
owing to its having been broke in the same place before’), but also greatly
increased his mental suffering. Wilson reminded his correspondent that he
could not get for his children ‘Scarce half sufficient of Provisions … this, Sir is
an afliction to a parent which none but those who have experianced it can feel’.
With body and mind suffering after parochial neglect, he asked for extra
resources and reminded readers that, ‘where my Family broke up and cast on
the parish I am convinced the expence would be greater than aney relief we
stand in need of at present’. Emphasising his mental suffering, Wilson closed
the letter with the phrase ‘I fear the worst’.70
Constructing the body in English pauper letters, 1780–1834 203
These broad categories are not, of course, static. Rather, they are simpli
fications of sometimes very complex situations where writers could incor
porate several constructions of the body into a single letter, or vary them
between letters in the same series. The presence of advocate letters in the
archives complicates this issue further, not least when advocate and poor
writer constructed the pauper body in different ways. Nonetheless, we can
be clear that failings of the adult and child body, and associated inability to
work or play normative gender roles, was the central conceptual and rheto
rical basis for establishing deservingness under the discretionary OPL.
pleas to giv my cind love to my father William Sorah the ostler at the
red Dragon in Kirkby Lonsdale and i hope he will think on my poor
little sistrs so long as he doos live tell him that idoo not think that ever
he will see me a live again in this world for ihav been for three days
withought meat.85
The overseer could have ignored this request, but there is compelling
broader evidence that they did not generally do so.86 Rather the letter, at the
centre of which stood the pregnant body and all of the risks that were
inscribed upon it, would likely have been taken to the family.
The afterlife of information and rhetoric can be seen even more clearly in
the case of Robert Beck, writing from Mold on 10 September 1832. Given
that ‘Povart Stears [poverty stares] in our faces’ – a subtle play on the idea
that need could be written onto the very bodies of the deserving – Beck
‘Could wish Dearley if you Could Send by Some of the gentlemen From
your nebourhood to Call and See our distress’.87 This invitation for sur
veillance inevitably elicited further conversations. His wife, Eleanor Beck
(encountered above), must also have anticipated an afterlife for the infor
mation and rhetoric in her letter of 6 September 1822 which said:
As the last recource I apply to you, the charecter of whose Sacred office is
charity and benevolence; the applications of the Vicar and the Overseer of
the Parish of Mold on my behalf have fail’d to obtain any relief from the
Overseer of Kirby – he is not a stranger to my case – he Knows that I am
destitude and aged – still he singles me out as an object worthy of nothing
but to be a prey of adversity he deigns not to drop the least ingredient of
comfort in bitter cup of affliction which I am doom’d to quaff88
Beck was clear. Her case was known; she had been seen in the neighbour
hood, her body (as it were) viewed. Subverting the normative channels of
communication and authority she went direct to a prominent ratepayer to
make claims that the inaction of parochial officials was doing her unto
death. Beck would have known that circumventing officials was likely to
have further (conversational and procedural) consequences. We see such
consequences played out most clearly in the letters surrounding Christopher
Grimes (also encountered above), who episodically claimed relief because of
bodily weakness. For most poor writers, such claims were accepted at face
value. Grimes, however, was seen as lacking honesty. On 5 June 1823 the
Kirkby Lonsdale overseer received a letter from his counterpart in Settle,
Samuel Grundy, who said: ‘Brother John & myself walked up to Mr.
206 Steven King
Clayton’s mill, in order to enquire into the earnings of Christopher Grimes
Children, the clerk was extremely civil, he gave us a written copy of their
average earnings’. These were substantial and Grundy opined: ‘This fellow
deserves punishing for such a rascally application to his Parish’.89 This new
intelligence ensured that Grime’s original claims maintained a currency.
Information was circulated in the parish and Matthew Lofthouse was dis
patched to make further enquiries. Straying beyond an accepted tolerance of
embellishment and fabrication by officials, Grime had, as it were, over
played his body and caused a substantial legacy for his rhetoric, as well as
compromising his relief eligibility.90
Even where someone was not seen as dishonest, the tone of a letter might
give its contents a legacy. Bettey Teabay’s letter of 3 September 1809 detailed
bodily infirmity. Its physical state compared to the rest of the archive suggests
that it has been well-thumbed in a process of physical circulation, probably
because it opened with a statement which would likely to have been read as one
of breathtaking arrogance: ‘First Jentlemen Bettey Teabay desiers you Give A
Tension To what I Going to Say’. It comes as no surprise that the original letter
is annotated with the phrase ‘nothing to be done’.91 At the opposite end of the
spectrum, sometimes the bodily issues described in letters were simply so awful
as to ensure that information about, and discussion of, bodies circulated
widely. John Haley reported on 23 March 1815:
[Elizabeth Nelson’s] Cloths Caught fire and She was Dreadfully burnt
Before the flame got Extingwished She was so Dreadfuly burnt that her
life was Despared of and a Doctor was Caled in … he Ordered pultises
[poultices] of white Bread and wine Same that Cost from 1/4 to 1/6 a
Day and Last Sunday thought a Mortification was About to take place
but on her being Clean washed all her Sores there was not so bad but
their is now Sum hopes of her Recoverey with Length of time92
Elizabeth Nelson did recover, but multiple annotations (in multiple hands) on
the letters written for or about her suggest that the case and the texts circulated
in her ‘home’ parish. The same is true of her sister Sarah who, on 21 March
1817, ‘has been VVerey porley sum time she lookes like a goost [ghost] and she
has nothing to help her’.93 It is not hard to imagine ongoing parochial interest in
a family seemingly born to misfortune. Amputations, chronic disease, infectious
disease, serial familial sickness, and mental illness all tended to prompt the
subsequent circulation of information within and between parishes, if the exis
tence of further correspondence, letter annotations or the physical condition of
some texts are read as symbols of legacy.
Conclusion
Pauper letters have fostered a reconsideration of how the poor experienced
dependence and navigated parochial social relations. Never before, however,
Constructing the body in English pauper letters, 1780–1834 207
have welfare historians appreciated the centrality of the body to these let
ters, to how they were written, rhetoricised, received and their contents cir
culated. Using the Kirkby Lonsdale letters and the particularities of serial
writers, however, it is possible to see that the poor understood how to tailor
their rhetoric to different types of claim, life-cycle stages or situations. They
employed the body as a currency, as the source of a powerful universalising
rhetoric and strategic tool with which to make claims. Fused with other
rhetorical tropes – as we have seen for instance the appropriation of biblical
language to appeal to the assumed Christian philanthropy of recipient offi
cials is a consistent sub-text in the letters – this currency gave poor writers
and their advocates a powerful tool in both epistolary and practical nego
tiations. These letters also, of course reported real bodily indispositions and
impairments, speaking to what must have been a universal communal
understanding of the risks that ill-health posed to life, work, and livelihood.
In the sense that the decision over who got what relief under the OPL was
essentially a discretionary consideration on the part of parochial officials, the
body – its history, current state, and future – shaped and constrained the ability
of those with discretionary power to exercise it. In turn, the poor could learn the
value of this currency. They could gather it in and over a series of letters deepen
the narrative and rhetorical reporting and construction of bodily indisposition.
As elite support for the OPL leached away in the 1820s and early 1830s, pri
marily because the poor seemed to have established rights under a law that
afforded them none, it becomes clear from this analysis and its implications for
other large pauper letter collections, that the effectiveness of a universalising
body rhetoric had undermined the very legitimacy of the single most important
domestic function of the nineteenth-century state. The OPL had, in system
atically supporting the bodies of those who could not support themselves, sown
the seeds of its own destruction.
Notes
1 Overseers were elected annually from local ratepayers. Most were unsalaried.
2 Cumbria Archive Service (hereafter CAS) WPR 19/7/6/16/3. Here and hereafter
all quoted spelling is from the original.
3 On dead paupers see Elizabeth Hurren and Steven King, ‘Begging for a Burial:
Death and the Poor Law in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century England’, Social
History 30:3 (2005): 321–341.
4 For mental oppression: Alannah Tomkins, ‘“Labouring on a Bed of Sickness”:
The Material and Rhetorical Deployment of Ill-Health in Male Pauper Letters’,
in Andreas Gestrich, Elizabeth Hurren and Steven King (eds), Poverty and Sick
ness in Modern Europe (London: Bloomsbury, 2012), 51–68.
5 Clare Walker-Gore, ‘Noble Lives: Writing Disability and Masculinity in the Late
Nineteenth Century’, Nineteenth Century Contexts 36:3 (2014): 363–375, 364,
369; David Turner and David Blackie, Disability in the Industrial Revolution
(Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2018), passim.
6 Karen Harvey, ‘What Mary Toft Felt: Women’s Voices, Pain, Power and the
Body’, History Workshop Journal 80:1 (2015): 33–51. Also Naomi Baker, Plain
208 Steven King
Ugly: The Unattractive Body in Early Modern Culture (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2010) and Nadja Durbach, Spectacle of Deformity: Freak Shows
and Modern British Culture (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2010).
7 See Marissa Rhodes, ‘Domestic Vulnerabilities: Reading Families and Bodies into
Eighteenth-Century Anglo-Atlantic Wet Nurse Advertisements’, Journal of
Family History 40:1 (2015): 39–63; Peter Ward, The Clean Body: A Modern
History (London: McGill-Queens University Press, 2019).
8 Gwenda Morgan and Peter Rushton, ‘Visible Bodies: Power, Subordination and
Identity in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World’, Journal of Social History
40:1 (2005): 39–64, 41–50.
9 Though not absent. See for instance Tim Hitchcock, ‘Tricksters, Lords and Ser
vants: Begging, Friendship and Masculinity in Eighteenth-Century England’, in
Laura Gowing, Michael Hunter and Miri Rubin (eds), Love, Friendship and
Faith in Europe 1300–1800 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2005), 177–196.
10 Bob Bushaway, ‘“Things Said or Sung a Thousand Times”: Customary Society
and Oral Culture in Rural England 1700–1900’, in Adam Fox and Daniel Woolf
(eds), The Spoken Word: Oral Culture in Britain 1500–1850 (Manchester: Man
chester University Press, 2002), 256–283.
11 Martyn Lyons, The Writing Culture of Ordinary People in Europe c.1860–1920
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013).
12 David Vincent, Literacy and Popular Culture: England 1750–1914 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1989).
13 Edward Boys-Ellman, Recollections of a Sussex Parson (London: Barnes, 1912).
14 Rosalind Crone, ‘Reappraising Victorian Literacy through Prison Records’,
Journal of Victorian Culture, 15:1 (2010), 3–37.
15 Thomas Sokoll, ‘Old Age in Poverty: The Record of Essex Pauper Letters, 1780–
1834’, in Tim Hitchcock, Peter King and Pamela Sharpe (eds), Chronicling Pov
erty: The Voices and Strategies of the English Poor, 1640–1840 (Basingstoke:
Macmillan, 1997), 127–54 and James Taylor, Poverty, Migration and Settlement
in the Industrial Revolutions (Palo Alto: SPSS, 1989).
16 See Steven King, ‘“It Is Impossible for Our Vestry to Judge His Case into Per
fection from Here”: Managing the Distance Dimensions of Poor Relief, 1800–40’,
Rural History, 16:2 (2005): 161–189.
17 Who thus constantly rehearse and repeat their stories allowing us to establish
narrative authenticity. For a similar point in terms of trial contexts, see Harvey,
‘What Mary Toft Felt’, 40.
18 Steven King, Writing the Lives of the English Poor, 1750s–1830s (London:
McGill-Queens University Press, 2019), 60–92.
19 This is not to downplay the rich literature on reading the authorial voice of
ordinary people in court records and depositions. See for instance James
Oldham, ‘Truth-Telling in the Eighteenth-Century English Courtroom’, Law and
History Review, 12:1 (1994): 95–121.
20 A small part of the collection has been analysed in James Taylor, ‘Voices in the
Crowd: The Kirkby Lonsdale Township Letters 1809–36’, in Chronicling Pov
erty, 109–126.
21 Peter Solar, ‘Poor Relief and English Economic Development before the Indus
trial Revolution’, Economic History Review, 48:1 (1995): 1–22.
22 CAS WPR 19/7/6/4/17.
23 See also Geoffrey Hudson, ‘Arguing Disability: Ex-servicemen’s Own Stories in
Early Modern England 1590–1790’, in Roberta Bivins and John Pickstone (eds),
Medicine, Madness and Social History (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2007), 1–10; Lea
Laitinen and Taru Nordlund, ‘Performing Identities and Interaction through
Epistolary Formulae’, in Marina Dossena and Gabriella Camiciotti (eds), Letter
Writing in Late Modern Europe (London: John Benjamin, 2012), 65–88.
Constructing the body in English pauper letters, 1780–1834 209
24 Steven King and Peter Jones, ‘Testifying for the Poor: Epistolary Advocates for
the Poor in Nineteenth Century England and Wales’, Journal of Social History
49:3 (2016): 784–807.
25 CAS WPR 19/7/6/20/39.
26 For similar narratives see Turner and Blackie, Disability.
27 CAS WPR 19/7/6/27/50.
28 CAS WPR 19/7/6/27/45.
29 CAS WPR 19/7/6/16/63. Undated.
30 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/19. This highly orthographic text would read in standard
English: ‘our circumstances is worse since there has been so much credit it is to
no one that we could be trusted one penny where we could have been trusted a
pound before. But it was on the same grounds you brought me from Ingleton by
running me down that was in your paper. I do not mean to say how in particular
but it seems a great comfort.’ Crudely, Thistlethwaite claimed that she had
managed to obtain credit from shops before but now the family circumstances
were such that no one would trust them to repay. She reminded the overseer that
his letter encouraging her to go to the village of Ingleton had held out the pro
spect of her being able to get credit and she had acted on that assertion.
31 CAS WPR 19/7/6/4/9. Undated.
32 CAS WPR 19/7/6/17/39. As with character development in contemporary novels
‘authenticity and sincerity are expressed primarily physically’. Erin Wilson, ‘The
End of Sensibility: The Nervous Body in the Early Nineteenth Century’, Litera
ture and Medicine, 30:2 (2012): 276–291, 283. Note too overlap with middling-
sort letters where words were confected to convey physical states. See Elizabeth
Hallam, ‘Speaking to Reveal: The Body and Acts of “Exposure” in Early Modern
Popular Discourse’, in Catherine Richardson (ed.), Clothing Culture 1350–1650
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), 239–262. It is often possible to see handwriting
deteriorating where people claimed or described deepening illness across a series
of letters.
33 On the OPL, work and deservingness see Steve Hindle, On the Parish: The
Micro-Politics of Poor Relief in Rural England c.1550–1750 (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 2004), ch. 3.
34 Claire Brant, Eighteenth Century Letters and British Culture (Basingstoke: Pal-
grave, 2006).
35 CAS WPR 19/7/6/4/20.
36 CAS WPR 19/7/6/9/3.
37 CAS WPR 19/7/6/19/1.
38 CAS WPR 19/7/6/18/34.
39 CAS WPR 19/7/6/16/21. On the wider relationship between bodily indisposition
and public masculine citizenship see Patricia Reeve, ‘The “Bone and Sinew of the
Nation”: Antebellum Workingmen on Health and Sovereignty’, in Timothy Light
(ed.), Bodily Subjects: Essays on Gender and Health, 1800–2000, (London:
McGill-Queens University Press, 2014), 25–52.
40 CAS WPR 19/7/6/3/24.
41 CAS WPR 19/7/6/24/52. On the link between feminine ‘weakness’ and confine
ment, see Wilson, ‘The End’, 276, while for men as carers see Lisa Smith ‘The
Relative Duties of a Man: Domestic Medicine in England and France, ca. 1670–
1740’, Journal of Family History 31:3 (2006):237–256.
42 CAS WPR 19/7/6/27/21. Note attempts to emphasise connectedness within the
community through the constant help of ‘two men’.
43 CAS WPR 19/7/6/28/21.
44 For this model in literature see Tomas Beebee, Epistolary Fiction in Europe 1500–
1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 48–51.
45 CAS WPR 19/7/6/18/2.
210 Steven King
46 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/23.
47 See for instance Lynn Botelho, ‘“The Old Woman’s Wish”: Widows by the
Family Fire? Widows Old Age Provisions in rural England 1500–1700’, History of
the Family, 7:1 (2002): 59–78.
48 CAS WPR 19/7/6/19/11.
49 CAS WPR 19/7/6/7/14. On the intersections of age, failing health and masculinity
see Helen Yallop, ‘Representing Aged Masculinity in Eighteenth-Century Eng
land: The “Old Man” of Medical Advice’, Cultural and Social History, 10:2
(2013): 191–210.
50 CAS WPR 19/7/6/7/14.
51 For analogous discussion of contemporary perceptions of the fragility and resi
lience of sick children in the classes above those considered here, see Hannah
Newton, The Sick Child in Early Modern England, 1580–1720 (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2012), 31–62.
52 Pamela Sharpe, ‘Poor Children as Apprentices in Colyton 1598–1830’, Continuity
and Change, 6:1 (1991): 53–70.
53 CAS WPR 19/7/6/26/29.
54 CAS WPR 19/7/6/28/47.
55 CAS WPR 19/7/6/28/11. On the inter-relationship between fragile child and
female bodies see Sebastien Rioux, ‘Capitalism and the production of uneven
bodies: Women, motherhood and food distribution in Britain c.1850–1914’,
Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 40:1 (2015): 1–13.
56 CAS WPR 19/7/6/17/23.
57 Elite society similarly concentrated on abilities. See Gore, ‘Noble Lives’, 368.
58 CAS WPR 19/7/6/24/1; CAS WPR 19/7/6/29/18.
59 CAS WPR 19/7/6/13/19.
60 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/34. Harvey, ‘What Mary Toft Felt’, 43, argues for an earlier
period that the elision of physical and emotional suffering was a particular
characteristic of female narratives.
61 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/14.
62 CAS WPR 19/7/6/23/11.
63 CAS WPR 19/7/6/14/30.
64 CAS WPR 19/7/6/21/39.
65 CAS WPR 19/7/6/21/22.
66 CAS WPR 19/7/6/22/5. Phrases such as nasty idle creature resonate with wider
ideas that the poor could be rhetoricised in terms also used for livestock. See
Rhodes, ‘Domestic Vulnerabilities’, 50. In standard English this might read: ‘I
cannot but give her a bad character. She is a dirty, slothful, nasty, idle creature
and a very great liar. I think she can see very poorly. She cannot learn anything
[and is] dull, stupid sleepy. Very little sense or ever will have I think … I have
cleared my conscience.’
67 CAS WPR 19/7/6/22/27.
68 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/22.
69 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/39.
70 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/41.
71 CAS WPR 19/7/6/26/13.
72 See King, Writing the Lives, passim.
73 CAS WPR 19/7/6/4/13.
74 CAS WPR 19/7/6/5/3.
75 CAS WPR 19/7/6/6/15.
76 CAS WPR 19/7/6/10/28.
77 CAS WPR 19/7/6/8/1. On rhetorics of mother/fatherhood, see Joanne Bailey,
‘“Think Wot a Mother Must Feel”: Parenting in English Pauper Letters c.1760–
1834’, Family and Community History, 13:1 (2010): 5–19.
Constructing the body in English pauper letters, 1780–1834 211
78 CAS WPR 19/7/6/13/30.
79 CAS WPR 19/7/6/18/5.
80 On the linguistic register of flattery, see Laitinen and Nordlund, ‘Performing
Identities’, 72–77.
81 CAS WPR 19/7/6/18/41.
82 CAS WPR 19/7/6/17/1. In standard English this would read: ‘see Steven and let
him know our state, for some relief we must have. Tell Steven we found the last
note [letter enclosing money]. It was at the post office. We are very much obliged
to him. He may think us troublesome but this we cannot help. This is no neglect
of ours.’
83 CAS WPR 19/7/6/3/20.
84 CAS WPR 19/7/6/16/11.
85 CAS WPR 19/7/6/20/9. In standard English this would read: ‘please to give my
kind love to my father William Sorah, the landlord at the red Dragon in Kirkby
Lonsdale. I hope he will think on my poor little sisters [i.e. provide care for] so
long as he does live. Tell him that I do not think that he will ever see me alive
again in this world for I have been three days without meat.’
86 King, Writing the Lives, 43–68.
87 CAS WPR 19/7/6/25/46.
88 CAS WPR 19/7/6/15/23.
89 CAS WPR 19/7/6/16/40.
90 CAS WPR 19/7/6/21/12.
91 CAS WPR 19/7/6/2/26. On the rhetorical purpose of such demands see Jonathan
Culpepper and Dawn Archer, ‘Requests and Directness in Early Modern English
Trial Proceedings and Play Texts, 1640–1760’, in Andreas Jucker and Ina Too
vitsainen (eds), Speech Acts in the History of English (Amsterdam: John Benja
min, 2008), 45–84.
92 CAS WPR 19/7/6/8/4. This story was later recounted in four different parish
sources.
93 CAS WPR 19/7/6/10/12.
10 Labouring bodies
Work animals and hack writers in Oliver
Goldsmith’s letters
Taylin Nelson
I have not yet seen my face reflected in all the lively display of red and
white paint on any sign posts in the subburbs [sic]. Your handkerchief
weavers seem as yet unacquainted with my merits or Physiognomy and
the very snuff-box makers appear to have forgot their respect. Tell them
all from me they are a set of Gothic, barbarous ignorant Scoundrells
[sic]. There will come a day, no doubt there will, I beg you live a couple
hundred years longer only to see the day, when … the age will vindicate
my character, give learned editions of my labours, and bless the times
with copious comments on the Text.4
DOI: 10.4324/9781003027256-14
Labouring bodies 213
Goldsmith would not have to wait two-hundred years for his ‘labours’ to be
recognised, for in less than ten years he would be famous for his novel The
Vicar of Wakefield (1766), his poem The Deserted Village (1770), and his
comedy of manners She Stoops to Conquer, published in 1771 and first
performed in 1773. Despite this success, Goldsmith did not escape critical
attacks expressed through the medium of the animal body. His longtime
adversary and critic, William Kenrick, published an exceptionally hostile
review of She Stoops to Conquer on the ninth night of its success, men
tioning Goldsmith’s days working as a hack writer on Grub Street and
lampooning his ‘grotesque Oranhotan’s figure … monkey face and cloven
foot’.5 Kenrick’s insult was two-fold; first, and most obviously, he used
animal imagery to attack Goldsmith’s short stature and scarred face; more
importantly, at the height of Goldsmith’s public success, Kenrick classed his
previous station as a hack writer as low, degrading, and animalistic. Ken
rick’s insult proved prophetic. While Goldsmith did achieve commercial
success and celebrity, publishing upwards of 200 texts in a wide range of
genres, he never escaped the title of ‘hack’. Even his final work, a natural
history to rival French naturalist Comte de Buffon’s Histoire naturelle
(1749–1804), was said to have been produced by a ‘hack scientist’.6
Goldsmith was aware of his position as a struggling author during his
early writing years, and his views on the contemporary market made their
way into many of his later works – even after he achieved financial success.
Goldsmith wittily co-opted the affectionate and sometimes biting animal
metaphors that friends and foes used to mock him to illustrate the cultural
position shared between animals and struggling authors. In both his perso
nal and fictional letters, Goldsmith often remarked on the toll of hack
writing, a profession which based its economic success on the production of
quantity over quality. Before his literary success, Goldsmith’s collected let
ters and epistolary narratives explored the labours of writing and the con
ditions of the literary marketplace through embodied animal metaphors.
Thus, this chapter considers Goldsmith’s personal and fictional letters and
the representation of animal embodiment therein as situated in London’s
hack-writing economy. This study limits itself to Goldsmith’s personal let
ters, written to friends and family between 1753 and 1766, and his serialised
epistolary narrative, The Citizen of the World; or, Letters from a Chinese
Philosopher (1760–1761); texts both bound by the years before Goldsmith
rose to literary acclaim.7 In these, the animal body becomes a metaphor and
an embodiment of Goldsmith’s struggle within an eighteenth-century literary
marketplace; and his use of animal metaphors comes to represent both
London’s market-driven economy and the commodification of work animals
and hack writers alike.
References and critiques of hack writing as they appear in Goldsmith’s
epistolary canon are relatively unexamined by scholars today. The best
scholarship available is Michael Griffin’s and David O’Shaughnessy’s new
edited collection of Goldsmith’s letters, which greatly advances the work of
214 Taylin Nelson
Katherine C. Balderston. Their work focuses on broadening avenues of
research by providing access to letters previously only accessible through the
British Library. Furthermore, while epistolary studies and animal studies
have benefitted from recent scholarship, the convergence of these fields is
relatively unaddressed. Critics have examined, for example, the wealth of
eighteenth-century letters and travelogues exchanged between natural his
torians who mailed living and non-living animal specimens. Scholars have
also acknowledged that, among the many ways letters were delivered, a
prevalent method was via horse-drawn mail coaches which made deliveries
more expedient.8 This study moves beyond the objective and peripheral
consideration of animals in letters to examine the implications of animal
embodiment and material labour in defining a writer-for-hire culture.
Though Goldsmith scholarship has revived in the twenty-first century,
there remains little critical examination of him within the field of animal
studies in general.9 Charles A. Westacott’s The Animals’ Historian (1946)
provides the only direct source connecting Goldsmith to animal studies;
however, it does not offer literary criticism and is not useful beyond the
realm of suggestion.10 Among scholars actively examining Goldsmith’s work
in an animal studies context are Julia Allen’s Samuel Johnson’s Menagerie:
The Beastly Lives of Exotic Quadrupeds in the Eighteenth Century (2002)
and Ingrid Tague’s Animal Companions: Pets and Social Change in Eight
eenth-Century Britain (2015). While Allen’s book primarily considers Samuel
Johnson’s dictionary entries on animals, it also effectively outlines Gold
smith’s influence on natural history writing by providing essential points of
reference on his visits to the Buckingham Palace zebra and the Royal
Menagerie lions held at the Tower of London.11 Tague’s chapter on Gold
smith’s natural history text, A History of the Earth and Animated Nature
(1774), shows that Goldsmith used the vocabulary of animal slavery to denote
‘friendship’ and ‘obedience’ in domestic animals and ‘natural independence and
ferocity’ in wild animals; thus drawing a distinction between the two.12 While
Goldsmith’s language is prescriptive, it remains inherently non-judgemental.
When he ascribed independence and ferocity to wild animals Goldsmith
relayed a clear message of awareness, even admiration, for the natural freedom
of wild animals – one that starkly contrasted with his opinions about domes
tication which he blamed for propagating ‘a new race of artificial monsters’
created only to serve ‘human pleasure’ and ‘convenience’.13
Though not a letter, in Animated Nature, Goldsmith stated his opinion on
the unfair labour of domesticated work animals. Writing of the draught
donkey, Goldsmith wrote that ‘[m]an despises this humble, useful creature,
whose efforts are exerted to please him, and whose services are too cheaply
purchased’.14 Goldsmith’s recognition of the economic value of the donkey’s
labour as ‘cheaply purchased’ demonstrated his view that unfair systems of
labour existed for work animals – a view which Goldsmith easily translated
into the world of human writers. Through a commiseration with working
animals, Goldsmith illustrated the laborious nature of the literary marketplace
Labouring bodies 215
and, more broadly, London’s culture of commodification; both of which were
causes for the present working conditions of hack authors and work animals.
Furthermore, Goldsmith sympathised with both humans and non-humans who
were dispossessed by shifting cultural systems. His non-epistolary works
depicted the negative consequences of domesticating wild animals and the
consequences of imported luxury that forced the rural poor to emigrate to
America.15 While Goldsmith was not an explicit advocate for human and non
human rights in the manner of Thomas Tryon or Jeremy Bentham, his works
offer numerous explorations of themes such as: sensibility, vegetarianism,
animal cruelty, animals as individuals, animal emotions, and animal societies.16
If, at times, Goldsmith’s true opinion feels obfuscated, that can be attributed to
the nature of hack writing, which required hired authors to express their
employers’ political and cultural views. Despite the nature of the work, it
becomes clear through the sheer quantity of times that Goldsmith directly or
indirectly wrote of animals, that they were central to his thinking.
The plethora of unexplored animal themes in Goldsmith’s wider corpus
of works suggests a good reason for reading his letters within an animal
studies context. But while Goldsmith had plenty to say about animals in his
fictional and non-fictional works, his personal letters mention animals only a
handful of times. Despite Goldsmith’s small collection of surviving letters,
scholars must examine those few instances of animal metaphor as important
in contributing to his larger corpus of works concerning animals. Goldsmith
did not explicitly claim that work animals and hack writers are equally
worthy of better treatment, but his rhetorical use of work animals in his
letters shows not only that he saw himself as a labourer, but that he saw
animals as highly engaged in the act of labour too. Goldsmith’s identifica
tion with subjugated work animals reflected his earlier experiences as an
Irish hack writer in London, at a time in his life when he struggled to gain
literary success. Part One of this chapter examines comparisons among hack
writing, the work horse, farm horse, and racehorse in Goldsmith’s personal
letters to establish a foundation for the financial problems he experienced
within the profession. Part Two analyses an individual letter which uses the
figure of the turnspit dog to represent the ceaseless nature of writing.
Finally, Part Three turns to Goldsmith’s epistolary narratives which set
forth his opinions on the literary marketplace through the rhetorical use of
exotic and exploited work animals such as the rhinoceros or performing
monkey; both of which were put to work and monetised for public enter
tainment. The chapter concludes by proving that Goldsmith drew a parallel
between domesticated and captive work animals, and the toil of writing in
an increasingly competitive literary market. In seeking to establish Gold
smith’s letters within both epistolary and animal studies contexts, this
chapter undertakes critical research which has not yet been done in the
current field of Goldsmith scholarship. In both forms of epistolary narrative,
Goldsmith displayed an innate ability to express the condition of the work
animal and the hired author through his own experiences in the hack
216 Taylin Nelson
profession – experiences that themselves appear through animal metaphors
comparing subjugated authors (forced to pander to public taste) to hackney
horses, work dogs, and performing street monkeys.
Then perhaps ther’s more wit and [lea]rning among the Irish? Oh Lord!
No! there has been more [money] spent in the encouragement of the
Podareen mare there [in on]e season, than given in rewards to learned
men since [the ti]mes of Usher.47
The labour of writing: The turnspit dog and the author’s work
In a letter addressed to Robert ‘Bob’ Bryanton, postmarked 26 September
1753 – when Goldsmith was not yet a professional author and had just
begun his medical education at the University of Edinburgh – he confessed
to not writing sooner to his dear college friend:53
My dear Bob,
How many good excuses (and you know I was ever good at an
excuse) might I call up to vindicate my past shamefull [sic] silence? I
might tell how I wrote a long letter at my first coming hither, and seem
vastly angry at not receiving an answer; or I might alledge [sic] that
business (with business, you know I was always pester’d) had never
given me time to finger a pen … An hereditary indolence (I have it from
the mother’s side) has hitherto prevented my writing to you, and still
prevents my writing at least twenty-five letters more, due to my friends
in Ireland. No turnspit-dog gets up into his wheel with more reluctance,
222 Taylin Nelson
than I sit down to write, yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns,
better than I do him I now address; yet what shall I say now I am
enter’d?54
Though Goldsmith wrote in jest and leisure, his comparison of the turn
spit dog’s labour with the act of writing is poignant, especially in light of his
later career. Now extinct, the turnspit dog was a species bred for a life of
toil. In a job otherwise given to the lowest kitchen staff, the turnspit dog
would run on a hollow wheel affixed to the wall, turning the spit until the
meat was fully and evenly cooked. Often scolded and mistreated, the dogs
were considered ‘household machinery’, that, as Jan Bondeson suggests,
worked ceaselessly out of fear.55 In his Letters of England (1807), Robert
Southey speculated that cooks would train the dogs by placing hot coals in
the wheel with them, which they could only escape by running at a full
gallop.56 With the developments of new breeding processes, many animals
were bred and domesticated to perform specific tasks. The propagation of
turnspit dogs, which were bred to be long-bodied and short-legged, gave
them enhanced abilities to run on a wheel for long periods of time. In an
emblematic cycle of labour, turnspit dogs produced the power necessary to
cook food for their masters. In The Illustrated Natural History (1853), John
George Wood described the extinction of turnspit dogs as a consequence of
improved roasting jacks, linking their obsolescence to the invention of the
spinning jenny, which eventually replaced the distaff and wheel.57 That the
turnspit breed became extinct because of more efficient machinery speaks to
the purpose of their domestication, as a labouring body made to serve.
The idea that working animals existed only as machinery was not a novel
concept by any means. Decades before the start of the eighteenth century,
René Descartes’s Treatise of Man (1633) developed what would become the
reigning philosophical thought concerning animal cognition, famously com
paring animals to ‘automata’.58 Beginning in the seventeenth century, Car
tesian thought posited that animals were machines ultimately deprived of
reason – like a clock, they worked within nature by the rule of their
instinctual needs. The idea that instinctual needs dictated existence was,
however, not strictly reserved to thinking about animal bodies. Descartes’s
Discourse on Method (1637) also examined the human body ‘as a type of
machinery’, that operated like the ‘clocks, artificial fountains, mills and
other similar machines’; distinguishing the human soul as the only thing
differentiating man from beast.59 The cyclical temporality of instinctual need
and mechanical, bodily reaction strongly resonates with the economic the
ories that would follow Descartes’s thinking, particularly those of eight
eenth-century political economists like John Locke, Bernard Mandeville and
David Hume. According to Locke, because work was the best means of
satisfying the wants of man, man was ‘locked’ into ‘a constant willingness
to work’.60 Following Locke’s lead, Mandeville, speaking not about labour
but about relaxation, argued that ‘Man’s natural Love of Ease and Idleness’
Labouring bodies 223
61
was the very thing that spurred human labour onwards. Also speaking to
the relationship between work and respite, Hume claimed that ease followed
a cyclical pattern leading back to uneasiness, thus demanding action to
return to a state of equilibrium.62 Like the Cartesian animal, driven to work
by instinct, by the eighteenth century, humans came to be viewed incapable
of leading a life not centred around labour; both man and animal were
yoked to the material cycles of labour that drove economic life.
The mechanical motion of the turnspit dog running on its wheel parallels
the repetitive experience of sitting down to write. The physically and men
tally demanding act of writing ‘at least twenty-five letters more’ was merely
a precursor to the profession which Goldsmith would later assume. The act
of hunching over a writing desk to transcribe twenty-five letters or more
cannot be dismissed as mere leisure; as even for those who did not hack
write, drafting business letters could be a laborious chore, as would be the
necessary act of rewriting letters which often went through multiple drafts
and were not restricted to single copies.63 Pat Rogers described the physical
demand of hack writing in Pope’s Dunciad, where the Dunces of Grub
Street ‘d[o]ve headfirst, with one’s backside uppermost’ into the dirty mires
of wit; an act which ‘was to assume the very posture of folly’.64 While
mention of an author’s backside is meant humorously, the author’s ‘posture
of folly’ speaks both to the indignity hacks were are subjected to, as well as
reminding readers of the actual posture writers assumed when hunched over
a desk. In this way, hack writers and turnspit dogs alike engaged in
undignified work for an economy that eighteenth-century contemporaries
recognised as degrading, but also necessary.
Goldsmith’s contemporaries habitually used the language of labour and
mechanism to describe the eighteenth-century literary marketplace, viewing
themselves almost exclusively as labourers, rather than something higher
and more prestigious like artists. Scottish author and hack writer Tobias
Smollett described Grub Street as a ‘literary mill’, while Irish essayist
Richard Steele complained that the art of writing had become ‘merely
Mechanik’, finding it satirically ‘wonderful’ that men ‘may make themselves
Great … by as Certain and Infallible Rules, as you may be a joyner or a
mason’;65 even Goldsmith described hack authors as those ‘labourers in the
magazine trade’.66 Editor and author of Goldsmith’s critical heritage, G. S.
Rousseau, notes that even nineteenth-century audiences viewed Goldsmith
and his contemporaries ‘as unreal persons writing as machines for a larger
machine’, that of ‘Grub Street’.67 This mechanistic language of labour used
to describe Grub Street and its milieu finds validity in the father of modern
economics, Smith’s The Wealth of Nations (1776), in which he described the
benefits of division of labour and the maximisation of profits from assembly
line production methods. Yet the consequences of such a system were that
labour ‘emerge[d] as an abstraction only possible through an almost wilful
forgetting of the variety of material and intellectual practices which it might
name’.68 In other words, labour became abstracted through physical toil and
224 Taylin Nelson
disappeared in the final material product, taking the intellectual capacity
along with it. While Smith’s treatise on political economy is often used to
consider the rise of capitalism and the back-breaking work of industrial
labourers, his musings on industrialisation by no means excluded authors
working within hack-systems. Like the labourers of Smith’s pin factory,
hired authors were subjected to mechanical labour processes that often
resulted in the loss of individuality as a consequence of mass-production.
It was, however, not only labourers who aided in production; the eight
eenth-century reading public – also working as mechanic bodies digesting
and discarding products flooding the market – played a significant role in
sustaining cycles of production and consumption. Writing on the eighteenth-
century consumer, Christian Marouby locates a distinctive and significant
comparison between eighteenth-century economic tastes and concepts of
bodily growth, stating that ‘[t]he old analogy between the human body and
the body politic was still alive enough in this period to suggest a metapho
rical body economic, where … the social body produces and consumes like a
real body’.69 In this regard, the literal phrase ‘consumer’ indicates both an
economic phenomena and a physical act. In Letter LXXXVII of Citizen of
the World, Goldsmith commented on the consumer-phenomenon through a
narrator that complained of ‘literary nausea’ resulting from booksellers who
overfeed a perceived popular taste.70 The ceaseless nature of anonymous
works defined this newly bloated marketplace, resulting in a sickened state
of the public body of the consumer. In Letter LI, Goldsmith directly defined
books as consumable products through the talkative bookseller Mr Fudge
who compares the art of selling books to a farmer or butcher selling his
wares: ‘Excuse me Sir, says he, it is not the season, books have their time as
well as cucumbers; I would no more bring out a new work in summer, than
I would sell pork in the dog days.’71 Concepts of consumption and produc
tion remained important to Goldsmith’s canon, and particularly to his
turnspit letter, in which the dog toiling within the Smithian cycle,
laboured to turn animal flesh into the material object ‘meat’, which the
public body then consumed, defecated, and recycled back into nature.
Also functioning within Smithian cycles of labour, hack writers worked to
transform subjective experiences into the material objects ‘books’, for
eighteenth-century readers to digest and discard in a growing waste
economy. Irish essayist Jonathan Swift was aware of this market trend as
early as 1704, the year in which he published his wildly infamous satire A
Tale of a Tub, wherein the aftermarket of mass-produced print works
became supplies for ‘jakes, or an oven; to the windows of a bawdy-house,
or to a sordid lanthorn’.72 As Swift signified, the afterlives of hack-texts
varied in use; from kindling to toilet paper, with many works potentially
finding a home in the refuse pile.
Goldsmith’s quip that ‘authors, like running horses, should be fed, but
not fattened’ can be read with new meaning. The public body may glut itself
until it experiences ‘literary nausea’, but the authors themselves should never
Labouring bodies 225
be well-fed: ‘The running horse, when fattened, will still be fit for very
useful purposes, though unqualified for a courser.’73 If indeed an author
should be well-paid (and therefore well-fed), the turnspit dog able to eat the
meat he turns, or the racehorse to become fat – then surely it would make
for unmotivated authors, work dogs, and racehorses. Like the turnspit dog
who was bred to work, working animals and hack writers were similarly
positioned within a changing society that forced them to labour for the
wider public. Thus, Goldsmith’s sympathy proved not just comedic, but also
genuinely felt – both the dog and the author remain embedded within a
collective struggle resulting from a powerful, luxury-driven nation that
valued excess consumption at the labourer’s expense. As the turnspit dog
toiled for the public stomach, Goldsmith toiled for the public digest.
Labour for luxury: the captive monkey and the author’s nightmare
The historical contexts of epistolary fiction and the rhetorical role of ani
mals for British hack writers in a shifting, literary marketplace was facili
tated by a larger cultural attitude towards commodities, which Goldsmith
saw as detrimental to both humans and animals. The remainder of this
chapter examines Goldsmith’s epistolary fiction, The Citizen of the World;
or, Letters from a Chinese Philosopher (1760–1761). This was a collection of
letters published individually in the daily journal The Public Ledger, which
follow the adventures of a Chinese philosopher, Lien Chi Altangi, as he
experienced the bizarre customs and fashions of British society. Most letters
are a commentary on polite society, and often Altangi appeared equally
ignorant of British cultural customs as the Britons he encountered were of
Chinese cultural customs. Importantly, the fetishisation of peoples and ani
mals easily translates to the politics of a hack-driven literary industry which
is directly addressed in the editor’s preface to Citizen. This fictional letter
has been scrutinised by various scholars throughout the years and poses a
unique interpretation when read through the lens of Goldsmith’s career in
the hack profession, in which animal labour and the labour of hack writing
can be thought alongside each other.
To understand the relevance of Goldsmith utilising animal metaphors as a
means of commenting on the commodification of literature, it is essential to
also acknowledge the rising national demand for exotic animals as a form of
commodification. In the eighteenth century, exotic animals were imported as
luxury objects of intrigue and entertainment. Goldsmith himself would have
encountered zebras, lions and larger beasts through menageries and zoos,
alongside smaller animals like parrots and monkeys which were kept as
pets.74 Many viewed the domestication of wild animals as an improvement
reflective of Man’s God-given power to have dominion over nature. Roy
Porter described how ‘enlightened apologists … represented the environment
as a farm, promoting policies for the responsible management of natural
resources for private profit and long-term public benefit. The mastering of
226 Taylin Nelson
the wild was a source of [public] pride.’75 This source of pride reflected a
larger imperial agenda that aimed to gain power over animals and other
humans, as ‘[t]he domestication of Nature’, or wild animals, ‘furthered the
civilising process – for wild environments bred wild people’.76 Goldsmith
was sensitive to this colonising outlook and deviated from these habitual
attitudes. Exotic and wild animals played a substantial role in his broader
political stance against society’s dependence on luxury and commodities. In
The Sagacity of Some Insects (1759), Goldsmith railed against colonial
expansion’s damaging repercussions on what we would now call animal
ecosystems, when he compared the industrious nature of the ants and bees,
to the beavers which ‘show the greatest sign of [industry] when united’.
Noting that ‘when man intrudes into their communities, they lose all their
spirit of industry and testify but a very small share of the sagacity, for
which, when in a social state, they are so remarkable’.77 This sympathetic
attitude towards animals also extended to the main character of Citizen.
While Goldsmith’s use of a foreign persona was a popular eighteenth-
century trope in epistolary literature, his positive representation of a Chinese
traveller indicates one way in which he sympathised with different races; a
sympathy which was expressed and extended through the animal body. In
Citizen, Goldsmith subverts the British reader’s expectations of Altangi’s
thoughts both through the character’s actions and the British hosts’ expec
tations of Oriental culture. In Letter XXXII, Altangi pays a visit to aristo
cratic hosts who, in anticipation of attending to his cultural customs, have
prepared a ‘plate of Bear’s claws, [and] a slice of Birds nests’ with a ‘cushion
on the floor’ for sitting.78 Altangi thinks to himself, and the reader, a simple
chair and plate of beef would do just as well, and ‘protested the Chinese
used chairs as in Europe’. However, his kindly ignorant host ‘understood
decorums too well to entertain me with the ordinary civilities’.79 This
representation, while perhaps Occidentalist, negates forms of representation
by subverting the reader’s stereotypical expectation of how an Oriental tra
veller ought to act, eat and think. In postcolonial terms, Goldsmith can in
no way be considered unproblematic, as his writings on racial difference will
show. He was not a ‘staunch believer of biological differences’, but he did
rely on widely accepted concepts of the Great Chain of Being to inform his
view of other nations.80 Goldsmith took an interest in investigating the
similarities, rather than differences, among human races and animal spe
cies.81 For example, when Goldsmith described the birth of all beings in
Animated Nature, he did not distinguish between humans and non-humans,
instead claiming that ‘[a]ll are upon a footing; the insect and the philoso
pher’.82 Systems of hierarchy or classification – such as those used by other
natural historians like Carl Linnaeus – become arbitrary when all life begins
as ‘equally insensible’, and it is this attitude which carried Goldsmith
through his works.
Early readers of Citizen were troubled by Goldsmith’s representation of a
Chinese visitor that did not neatly fit into expected stereotypes. Altangi –
Labouring bodies 227
often through irony – over-exceeded the reader’s expectation of a bumbling
foreigner ignorant of European ways, by commenting on the hypocrisies and
barbarism of the English.83 In the editor’s preface, Goldsmith stated that his
readers ‘were angry not to find [Altangi] as ignorant as a Tripoline ambas
sador, or an Envoy from Jujac’.84 Regency-era literary critic William Hazlitt
was sensitive to the quick irony and subtle distinctions in Citizen and
observed that Goldsmith ‘contrives to give an abstracted and somewhat
perplexing view of things, by opposing foreign prepossessions to our own,
and thus strip[ping] objects of their customary disguises’.85 In his fictional
letters, Goldsmith used ‘opposing foreign prepossessions’ to reveal the faults
of the British, through the medium of the exotic animal body. In Letter
XLV, Altangi depicts an ironic vision of London’s commodified culture
through subverted expectations of receiving a distinguished audience among
English society. Fonder of ‘sights and monsters’ than genuine civility, the
English treat Altangi’s arrival as that of an exotic animal at the zoo:
The captive animal which frets and scampers at the end of its chain man
ifests as a bodily experience of confinement that is different but as oppres
sive as that of the turnspit dog. Exotic animals were often captured abroad
during imperial pursuits and sold in England to menageries, street perfor
mers, and as pets for wealthy patrons. In Discourse on the Origin of
Inequality Among Men (1755), Rousseau disparaged the tragedies that arose
from human evils like luxury, which ‘deprive useful animals of their sub
sistence and spread famine and death wherever they blow’.93 The destruc
tion of liberty was central to his argument and illustrated through the image
of ‘free-born animals’ that ‘dash their brains out against the bars of their
cage, from an innate impatience of captivity’.94 This embodied response to
captivity is replicated, albeit in tamer terms, in the editor’s epiphany, as the
creature’s movement are restricted by the length of its chain. What is more,
the animal’s captivity is clearly for public edification and amusement, as it
was ‘set up for half-pence’ to perform and earn money for its owner – an
experience not dissimilar to the relationship shared between author and
publisher during this time.
There are multiple critical interpretations of the editor’s preface. Srinivas
Aravamudan views the ‘performing monkey’ in the editor’s dream as a ‘sign
Labouring bodies 229
of the marketplace’, identifying Goldsmith’s struggle to find individuality
within the London hack economy.95 Likewise, Wayne C. Booth saw the
‘monkey’ as symbolic of Goldsmith’s writing methods, as ‘determined to
entertain but who will do so with metaphors that bite and instruct through
biting’.96 Booth located the animality of Goldsmith’s metaphors, which were
to instruct eighteenth-century readers on the immorality of the market-based
system that humans and animals operated within. And Clare Brant has
suggested that the editor’s lack of identity is part of a much larger problem
with accurately presenting ‘foreign subjectivity’, stating that the ‘emptiness
of the oriental persona gave fullness to something else – not the occidental
satirist as an individual but a textual community of author and reader
through letter-writing’.97 Brant proposes that the editor’s identity indicates
epistolary fiction’s capacity to establish relations with its readership more
largely. Each interpretation recognises aspects of Goldsmith’s literary legacy.
This chapter’s reading adds that – in both his personal and fictional letters –
Goldsmith’s writer-identity was intimately bound with his representations
of animals, especially working animals like the turnspit dog or the captive
monkey who earned their place in a human world by drudgery and insipid
entertainment. Through his dream, the editor compares himself to a captive
animal experiencing changing social and economic positions. In conjunction
with the editor’s vision of his sinking texts, this direct metaphor suggests
that London’s culture of commodification forced working animals and hack
writers to meet the public’s demand for entertainment.
Through the editor’s many contradictions, Goldsmith used the metaphor
of a captive animal to express concern over class status, identity, and social
standing. The editor felt that he belonged to ‘no particular class’; like a
captive animal, he was not where he belonged and yet, not entirely accepted
as a subject or citizen in society. In Animated Nature, Goldsmith asserted
that captive animals must either accept human socialisation or die in their
fight against it. He claimed that animals that do not resist domestication
ideally gain humankind’s protection, but ultimately must yield to human
demands as either beasts of burden or slavish pets: ‘A domestic animal is a
slave that seems to have few other desires but such as man is willing to
allow it.’98 Goldsmith wielded these rhetorically driven and sentimental
images to illustrate Man’s position of power over, and responsibilities
toward, animal societies. Similar efforts are rendered by the editor who
depicts a half-tamed animal, introduced into human society and forced to
become part of a system that strips it of individuality, even animality.
Likewise, if we are to read the monkey through the editor, we see him
attempting to negotiate the boundaries of his identity; ultimately coming up
short, unable to rise above the systems which restrict him. His repetition of
‘I am’ suggests disharmony at the core level of his being. Though he is half-
domesticated by society’s expectations, he rebels against these cultural pla
ceholders by questioning, ‘But what signifies what I am[?]’ – what others
signify of him, or what he signifies of himself? This metaphor of crisis in
230 Taylin Nelson
identity and the search for lasting impact abounds in Goldsmith’s personal
letters, revealing one aspect of what it meant to be an author and an Irish
man in eighteenth-century London.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to the editors, Drs Christine Kenyon-Jones, Annika Mann,
Betty Joseph, Ron Broglio, and to my family and friends, Kristine Nelson,
Vincent Krough, Deanna Tremble, Melissa Marklin, Taylor Gruman, Jessica
Perry and Rowan Morar for their insights on this chapter.
Notes
1 G. S. Rousseau, Oliver Goldsmith: The Critical Heritage (London: Routledge,
1974), 221.
2 James Boswell, Life of Johnson, ed. G. B. Hill, vol. 1 (1891), 477. Boswell
wrote: ‘It has been generally circulated and believed that he [Goldsmith] was a
mere fool in conversation; but, in truth, this has been greatly exaggerated. He
had, no doubt, a more than common share of that hurry of ideas which we
often find in his countrymen, and which sometimes produces a laughable con
fusion in expressing them … From vanity and an eager desire of being con
spicuous wherever he was, he frequently talked carelessly without knowledge
of the subject, or even without thought.’
3 Ibid., 477.
4 Oliver Goldsmith, Letters of Oliver Goldsmith, ed. Michael Griffin and David
20 Ibid., xv.
21 Ibid., xv.
22 Ibid., xv. Griffin and O’Shaughnessy confirm that the current collection of let
ters accessible to scholars ‘with a couple of mysterious exceptions, [have] been
deposited in libraries.’
23 Ian Watt, ‘Publishers and Sinners: The Augustan View’, Studies in Biblio
graphy, vol. 12 (January 1, 1959): 3–20, 12.
24 Many thanks to Dr Sarah Goldsmith for pointing this out.
25 44 out of 66 letters to be precise.
26 Goldsmith, Letters, 21.
27 Anne Chilton, ‘Catching Pegasus by the Tail: Oliver Goldsmith’s The Citizen
of the World as Commercial Literature’, PhD diss. (Tempe: Arizona State
University, 1988), 86–87.
28 Goldsmith, Letters, 40.
29 Ibid., xxiv.
30 Ibid., 30. Not only was Goldsmith registering his ambitions for literary recog
nition, but this letter anticipates his later epistolary fiction, Citizen of the
World, by styling himself as ‘the Confucius of Europe’.
31 Goldsmith, Letters, lxiv.
32 Ibid., xxxviii.
33 Cook, Epistolary Bodies, 8.
34 Clarke, Brothers of the Quill, 7.
35 William Cooke, ‘Table Talk’, European Magazine and London Review, 24
(October 1793), 93; or, easily accessible in Goldsmith, Letters, 133.
36 Cooke, ‘Table Talk’, 93; or, easily accessible in Goldsmith, Letters, 133.
37 For more information on the history of the book trade, see Dustin Griffin’s
Authorship in the Long Eighteenth Century (Newark, DE: University of Dela
ware Press, 2013) or Solveig Robinson’s The Book in Society: An Introduction
to Print Culture (Ontario: Broadview Press, 2013).
38 For further criticisms on the genre of eighteenth-century hack works, and the
historical and cultural development of ‘writers for hire’ see: Pat Rogers, Grub
Street: Studies in a Subculture (London: Methuen, 1972); George Justice, The
Manufacturers of Literature: Writing and the Literary Marketplace in 18th
Labouring bodies 233
Century England (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2002); and
Edward A. Bloom, Samuel Johnson in Grub Street (Providence, RI: Brown
University Press, 1957).
39 Encyclopedia Britannica, ‘Hackney’, Encyclopedia Britannica (22 January
2004), para. 1.
40 Thomas Almeroth-Williams, City of Beasts: How Animals Shaped Georgian
London (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2019), 40–41.
41 Thomas Amory, The Life of John Buncle Esq., vol. 3 (London: Septimus Pro
wett, 1825), 263–264.
42 Goldsmith, An Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe
(London: R. and J. Dodsley, 1759), 123; and James Prior, The Life of Oliver
Goldsmith, M.B. from a variety of sources, vol. 1 (London: John Murray,
1837), 479.
43 Chilton, ‘Catching Pegasus by the Tail’, 88.
44 Written to Hodson, postmarked 27 December 1757.
45 Goldsmith, Letters, xxiii.
46 Ibid., 21.
47 Ibid., xxx.
48 Ibid., xxx.
49 Virginia Woolf, The Captain’s Death Bed and Other Essays (E-artnow, 2017), 7,
retrieved from https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=RU9ODwAAQBAJ
50 Ibid., 7.
51 Goldsmith, Letters, 30.
52 Catherine Packham, ‘Labouring Bodies in Political Economy: Vitalist Physiol
ogy and the Body Politic’, in Eighteenth-Century Vitalism: Bodies, Culture,
Politics (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 89.
53 By this time, he had tried the professions of clergyman, tutor, and law student – all
without success. Despite an application for 6 pounds from his Uncle Contarine,
Goldsmith’s financial situation was no better. In a letter to brother-in-law Daniel
Hodson, he described his lonely company: a ‘Folio book a skeleton my cat and my
meagre landlady [whom] I pay 22p6 per am for Diet washing and Lodging’, and
described his apartment as ‘being the cheapest that is to be got in Edinburgh all
things here being much dearer than in Ireland’ (Letters, 3).
54 London, British Library, Western Manuscripts, Goldsmith–Percy Papers, vol.
1, MS 42515, ‘Dr Goldsmith’s letter to one of his companions from Edinburgh’,
26 September 1753, fol. 3.
55 Jan Bondeson, Amazing Dogs: A Cabinet of Canine Curiosities (Chalford:
Amberley Publishing, 2011), 131.
56 Bondeson, Amazing Dogs, 131.
57 John George Wood, The Illustrated Natural History (London: G. Routledge,
1853), 316–317.
58 René Descartes, Treatise of Man, ed. Thomas Steele Hall (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1972), 113.
59 Minsoo Kang, ‘From the Man-Machine to the Automation-Man: The Enlight
enment Origins of the Mechanistic Imagery of Humanity’, in Helen Deutsch
and Mary Terrall (eds), Vital Matters: Eighteenth-Century Views of Concep
tion, Life and Death (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2012), 151.
60 Packham, ‘Labouring Bodies’, 89.
61 Ibid., 89.
62 Ibid., 89.
63 The physical collection of Goldsmith–Percy Papers vols. I and II in the British
Library’s Western Manuscripts are replete with multiple copies of Goldsmith’s
letters that he would draft before sending off the final letter.
64 Rogers, Grub Street, 144. Emphasis mine.
234 Taylin Nelson
65 Clarke, Brothers of the Quill, 4; and Richard C. Taylor, Goldsmith as Jour
nalist (Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1993), 21.
66 Taylor, Goldsmith as Journalist, 19.
67 Rousseau, Oliver Goldsmith, 5.
68 Packham, ‘Labouring Bodies’, 83.
69 Christian Marouby, ‘Looking for (Economic) Growth in the Eighteenth Cen
tury’, in Systems of Life: Biopolitics, Economics, and Literature on the Cusp of
Modernity (New York: Fordham University Press, 2018), 36.
70 Chilton, ‘Catching Pegasus by the Tail’, 2.
71 Goldsmith ‘Letter XLIX. To the same’, The Citizen of the World (London: printed
for the author; and sold by J. Newbery and W. Bristow; J. Leake and W. Frederick,
Bath; B. Collins, Salisbury; and A. M. Smart and Co. Reading, 1762), 219, retrieved
from https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/ecco/004897171.0001.001/1:55?rgn=div1;view=toc
72 Jonathan Swift, A Tale of a Tub (Edinburgh: W. Sands, A. Murray, and J.
Cochran, 1750), 34.
73 Goldsmith, Enquiry, 123.
74 Tague, 52.
75 Roy Porter, Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of the Modern World
(London: Penguin, 2000), 311. For more information on Enlightenment views
on nature, see Keith Thomas’s seminal Man and the Natural World: Changing
Attitudes in England 1500–1800 (London: Penguin Books, 1983).
76 Porter, Enlightenment, 311.
77 Goldsmith, ‘The Sagacity of Some Insects’, The Bee (London: John Sharpe,
American Revolution
Nathan Perl-Rosenthal
Epistolary self-fashioning
Through their correspondence, the Sons of Liberty groups constituted
themselves as loose associations of like-minded gentlemen. The Sons’ groups
drew on a sophisticated array of material and textual epistolary strategies to
Sons of Liberty 241
create and publicise this distinctive structure: these included how they
authored and signed their letters, how they transmitted them, and the
metaphors and language that they employed. Together, these strategies
made the Sons’ groups’ correspondence into a powerful medium for self-
fashioning and for communicating the image of themselves as a political
organisation that existed, paradoxically, only as individual gentlemen.30
The Sons of Liberty groups consistently signed their letters with a series
of individual names rather than a collective moniker. An extreme case of
this practice was the first letter dispatched by the Sons in Kent County,
Maryland, to their counterparts in Anne Arundel and Baltimore Counties.
The Kent letter was actually signed by twenty-two individuals – apparently
everyone who had taken part in the meeting.31 Other letters offered a simi
larly robust image of the senders as a sociable group of gentlemen. The Sons
of Liberty in Baltimore, for instance, sent an early April 1766 missive to
New York under the individual signatures of eight men.32 Writing to a cor
respondent in Fairfield, Connecticut, a group of New York Sons signed
themselves individually: ‘Thomas Robinson / Isaac Sears / Wm Wesley /
Gersh Mott.’33 Similarly, when William Bradford of Philadelphia wrote to
the New York Committee, he addressed his letter directly ‘To Messrs Lamb,
Sears, Robinson, Welley & Mott.’34 And even when they wrote as a ‘Com
mittee’, as the Sons of Oyster Bay, New York, did to New York City in
February of 1766, the members of the committee each signed their own
names rather than appointing one member as a secretary or deputy.35
The individual naming and signing that the Sons of Liberty performed in the
bulk of their letters represented a significant deviation from the practice of
formal institutions in the eighteenth century. Those groups typically corre
sponded under their collective name. Usually, a secretary would be chosen to
handle the organisation’s correspondence, in which capacity he would speak
for the collective. For instance, when the fledgling Library Company of Phila
delphia wrote in 1735 to John Penn, thanking him for his support, its secretary,
Joseph Breitnall, signed the letter ‘by Order of the Library Company’.36 Many
organisations had official stationery or seals as well. These served to verify and
authenticate their official correspondence while also making the group look like
a formal organisation to itself and to others.37
The Sons’ decision to sign their own names individually to most of their
letters marked a deliberate refusal of the fiction of collective existence and
representedness. Signature – in its general sense as a distinctive, recognisable
mark made by a person that authenticated and authorised the document to
which it was affixed – went back in some form to antiquity. By the late
eighteenth century, the physical act of signing one’s name, which had long
been the province of the richest and most powerful, had become a com
monplace way of representing one’s self on paper. The signature was made
by the individual’s hand and it used the distinctive qualities of that person’s
body – their strength, dexterity, etc. – to instantiate his or her self on paper.
Signatures, for this reason, could bind an individual to a contract, serve as
242 Nathan Perl-Rosenthal
evidence in a court of law, or simply communicate presence at a distance to
a friend, a child, or a lover. For the members of the Sons’ groups, signing
their individual names conveyed an image of themselves as discrete, physi
cally present persons in sociable congress.38
The Sons’ general commitment to naming themselves individually did not
prevent the occasional use of pseudonyms that hinted at a collective identity.
The most common of these was the name ‘Sons of Liberty’, a term that was
already in widespread ‘generic’ use in British America earlier in the eight
eenth century.39 Letters that used this moniker as a signature were the
exception rather than the rule. John Adams received one in February 1766.40
The Albany Sons signed their first letter to their counterparts in New York
City with just ‘the Sons of Liberty residing in Albany’. Subsequent letters
used their names. The Sons of Oyster Bay, Philadelphia and Baltimore all
wrote at least one letter with similar pseudonymous signatures to their New
York City brethren.41 On rare occasions, an individual might use it: John
Durkee signed himself ‘Son of Liberty’ in a letter sent to Isaac Sears on 10
February 1766.42
The ‘Sons of Liberty’ pseudonym, though collective, insisted on the pri
macy of the individual (male) physical person as the necessary basis for
membership in the group. Pseudonyms were a well-worn technique in the
politics of the eighteenth-century Atlantic world. The most common eight
eenth-century pseudonyms were classical names or abstract concepts. Three
well-known examples are the ‘Cato’ of Trenchard and Gordon’s celebrated
early eighteenth-century political tract; ‘Common Sense’, the pseudonym
used most famously by Thomas Paine; and ‘Federalist’, the pseudonym used
by James Madison, John Jay, and Alexander Hamilton in arguing for the
ratification of the US Constitution in New York State in 1787 and 1788. By
calling themselves ‘Sons’, patriot leaders both emphasised their maleness and
conjured a fictive familial context around them. Even as it concealed their
individual names, their choice of pseudonym imbued their correspondence
with the specific flavour of male sociability and suggested that their letters
partook of the culture of politeness that was the common currency of
eighteenth-century gentlemen and the honour-bound culture of early modern
masculinity (discussed further in the next section).
The passage of the Sons’ letters from one group to another took place
primarily through the agency of individual intermediaries. Most of the let
ters received by the New York Sons in late 1765 and the first months of
1766, for instance, were directed not to the group collectively but to specific
individuals. An important communication from the Connecticut Sons in
February 1766, which passed on news from Boston, was written by Major
John Durkee of Norwich to Isaac Sears personally.43 A few days later, a
New York committee wrote a letter to Connecticut, addressed to a single
individual, most likely Durkee. Similar individual addresses linked the New
York Sons to their counterparts in Albany and New Jersey.44 Indeed, the
Philadelphia Sons stated outright in an early 1766 letter that as yet ‘no
Sons of Liberty 243
occasion has required the appointment of a committee to represent us’. They
corresponded, instead, as individual gentlemen using their individual net
works to reach the larger group.45
The complex fusion between the Sons’ individual and collective identities
can be seen in a pair of letters sent to the New York Sons in February and
March of 1766. In March, John Durkee, who had earlier signed a letter with
the Sons of Liberty pseudonym, signed another letter with that moniker. But
this time he thought better of it: he crossed out ‘Sons of Liberty’ and signed
his own name, ‘JnoDurkee’.46 An early communication between the Phila
delphia and New York Sons in February 1766, affords another illustration.
On the 16th, two letters left Philadelphia for New York. One was a collec
tive missive, addressed to their ‘Brethren’ and subscribed ‘Sons of Liberty in
Philadelphia’. This letter congratulated the New Yorkers on their ‘spirited
manner’ and assured them that, though divided by local politics, Philadel
phians would rally ‘when the grand cause calls on us’.47 The other letter, on
a sheet of paper from the same stock, was signed by William Bradford and
addressed to five individual members of the New York Sons. It repeated the
sentiments of the collective letter and added the sensitive intelligence that
the night before, Philadelphians had burned the stamped paper destined for
Maryland ‘in a very full coffee house … amidst loud acclamations’.48
Bradford enclosed the collective letter in his personal one, seemingly
attempting to separate the two registers, body politic and individual body of
the actual correspondent. But a slip of the pen revealed how much the two
registers were entwined. Bradford’s covering note, written in haste while an
‘express’ waited for his answer, began with the phrase ‘IWe have inclosed a
letter to the Sons of Liberty.’ Like a collective letter signed by individual
hands, Bradford’s double pronoun, which he did not bother to correct,
expressed the unusual nature of the Sons’ groups as collective bodies that
nonetheless insisted that their true character was only as individuals.49
The bodies that the Sons so often invoked in their correspondence seemed
to be particularly well-endowed with hands. In February 1766, a correspon
dent in New Brunswick (New Jersey) addressed a group of New York Sons
of Liberty. He began by referencing the letter to which it was an answer: ‘As
a true son of liberty I heartily concur with you in sentiments expressed in
your letter to me of the 14 inst which came to my hand only this day.’50 The
next month, a group of New York sons wrote to a correspondent in Bur
lington that his ‘favour of ye 14th ultmo is come to hand, tho, we imagine
not with ye dispatch that was intended’.51 Similar references appeared
sprinkled throughout the Sons’ correspondence: mentions of letters ‘come to
hand’ or ‘left in the hands’ or ‘put in the hands’.52
The Sons of Liberty’s use of these phrases was not innovative in itself.
The phrases ‘came to my hand’ or ‘came to hand’ were conventions of early
modern letter-writing. (See, for instance, Clarissa, Letter 439: ‘I follow my
last … on occasion of a letter just now come to hand’.53) As with other
references to the physicality of epistolary exchange, these conventional
244 Nathan Perl-Rosenthal
phrases were freighted with significance. In one sense, of course, the ‘hand’
merely stood in metonymously for the recipient him- or herself. For a letter
to ‘come to hand’ was simply to state that it had been received. Yet the
choice of this body part to stand in for the recipient was neither random nor
predestined. There were a number of other ways to express the notion of
receipt in this period: ‘came before me’, ‘before my eyes’, or simply ‘I have
seen’ would all have expressed the same idea. Yet the Sons of Liberty rarely
used these metaphors.
The ‘hand’ in early modern thought had connotations of pure activity, of
transaction, of exchange. The ‘hand’ also suggested activity that was in
some way unreflective or not socially elevated: this was suggested, for
instance, by the common opposition between ‘hands’ and ‘heads’ in the
period. Many of the other bodily metaphors for receipt conjured up a rather
different image. A letter that ‘came before’ the recipient did so as a peti
tioner might before a sovereign: the recipient was figured, in that metaphor,
as a benevolent and distanced outsider. Similarly, one who ‘saw’ a letter
observed it without necessarily being implicated in or engaged with its con
tent. The eye can observe without being involved. Not so the hand: to have
an early modern letter ‘come to hand’ was to feel the rough paper and the
glossy, burnished finish of the sealing wax. To have it in your hand was to
find the dust, ink, and sand of the wrapper smeared on one’s fingers. Hands
could never be above the fray.54
The language of ‘hands’ was particularly common among merchants and
artisans. In his Complete English Tradesman (1726), a sort of how-to guide
for the aspiring businessman, Daniel Defoe employed a rich language of
‘hands’ to explain what young men needed to do in order to succeed. He
began the book by observing that a good tradesman should acquire a suffi
cient general knowledge of business that he could change his trade as
needed: ‘he should not be at a loss to turn his hand to this or that trade, as
occasion presents’.55 This might include any number of transformations of
his business, among them deciding to move from ‘a single hand into a
partnership’; from one hand to multiple hands, that is.56 And in all of this,
hands were the source of wealth and success. ‘The diligent Hand makes
rich’, he put it succinctly – which appeared, tellingly, in a section about how
a ‘Tradesman … is never too low to rise.’57 Or, as he put it in more highly
theorised terms, ‘Money begets Money, Trade circulates … one hand
washes the other hand, and both hands wash the face.’58
The New York Sons of Liberty’s frequent reference to letters ‘coming to’
their ‘hands’ gave a particular flavour and meaning to their correspondence.
To those in the know, that language clearly branded their letters as missives
among merchants – albeit newly politicised merchants. But the ‘hands’ also
operated as a metaphor, as a metonym for the correspondents themselves,
which imbued them with the characteristic qualities of the mercantile and
tradesmen’s ethos. As individuals who were ‘all hands’, the Sons suggested
they imagined a relative lack of hierarchy among themselves: ‘hands’ were
Sons of Liberty 245
the mark of a common mode of production and a shared (if lower) social
status among artisans and merchants. As ‘hands’, too, the Sons fashioned
themselves as individuals who were interdependent and mutually engaged,
just as were the businessmen and tradesmen for whom ‘one hand’ always
‘washes the other’.
The Sons completed the picture of their collective selves by imbuing their
epistolary persons with powerful feelings, echoing the affective language
visible in other letters and discussed in the chapters by Raapke and Hagg
erty, for example, in this volume. Some of the most common language in
these letters was emotional language associated with masculine virtues, such
as steadiness, vigour, heartiness, and zeal. In their first letter to the New
York City Sons of Liberty (addressed personally, as was typical, to two of
its members, Isaac Sears and Joseph Allcocke), the Albany Sons of Liberty
declared themselves ‘steadfast’ allies in the ‘glorious cause’ and offered their
‘hearty concurrence’ to future measures. ‘Our unanimity and resolution
transcend the most raised expectations’, they concluded on an ecstatic note,
before ‘beg[ging]’ for the New York Sons’ ‘commands’.59 Henry Bicker of
New Brunswick, writing to the New York Sons the following month,
declared himself a ‘zealous member’ of the Sons and assured that he ‘heartily
concur[red]’ with them ‘in sentiments’. He had no doubts, he added, about
the ‘spirited … disposition’ of the people in his town.60 The Providence Sons
of Liberty, in a circular to other Sons groups, were even more emphatic. In
the first paragraph alone, they described themselves as ‘resolute’ and ‘vigor
ous’ in defending against a loss of liberty that would leave them ‘in posses
sion of a bare miserable existence’.61
A number of the Sons’ letters went a step further, tapping into languages
of affection and hatred that analogised the opposition to the Stamp Act to
an affair of the heart. The New York Sons, writing to correspondents in
Fairfield, Connecticut, wrote of their ‘pleasure’ in receiving a letter from
them and finding them ‘so firmly fixt’ in agreement. They let their Con
necticut brethren know that they had received ‘reviving accounts … that the
hydra the Stamp Act was giving its last gasp’.62 In another missive, to the
New York City Sons, the Connecticut Son of Liberty John Durkee declared
himself ‘highly pleased’ by the New Yorkers’ spirit, which would ‘endear’
them to ‘all the lovers’ of liberty. ‘We will not in the least abate from our
ardour’, he wrote in words that echoed the language of physical passion,
until the Act was repealed.63 When Jonathan Sturge, another Connecticut
Son, wrote to the New Yorkers about the repeal of the Stamp Act, he con
gratulated them on the ‘happy event’ which would ‘rejoice the heart of every
lover of his country’.64 Was it a government act or the birth of a baby, one
might wonder, that Sturge was celebrating?
For the recipient of a typical letter from a Sons of Liberty group, the
picture of the senders that it limned was hard to mistake. The senders, the
members of the Sons group, presented themselves as individual gentlemen
acting in their personal capacity. They portrayed themselves as emotional
246 Nathan Perl-Rosenthal
beings – passionate ones, even – who were enmeshed in relations of mutual
interdependence with one another and with the recipients.65 And in all of
their exchanges, the group members insistently marked their physical pre
sence by signing their letters with their own hands and passing the physical
missives to one another through known intermediaries.
Conclusion
The body-centred, sympathetic epistolary strategy that the Sons of Liberty
adopted in their struggle against the Stamp Act had much to recommend it.
The Sons faced daunting obstacles in their efforts to counter the unwelcome
law coming from Whitehall. The colonies were fundamentally divided poli
tically and quite mistrustful of one another. There were stark divisions
between more urban and more rural areas of the same colony. The lack of
pre-existing political ties among the colonies made any effort to create a
common cause or policy among these fragmented pieces of the empire risky
at best, and likely impossible. Added to this was the profound reluctance
that even the members of the Sons groups felt about setting themselves in
opposition to the British government, which as recently as 1763 they had
regarded as their military saviour and a beacon of political stability in a
turbulent world.
The Sons sought to circumvent these quandaries through an epistolary
strategy that encouraged, affirmed and provided mutual moral support
among likeminded groups of gentlemen across British North America. Using
a variety of techniques in their letters, the Sons crafted an image of them
selves as groups of independent men who found themselves in agreement
about the political struggle over the Stamp Act. They solidified this self-
image by projecting images of their individual bodies, and by sending mes
sages that insistently disaggregated their groups into individual people. The
Sons’ correspondence then fashioned each of these local groups – indeed,
each of the individual members of the local groups – as autonomous, acting
on their own responsibility and of their own volition. This frame neutralised
the threats posed by inter-colonial coercion or by the creation of a dangerously
unauthorised new body politic – a body, such as ‘the people’, that was at once
collective and disembodied. Coordinated actions, if they happened, were
almost a happy accident. The Sons’ carefully managed correspondence was, at
bottom, an exercise in the creation of a politics of sympathy that extended
across North America.
In the short term, the political strategy instantiated in the Sons’ corre
spondence proved a roaring success. The intercolonial opposition to the
Stamp Act succeeded in preventing the British government from implement
ing the Act and stimulated sufficient opposition within Britain itself that the
government was forced to withdraw the Act. It did not take long, however,
250 Nathan Perl-Rosenthal
for the weaknesses of the Sons’ innovative epistolary strategy to become
evident. A mere year and a half after the withdrawal of the Stamp Act,
Parliament enacted the so-called Townsend Acts, which levied an expansive
series of new duties on American trade. The resistance to these Acts, by
means of a boycott, demanded a high level of inter-colonial coordination,
which the Sons proved ill-equipped to offer.84 In the end, it was not until the
1770s, nearly a decade after the Stamp Act crisis, that American patriots
finally turned the page on the Sons of Liberty’s politics of moral sympathy
and embraced the substantive inter-colonial union that they had so long
resisted.
Notes
1 The main collections containing Sons of Liberty letters from this period are the
John Lamb Papers, New-York Historical Society, New York; Samuel Adams
Papers, New York Public Library, New York; William Palfrey Papers and Arthur
Lee Papers, both Houghton Library, Cambridge, MA; Jeremy Belknap Papers
and Miscellaneous Bound Documents, both Massachusetts Historical Society,
Boston, MA. These six collections contain more than 100 of these letters, with
the remaining ones scattered across many other collections and archives. How
ever, very few of the letters in these collections are complete exchanges, meaning
that they represent roughly double this number. The roughly 400 letters that we
can infer were part of these correspondences primarily represent the activity of
the New York and Boston Sons. Relatively few letters survive from the very
active Sons groups in Philadelphia and Charleston (as well as other centres such
as Newport and Baltimore). It is likely that these other groups produced at least
as many letters.
2 The chapter draws on Nathan Perl-Rosenthal, ‘Corresponding Republics: Letter
Writing and Patriot Organizing in the Atlantic Revolutions, circa 1760–1792’
(Unpublished PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 2011).
3 On the troubles caused by lack of coordination in the patriot movement, see
Ibid., chs. 2 and 3; David Ammerman, In the Common Cause: American
Response to the Coercive Acts of 1774 (Charlottesville, VA: University Press of
Virginia, 1974). More recently, Robert G. Parkinson, The Common Cause:
Creating Race and Nation in the American Revolution (Chapel Hill, NC: Uni
versity of North Carolina Press for the Omohundro Institute of Early American
History and Culture), has argued that White colonists’ fears of the enslaved and
Indians were instrumental in creating unity in spite of the colonies’ deep
divisions.
4 On the Stamp Act Crisis, see the still-classic Edmund S. Morgan and Helen M.
Morgan, The Stamp Act Crisis: Prologue to Revolution, New, rev. ed. (New
York: Collier Books, 1963). For arch-patriotism, see Brendan McConville, The
King’s Three Faces: The Rise and Fall of Royal America, 1688–1776 (Chapel
Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press for the Omohundro Institute of
Early American History and Culture), ch. 2.
5 For the general context of the imperial struggle leading up to American inde
pendence, the most comprehensive study remains Charles McLean Andrews, The
Colonial Period of American History, 4 vols (New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 1934). For political paranoia, see especially Bernard Bailyn, The Ideologi
cal Origins of the American Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1992).
Sons of Liberty 251
6 On the inter-colonial response, see Mercy Otis Warren, History of the Rise,
Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution: Interspersed with Bio
graphical, Political, and Moral Observations (Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Classics,
1988), 1:17–18; and Robert Middlekauff, The Glorious Cause: The American
Revolution, 1763–1789 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1982), 70–76. For a
good analysis of why there was such wide opposition to the acts among the
different strata of society, see Dirk Hoerder, Crowd Action in Revolutionary
Massachusetts, 1765–1780 (New York: Academic Press, 1977), 90–91.
7 On the Stamp Act Congress, see Morgan and Morgan, Stamp Act Crisis, 106–121.
8 On the Sons, see Pauline Maier, From Resistance to Revolution: Colonial Radi
cals and the Development of American Opposition to Britain, 1765–1776 (New
York: Knopf, 1972), ch. 4, esp. 78–87, as well as the local monographs cited
below.
9 On Philadelphia and New York, see The Old Revolutionaries: Political Lives in
the Age of Samuel Adams (New York: Knopf, 1980), 58–59; Gary B. Nash, The
Urban Crucible: Social Change, Political Consciousness, and the Origins of the
American Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), 303;
Richard Alan Ryerson, ‘The Revolution Is Now Begun’: The Radical Commit
tees of Philadelphia, 1765–1776 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press,
1978), 68–71. For Boston, see Nash, Urban Crucible, 296; Stephen E. Patterson,
Political Parties in Revolutionary Massachusetts (Madison, WI: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1973), ch. 3, esp. 63–64.
10 See Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr., The Colonial Merchants and the American
Revolution, 1763–1776 (New York: F. Ungar, 1957 [1918]), 27; and Carl Bride
nbaugh, Cities in Revolt: Urban Life in America, 1743–1776 (New York: Capri
corn Books, 1964), ch. 7.
11 Leading patriot-planters included Virginians George Washington, Thomas Jef
ferson, Patrick Henry, Peyton Randolph and the Lee family, South Carolinian
John Laurens, the Pacas and Carrolls of Maryland and John Dickinson of Penn
sylvania. For a summary of the mercantile entanglements of Chesapeake planters,
see Laura Croghan Kamoie, ‘Planters’ Exchange Patters in the Colonial Chesa
peake: Toward Defining a Regional Domestic Economy’, in Peter A. Coclanis
(ed.), The Atlantic Economy during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries:
Organization, Operation, Practice, and Personnel (Columbia, SC: University of
South Carolina Press, 2005), 323–343, esp. 323–324.
12 The classic work on Anglicisation was done by John Murrin: see John M. Murrin,
‘Anglicizing an American Colony: The Transformation of Provincial Massachusetts’
(Yale, 1966); Ignacio Gallup-Diaz, Andrew Shankman, and David J. Silverman
(eds), Anglicizing America: Empire, Revolution, Republic (Philadelphia, PA:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015); and John M. Murrin, Rethinking
America: From Empire to Republic (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018).
An important addition is T. H. Breen, ‘An Empire of Goods: The Anglicization
of Colonial America, 1690–1776’, Journal of British Studies, 25:4 (1986).
13 Carlo Botta, History of the War of the Independence of the United States of
America, 9th edition, trans. George Alexander Otis (Cooperstown, NY: Phinney,
1845), 1:74.
14 See Morgan and Morgan, Stamp Act Crisis, ch. 11, esp. 197.
15 Maier, From Resistance to Revolution, 77–78, 87. Maier may have been follow
ing Carl Becker, who described the early Sons organisation as ‘formal’. See Carl
L. Becker, The History of Political Parties in the Province of New York, 1760–
1776 (Madison, WI: Bulletin of the University of Wisconsin History Series, vol. 2,
1909), 43. This assessment of the Sons as a formal organisation has been widely
influential in the literature. See, for example, Edward Countryman, The Amer
ican Revolution (New York: Hill and Wang, 2003), 91, which cites Maier by
252 Nathan Perl-Rosenthal
name and describes the Sons as ‘knit into an intercolonial correspondence union.’
The most recent studies have begun to move away from this view: Benjamin L.
Carp is close to the mark when he describes the Sons as having a ‘tavern net
work.’ Benjamin L. Carp, Rebels Rising: Cities and the American Revolution
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 95; see also the astute observations
in Jeremy A. Stern, ‘The Overflowings of Liberty: Massachusetts, the Town
shend Crisis and the Reconception of Freedom, 1766–1770’ (Princeton, N.J.:
Princeton University, 2010), xiv–xv.
16 On voluntary associations, see Jessica Roney, ‘“First Movers in Every Useful
Undertaking”: Formal Voluntary Associations in Philadelphia, 1725–1775’
(Unpublished PhD Dissertation, Johns Hopkins University, 2008), 10–11; and
Jessica C. Roney, Governed by a Spirit of Opposition: The Origins of American
Political Practice in Colonial Philadelphia, Studies in Early American Economy
and Society from the Library Company of Philadelphia (Baltimore, MD: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 2014), 4, ch. 3, and 209, n28, which felicitously
describes formal associations as a ‘civic technology’. See also John H. Elliott,
Empires of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America, 1492–1830 (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), 134–136 and 41–44; as well as
Andrews, Colonial Period, 1:Ch. IX and Richard Bushman, King and People in
Provincial Massachusetts (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press,
1985), 11–13 and works cited therein.
17 Even relatively informal organisations, such as the Forensic Club of Annapolis,
Maryland, created a set of formal rules to govern themselves: see ‘Rules and
Minutes of the Forensic Club [Annapolis, MD]’, entry for 26 Oct 1759, mssHM
546, Huntington Library, San Marino.
18 New York Mercury, 13 Jan 1766, 3. For the association, see Roger J. Cham
pagne, ‘The Sons of Liberty and the Aristocracy in New York Politics, 1765–
1790’ (Unpublished PhD Dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1960), 102–104.
Champagne, however, is committed to the notion of the Sons as a ‘formal orga
nization’ after this point (102).
19 ‘The Proceedings of the Sons of Liberty, 1 March 1766’ [Evans 41656], 1. See also
the description of the constantly shifting cast of leaders in Rosemary Niner Estes,
‘Charles Town’s Sons of Liberty: A Closer Look’ (Unpublished PhD Disserta
tion, University of North Carolina, 2005), ch. 2.
20 Committee of Baltimore to New York Committee, 8 Mar 1766 and Baltimore
Sons to New York Sons, 5 Apr 1766, both in Papers of John Lamb, New-York
Historical Society (hereafter NYHS), New York.
21 For discussions of the shifting leadership in Boston, see Hoerder, Crowd Action,
138–141; Maier, From Resistance to Revolution, 85–86 and Appendix; and ‘An
Alphabetical List of the Sons of Liberty who dined at Liberty Tree, Dorchester, Aug.
14 1769’, Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society 11 (1871), 140–142.
22 See New York Sons to Jonathan Sturge, 25 Mar 1766; Trenton Committee to
New York Committee, 28 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS. Mott and Isaac Sears
were frequently the addressees of letters: see, e.g., Albany Sons of Liberty to
Joseph Allicocke and Isaac Sears, 15 Jan 1766; Maj. John Durkee to Isaac Sears,
10 Feb 1766; Henry Bicker to New York Sons [Mess Sears &c &c], 23 Feb 1766,
all in Lamb Papers, NYHS. For their centrality to the movement in New York,
see Old Revolutionaries, 63.
23 Of course it may be, as some scholars have suggested, that the practice of calling
meetings to discuss correspondence was a deliberate strategy to attach a mod
icum of popular assent from the ‘body of the people’ to the actions of the patriot
elite. My interpretation complements this view: rather than seeing their use of
public appeals as a free choice, I would argue that they represented a successful
effort to make a virtue out of necessity.
Sons of Liberty 253
24 Draft letter from New York Sons to Connecticut Sons, 20 Feb 1766, Lamb
Papers, NYHS.
25 Trenton Committee to New York Committee, 28 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
26 See Committee of Baltimore to New York Committee, 8 Mar 1766; Durkee to
Sons of Liberty in New York, 19 Mar 1766; Henry Bicker to New York Sons, 23
Feb 1766; all in Lamb Papers, NYHS.
27 Connecticut Courant, 31 Mar 1766, 3.
28 See Boyd Stanley Schlenther, Charles Thomson: A Patriot’s Pursuit (Newark,
DE: University of Delaware Press, 1990).
29 The Samuel Adams Papers at the New York Public Library is one of the most impor
tant. See fn. 1 for a list of the main collections, most of which were personal collections.
30 My thinking about epistolary form and strategy is informed by a voluminous,
excellent literature, for which see especially: Konstantin Dierks, In My Power:
Letter Writing and Communications in Early America (Philadelphia, PA: Uni
versity of Pennsylvania Press, 2009); Sarah M. S. Pearsall, Atlantic Families: Lives
and Letters in the Later Eighteenth Century (New York: Oxford University Press,
2008); Eve Tavor Bannet, Empire of Letters: Letter Manuals and Transatlantic
Correspondence, 1688–1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005);
Dena Goodman, Becoming a Woman in the Age of Letters (Ithaca, NY: Cornell
University Press, 2009); Roger Chartier, Alain Boureau, and Cécile Dauphin,
Correspondence: Models of Letter-Writing from the Middle Ages to the Nine
teenth Century (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997). For a compre
hensive discussion of this scholarship, including work in literary studies, see
Nathan Perl-Rosenthal, ‘Private Letters and Public Diplomacy: The Adams Net
work and the Quasi-War, 1797–1798’, Journal of the Early Republic, 31:2 (2011);
and Perl-Rosenthal, ‘Corresponding Republics’.
31 ‘Proceedings of the Sons of Liberty’ [Evans 41656], 1.
32 Baltimore Sons to New York Sons, 5 Apr 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
33 New York Sons to Jonathan Sturge, 25 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
34 William Bradford (Philadelphia) to New York Committee, 15 Feb 1766, Lamb
Papers, NYHS.
35 Committee of Oyster Bay to New York Committee, 22 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
36 Library Company to John Penn, 31 May 1735, Leonard Woods Labaree et al.,
(eds), The Papers of Benjamin Franklin (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press,
1959–), 2:33.
37 There has been little work on this issue specifically in the colonies or in the
eighteenth century British Atlantic. For a very good illustration of the uses of
authenticating seals and stationery in another British imperial context, see Miles
Ogborn, Indian Ink: Script and Print in the Making of the English East India
Company (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 39–46.
38 See Valentin Groebner, ‘Describing the Person, Reading the Signs in Late Med
ieval and Renaissance Europe: Identity Papers, Vested Figures, and the Limits of
Identification, 1400–1600’, in Jane Caplan and John Torpey (eds), Documenting
Individual Identity: The Development of State Practices in the Modern World
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 15–28. See also Charlotte Gui-
chard, ‘Signatures, Authorship and Autographie in Eighteenth-Century French
Painting’, Art History 41:2 (April 2018), 274–275, which shows how the eight
eenth-century art market increasingly connected signatures to the physical pre
sence of the artist’s hand on the work.
39 Maier, From Resistance to Revolution, 81–82.
40 Sons of Liberty to John Adams, 5 Feb 1766, John Adams, Papers of John Adams,
ed. Robert Joseph Taylor, 14 vols. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1977–), 1:170–171.
254 Nathan Perl-Rosenthal
41 New York Mercury, 10 Mar 1766, 2 and Newport Mercury, 3 Feb 1766, 3. See
also Philadelphia Sons to New York Sons, 15 Feb 1766; and Baltimore Sons to
New York Sons, 5 Apr 1766, both in Lamb Papers, NYHS.
42 Durkee to Sears, 10 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
43 Durkee to Sears, 10 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
44 Albany Sons of Liberty to Allicocke and Sears, 15 Jan 1766; Henry Bicker to New
York Sons, 23 Feb 1766 (this letter is addressed to ‘Mess Sears &c &c’); New
York Sons to Jonathan Sturge, 25 Mar 1766 (collectively signed but addressed to
Sturge individually; the reply was from Sturge alone) all in Lamb Papers, NYHS.
See also New York Committee to Nathaniel Williams, 7 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
45 Philadelphia Sons to New York Sons, 15 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
46 Durkee to The Sons of Liberty in New York, 19 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
47 Philadelphia Sons to New York Sons, 15 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
48 William Bradford to Lamb, Sears, Robinson, Welley & Mott, 15 Feb 1766, Lamb
Papers, NYHS.
49 William Bradford to Lamb, Sears, Robinson, Welley & Mott, 15 Feb 1766, Lamb
Papers, NYHS. Emphasis mine.
50 Henry Bicker to New York Sons, 23 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
51 New York Sons to Richard South, 29 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
52 See William Goddard to Unknown recipient, 16 Dec 1773 and Thomas Young to
John Lamb, 18 Mar 1774, both in Lamb Papers, NYHS.
53 Samuel Richardson, Clarissa, Or, The History of a Young Lady, 3rd ed. (London:
printed for S. Richardson, 1750), 8, 223.
54 For a very useful parallel discussion of the meaning and construction of ‘white
hands’ among eighteenth-century British elite women, see Kate Smith, ‘In Her
Hands: Materializing Distinction in Georgian England’, Cultural and Social
History, 11:4 (2014), 489–506.
55 Daniel Defoe, The Complete English Tradesman, 3rd ed. (London: Charles Riv
ington, 1727), 1:35.
56 Daniel Defoe, The Complete English Tradesman (Dublin: George Ewing, 1726),
29.
57 Ibid., 182–183.
58 Ibid., 118.
59 Albany Sons of Liberty to Allicocke and Sears, 15 Jan 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
60 Henry Bicker (New Brunswick) to NY Sons, 23 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
61 Circular from Providence Sons of Liberty, 19 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
62 New York Committee to Sons of Liberty in Fairfield, 17 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
63 Durkee to The Sons of Liberty in New York, 19 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
64 Jonathan Sturge to New York Sons of Liberty [Isaac Sears?], 26 Mar 1766, Lamb
Papers, NYHS.
65 See Matthew McCormack, The Independent Man: Citizenship and Gender Poli
tics in Georgian England (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005), 92–
100, who characterises the self-presentation of North American gentlemen during
the imperial crisis of the 1760s and 1770s as a republicanised version of the Georgian
ideal of the ‘independent man’ in politics. He argues that this American version of
the ‘independent man’, grounded in ‘smaller freehold[s], a receptive sensibility and
simple virtues’ (100), contributed to reshaping notions of ‘independence’ among the
British Isles elites during the 1790s and early nineteenth century.
66 See Karen Harvey, ‘Sympathy in Practice: Eighteenth-Century Letters and the
Material Body’, in this volume.
Sons of Liberty 255
67 J. Lamb, The Evolution of Sympathy in the Long Eighteenth Century (London:
Pickering & Chatto, 2009), Introduction; and Sarah Knott, Sensibility and the
American Revolution (Chapel Hill, NC: Published for the Omohundro Institute
of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina
Press, 2009), 50–51.
68 Knott, Sensibility and the American Revolution, 4–14.
69 On this metaphor, see ibid., 79–81.
70 Albany Sons to New York Committee, 24 May 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
71 Committee of Baltimore to New York Committee, 8 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
72 New York Committee to Sons of Liberty in Fairfield, 17 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
73 New York Sons to Connecticut Sons, 20 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
74 Durkee to Sons of Liberty in New York, 19 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
75 New York Sons to Boston Sons, 2 Apr 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS. Once the
New York Sons wrote to them, they replied with great enthusiasm: see Silas
Downer to New York Sons of Liberty, 21 Jul 1766 in Carl Bridenbaugh, Silas
Downer, Forgotten Patriot: His Life and Writings (Providence, RI: Rhode Island
Bicentennial Foundation, 1974), 87–95.
76 See Maier, From Resistance to Revolution, 100–105.
77 Morgan and Morgan, Stamp Act Crisis, 110–119.
78 New Hampshire Sons of Liberty to [New York Sons], n.d. [1765], Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
79 Committee of Baltimore to New York Committee, 8 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS.
80 Committee of Oyster Bay to New York Committee, 22 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS. Emphasis mine.
81 Circular from Providence Sons of Liberty, 19 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS.
See also the statement of principles in the letter from Silas Downer to New York
Sons of Liberty, 21 Jul 1766 in Bridenbaugh, Silas Downer, 87–88.
82 Bradford to New York Committee, 15 Feb 1766, Lamb Papers, NYHS. For the
burning, see Joseph S. Tiedemann, Reluctant Revolutionaries: New York City
and the Road to Independence, 1763–1776 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
1997), 84.
83 Committee of Baltimore to New York Committee, 8 Mar 1766, Lamb Papers,
NYHS. For other instances of not making suggestions, see New York Committee
to Nathaniel Williams, 7 Mar 1766; Trenton Committee to New York Commit
tee, 28 Feb 1766; New York Sons to Connecticut Sons, 20 Feb 1766, all in Lamb
Papers, NYHS.
84 For a discussion of how patriot leaders in the American colonies adapted their
epistolary strategy to the new challenges posed by the Townshend Acts, see Perl-
Rosenthal, ‘Corresponding Republics’, ch. 2.
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Index
246–9
Thoresby, Ralph 89–90
ters 245
Tunstall, Marmaduke 18, 21, 22, 23–4
Sterne, Laurence 87
Stolberg, Michael 18
Ward, Thomas 90
Stuber, Martin 65
Warner, Ferdinando 23
249
women
Bed’ 104
and climate, deleterious effects of
Wright, Catherine 90