Aunt Isobel reigned over the silver pot like a determined if somewhat vague and inept hare; one with a busy day ahead.  ‘I’ve been talking to Charlie, and as I really need to have the place cleaned up before the ball, I suggested a trip of some sort, and Charlie mentioned – ’

 ‘Yes what fun I thought as we’ve always liked we could you know try the what’s it called where we used to go not far from Morton Manor you remember and eat at Harlequin’s just outside Fradley what do you think?’ Charlie dive-bombed a sausage and continued munching industriously.  Julia gazed down at her grey porridge, and regretted her choice. If not immediately eaten, it had a habit of sitting there, congealed, and looking solidly back at one. She poked at it nervously.

‘Which place did we use to go to? There were so many.’

Tea trickled out of the spout.

‘I think Charlie means the old ruins by the river. I must say, I can’t see the others taking much interest in that, but the idea of Harlequin’s ought to appeal to everyone.’ Aunt Isobel had evidently found this most recent batch of Bunty’s acquaintances more than a little trying. There was a rare tinge of determination in her demeanour this morning, connected with the polishing of silver and the waxing of floors that would, however delicately, brook no argument.

 ‘That sounds wonderful. Lovely idea.’  Julia tried to swallow the porridge. She gratefully accepted Isobel’s offer of a cup, and forced the glutinous mass down with molten liquid. After she’d finished spluttering, she inquired when they should start. ”

 Greenwood Tree, Chapter 11

I have been told by a reliable source and authonomy chum that Greenwood Tree contains oodles of tea. I have not yet made a head count of every cup that is poured . . . but I suppose there is a fair amount of pouring, stirring, slurping throughout. Verisimilitude is my only defence. Gossiping ? Put the kettle on. Freshly arrived home from the big city ? Put the kettle on. House guests at the breakfast time ? Put the kettle on. (A good hostess who did not supply her visitors with plentiful supplies of the stuff was simply not doing her job). Just been hit on the head by unseen assailant ? Put the kettle on. No wait, stop, I  don’t think I put tea in that particular scene, actually . . . but they probably did anyway, whether I wrote it in or not. Indeed, every British film ever made would be incomplete without a gentle pouring from the spout. A comforting sound, redolent with promise of things to come (did someone mention fondent fancies ? I’m quite happy with a jam tart, more likely a sandwich . . )

Twining was the man of the hour : after starting out as weaver’s apprentice, he then moved into commerce and ended up converting the drinking habits of a nation – in the face of coffee culture Britain (at least, London) he saw a niche in the market and seized it – so you can blame it all on him. Nobody suffers from a surfeit of tea in Greenwood, at least, I have had no complaints from the characters to date (“I say, old thing,” says Richard, pulling at my sleeve, ‘couldn’t pass the scones along, could you ?”, while Aunt Iz pours out another cup . . .)

Among all the rites, rituals, customs and paraphernalia surrounding tea, I can’t leave off without mentioning at least the evolution of the teapot . . . from genteel Wedgewood to cheeky Japanese elephants through political comment on stamp duty(see here : http://teapotsteapotsteapots.blogspot.com/2009/04/1765-no-stamp-act-teapot.html ) 
back to the humorous, bizarre, even grotesque pots, designed to represent various vegetables : cabbages, cauliflowers, corn cobs .  . . I wonder they didn’t suffer from indigestion just looking at the squat horrors, in their unrepentant gaudiness . . . (wraps wet towel around head) …am in need of tea sustenance; when I am feeling stronger, I might, just might write about tea caddies. . .

 Quote : “I comfort myself, that all the enemies of tea cannot be in the right”(Dr Johnson in defence of tea, while reviewing Mr Hanway’s Essay on Tea (http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/tea.html )

(The English Tea Set in the slideshow was photographed byJenny O’Donnell)

 A history of Twinings here : http://www.twinings.co.uk/about-twinings/history-of-twinings

 Some interesting details on Mr Twining, tea-merchant here : http://www.twickenham-museum.org.uk/detail.asp?ContentID=176

  Japanese elephant teapot here : (he is rather cute)http://thebluelantern.blogspot.com/2009/12/im-little-teapot.html

 A well-illustrated history of tea gardens  : janeaustensworld.wordpress.com

http://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2009/03/01/18th-amp-19th-century-pleasure-and-tea-gardens-in-london/

  A fine assortment of tea services here : http://naturalisticspoon.com/Rococo_Tea_Equipage.html

 A delightful gallery of living 18^th century history from re-enactors :

http://anhistoricallady.blogspot.com/2011/11/holiday-house-tour-and-tea-in-our-home.html

 Tea trends from the British Tea Council : teawithmarykate.wordpress.com

http://teawithmarykate.wordpress.com/2010/08/13/the-future-is-tea-%E2%80%93-tea-with-mary-kate-reads-the-tea-leaves-and-discusses-future-tea-trends-with-bill-gorman-executive-chair-of-uk-tea-council/

 V&A ceramics gallery : http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/m/masterpieces-of-ceramics-timeline/

Dr Johnson

Lady MuchRuffles: Wherefore do those birds twitter ? (Apologies to Mr Zoffany)

 Lady MuchRuffles: Wherefore do those birds twitter ?

Mr FortlyBreeches : Why, for the pleasure of mankind, that we may hear their song

Lady MuchRuffles : What sort of song is that then ?

Dr Belch : Why, ‘tis a great nattering of beaks, an explosion of feathers, a great flapping of wings, a snort of snuff, a great sneeze, – not worth the air it besprinkles!

Mr FortlyBreeches: I believe from those who study these things that the tweeting offers much in the way of enlightenment,

Dr Belch : Enlightenment, pah ! It is all so many tiny chirpings, a mighty blast of hot air from so many throats –

Mr FortlyBreeches : But if you were to address them, sir – you could tell them all so in one line – of no more than 140 characters however –

DR Belch : I fear a mere 140 characters would not suffice to tell them what I think of their noise.

Mr FortlyBreeches : Why, sir, I am certain if your put your head to it, you would surely discover a way –

Dr Belch : Have at them then ! (takes a bird and shakes it, but it continues to tweet) You see ? Sans shock, sans sense, sans anything – they tweet on regardless !

Mr FortlyBreeches : Allow me, then dear sir : (proceeds to tweet – immediately the birds begin to listen)

Lady MuchRuffles: Goodness, how did you manage that, dear sir ?

Dr Belch : How, indeed ? Is this trickery ?

(All the birds fly to Mr FortlyBreeches and follow him)

Mr FortlyBreeches : No trickery at all, Dr Belch – I merely told them something they wished to hear . . .

Lady MuchRuffles : Oh Mr FortlyBreeches, I beg that you will teach me how – I am most taken with all these feathered followers !

Mr FortlyBreeches : With pleasure, ma’am.

Dr Belch : Bless me, that would be a trick worth knowing – teach me as well !

(Mr FortlyBreeches and Lady MuchRuffles walk off, arm in arm, followed by birds and at a distance, Dr Belch, all singing ) :

 ”So, we’ll go now for a-tweeting

So late into the night,

Though our brains be not as thinking

Nor our words be quite as bright

 For fluff  out-strips good sense  

With its value much in doubt;

The aether surely grows  dense

With all that stuff  about

So the night was made for tweeting,

And the day returns too soon

Yes, we’ll do some  more a-tweeting

By the light of the moon

 ( . .  And apologies to Lord Byron too. Sleep easy. This idle chatter shall not disturb thee, I think . . )

Oh, and there is a gong. Which you can listen to here

(Click on the cover below for more comfortable reading via Issuu):

 December, 1927

 ‘I do hope you don’t mind,’ apologized Mrs Barrett, ‘but I’ve put you in the Print Room.’

Penny made a small grimace. ‘Oh Mummy, can’t Julia stay in the Nookery ?’

‘I would have suggested it, my dear, but the heating . . .and until those pipes are sorted . . .’

‘I’m sure the Print Room will be lovely,’ said Julia as brightly as she could. At least it sounded as though the room would be vaguely warm. Secretly she just longed to curl up in bed and go to sleep. There had been a long journey, followed by last minute changes and delays, unforeseen obstacles – and now weather had dictated that she stay a night, or more, with the Barrets before finally reaching Aunt Iz for Christmas.

‘Don’t worry about it darling, we’ll keep plenty of mince pies for you,’ said Bunty in her usual relaxed way over a crackly line before handing the receiver over to Aunt Iz, who was more concerned about whether Julia had enough warm clothes with her.

Julia actually found the Print Room rather charming and wondered at the Barretts’ concern. It had pale yellow walls, the original prints from a hundred years before still adhering to them, with new-ish looking buttercup curtains which had evidently been chosen to match the background colour.

 Mrs Barrett and Penny still looked a little worried, however, as they left her to change for dinner, and both told her to let them know the minute she needed anything.

There was a bathroom. Hot water. Encouraging amounts of steam. Even bath salts, so kindly pointed out by Penny. Julia soaked gratefully.

 It had all started with Penny’s invitation to lunch, as a break on the long journey up from London – her mother was an avid reader of Julia’s novels and was only too delighted to meet her. A blizzard had set in unexpectedly, all attempts to start the admittedly uncertain motor engine had failed and here she was, an added extra to an already full house. Hence the lack of choice as to bedrooms. It was only for a night or two. She felt quite at home already and wondered again at the Barretts’ solicitude.

She threw her dressing gown on and hurried back through to the bedroom; any minute now the gong would surely go or there would be a tap at the door . . .

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed softly.

The woman sitting at the dressing table appeared not to hear her. Dressed in cream white, with a rather daring neckline and a bouffant hairstyle, she was smiling slightly, at some distant thought.

Perhaps Julia was expected to share the room? Although surely they might have mentioned that. More likely the woman had simply mistaken her room.

Now the gong sounded in the distance, giving off a soft, golden chime.

Julia glanced over to where she had laid out her evening dress; it had slipped to the floor. She darted over, picked it up and dashed back into the bathroom.

The woman had gone by the time Julia returned to the bedroom. The gong would no doubt be sounded a second time any minute now . . . she hurried through the rest of her toilette and fairly ran downstairs – only to find she was actually the first.

 ‘Gong?’ said Penny as they went in for dinner, ‘but we don’t use a gong – haven’t done for centuries; it’s cracked so it doesn’t sound.’

‘Penny!’ Another guest descended on them, arms outstretched. Penny was briefly enveloped in chiffon and perfume, and conversation moved necessarily onto other topics, such as the latest designs from Paris, the appalling weather and what to do with unwanted presents.

 ‘Bit of a turn-up, all this snow, eh?’ began one of the male guests amiably, at Julia’s elbow.

‘Yes, it is rather. Mrs Barrett has kindly put me up in the Print Room.’

‘Oh yes? Been a while since they used that room. Hope it’s warm enough. These old buildings can take quite a lot of heating.’

‘It certainly feels very comfortable. I rather like it.’

‘Yes? How long are you staying?’

‘It depends on the weather. I was on my way home.’

‘Oh well, that should be . . .all right then.’

‘Ah, you’ve met our resident novelist, I see,’ Mrs Barrett caught up with her duties and introduced Julia properly. ‘This is Mr Frobisher, one of our oldest friends – does quite a bit in the way of writing himself, don’t you? Local historical research and customs.’

‘All published a little while ago now, though. Now looking into the archaeology side of things. Was on a dig the other day, they’d just unearthed a stash of Roman rubbish hah! – old boots and letters on wax, amazin’ stuff, really.’

 Conversation went swimmingly enough, and it was a while before Julia remembered to look around to see if her unexpected intruder was at table. Nobody remotely resembling the woman in cream appeared to be present, however. Perhaps on realizing her faux pas, she had elected to stay in her room from sheer embarrassment. Julia briefly noted a couple of empty seats at table and put it out of her mind.

 ‘Are you sure Ethel wouldn’t care for something sent up? It’s no problem at all, really, Mrs White,’ she overheard Mrs Barrett saying to a faded female in peach silks.

‘That is most kind, in fact I was thinking of going up to see how she is – it’s most unlike her to be taken badly.’

As Julia passed the library on her way upstairs, she noticed the door ajar, and caught a glimpse of the woman in cream, standing at a bookcase, gazing up at the shelves.

It was a little odd, she thought, for Miss Ethel to feign indisposition and then sneak downstairs to the library after. But then she recalled the other empty chair. Still, equally strange. But people could be quite unexpected in behaviour.

Mrs White had already gone upstairs to see how her daughter was; a matter of minutes later, the whole house was in uproar; Miss Ethel had vanished, and in her place on the pillow lay a note begging pardon, but that she had eloped with young Mr Edwards. Mrs White had to be put to bed, in an extreme state of mortification. Brandy and hot water and smelling salts were duly applied.

 Snow had fallen again during dinner meanwhile, removing all traces of footprints.

‘She’ll catch her death,’ moaned Mrs White burying her face into a lavender-scented handkerchief, ‘I know she will.’

‘My dear Julia, do you think you could give us any ideas?’ Mrs Barrett was quite helpless in the face of this domestic incident. Her training in etiquette had not quite equipped her for vanishing daughters in the middle of dinner.

‘Well, I am not a real-life detective, but . . . if I were writing this in a book . . . I think I would add the snow as a convenient last-minute distraction.’

‘My dear, what do you mean?’

‘I mean that it looks like the elopement was a spur of the moment thing – nobody could have predicted the snow would fall to such a degree; whatever the original arrangement, it rather looks like the couple decided to take advantage of the weather to cover their tracks. Surely Mrs White had her suspicions?’

‘She’s always been intent on marrying poor Ethel off to money and property,’ snorted Penny.

‘My dear, if it turns out you knew anything –’ began Mrs Barrett ominously.

‘Oh nonsense Mummy, even you could tell it was going to happen sooner or later. Good luck to the pair of them, I say.’

‘Well, I think they could have considered Mrs White’s feelings a little more.’

‘She’ll be all right after a night’s sleep.’

‘Really, my dear, how can you be so callous!’

Penny shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t see quite what we can do. And I’m sure Ethel will be all right. Tommy Edwards is a good enough chap.’

Later, after things had quietened down a bit, Julia asked Penny ‘I suppose Mr Edwards was waiting for her nearby?’

‘Probably on skies. He’s quite an expert.’

‘Would they have been in disguise, do you think?’

‘Disguise? Goodness, I don’t know. That would be . . . fun. Wouldn’t have said Ethel was that imaginative, though.’

 Despite the nonchalance, Penny had a strained air. She asked Julia again if the room was ‘all right’.

 ‘Of course – it is lovely.’

Penny looked slightly relieved. ‘Well, if there’s anything at all – let me know.’

The night passed uneventfully and a blue sky over a crisp snowscape greeted the inhabitants the next morning.

Mrs White remained in bed in a state of continued mortification and the doctor was sent for.

Julia, at the combined requests of Mrs White and Mrs Barrett, went into Ethel’s room to ‘look for clues.’ More to humour them than out of any illusion of discovering anything. The wardrobe, half open, suggested the girl had indeed packed in a hurry. Only a very few dresses had been taken – and little of any real use in cold weather. The chest drawers was tidy enough – hardly any underwear or stockings. No slippers – and the nightdress was gone.

There was a writing desk in the corner. A quick inspection revealed a blotter. Julia held it up to the mirror for a while, then went down to the kitchen.

‘Susan ?’ replied the cook. ‘Why, she’d be Miss Ethel’s maid, miss. You’ve just missed her though – went out a few minutes ago.

‘Really ? I don’t suppose you know where ?’

‘Not me, miss, it’s all I can do to keep an eye on the meals. But she was quite nervous, – dropping things.’

‘What sort of things ?’

‘She had a brush in her hand, and she dropped that, then it was a pen or something, and after she’d gone, I found a small bag on the floor, I put it on that table over there for when she comes back . . . though what she wants with walks in all this snow I’ll never know, all wrapped up like an esquimaux she was, hardly recognized her . . .’

‘Well, the sun is out after all. I rather think I’ll do the same. Perhaps I can give her the bag if I see her.’ And so saying, Julia took the bag and fetched her coat.

 The tracks left by Ethel’s maid were not hard to find and led in a nice clear line down the drive and turned a definite right in the direction of the village.

 ‘But how on earth did you find us here ?’ blurted out Ethel, still holding her wedding bouquet. Julia noted the narrow gold band on her ring finger.

‘You left the blotter on the writing desk. Only a couple of words, but they were enough. The name Susan and the Old Feathers. On inquiry downstairs, Susan was your faithful maid, who I imagined was bringing you extra little items you had forgotten, and on following her tracks down to the village, I had only to look for the Old Feathers Inn – and there you were. Of course, the poor girl was so nervous, she can be forgiven for dropping  a few things . . . here is your bag, by the way. Motor still won’t start ?’

‘Frozen solid, I’m afraid,’ admitted Tommy Edwards ruefully, unwrapping his scarf.

‘Still, you got married in the meantime.’

‘Yes, but you won’t give us away, will you? Not until after we’ve got away?’ Ethel, pleading.

‘You make it sound like we’ve committed a bank robbery,’ chuckled Tommy. He had a wide smile and good eyes, and didn’t look too worried about anything. Julia could see why Penny had said he was a good enough chap. Ethel, though not as faded as her mother, was of a similar nervous disposition, already terrified at what she had done.

‘It’s not for me to do anything,’ replied Julia reassuringly, ‘but I feel I should mention your mother has remained in bed, and that they have sent for the doctor.’

 ‘Just what Susan said – she’s close to revealing all anyway,’ said Tommy. He turned to Ethel. ‘Well, old thing, what do you say ? Shouldn’t we at least say hello before trundling off into the sunset ?’

It was now lunch time, and Mrs White was able to sit up and take tea and dry toast. The curtains had been drawn back, letting in the brilliant sunshine, and offering a view of the front garden and driveway.

 Penny was looking through the long windows of the morning room, brow puckered again. Her face suddenly cleared and she waved. The trio of figures advancing across the white blanket waved back.

Mrs White could hardly believe her eyes.

‘What was she doing ?’ she kept saying, even after all the fuss and explanations and greetings had subsided. ‘Going out in the cold like that – must have been terribly chilly.’

‘Who do you mean ?’

‘That woman – in a white dress, very revealing, no coat on . . . walked right across the lawn, straight past you. Didn’t you see her ?’

Julia thought for a bit then asked : ‘Was her hair done up ?’

‘Well, yes, it was – quite extravagant, I thought. Who on earth could it have been ?’

Julia looked at Mrs Barrett and Penny, who both looked discomfited.

‘Oh dear,’ began Mrs Barrett. ‘I fear that may have been Georgina.’

‘And who is Georgina ?’ asked Mrs White in astonishment. Julia continued to look at the Barretts.

‘Georgina  . . .was . .  a distant relative. Stayed here for a while. Her favourite room was the Print Room. I hope she didn’t disturb you.’ Here Mrs Barrett looked apologetically at Julia.

‘What happened ?’ asked Julia gently.

‘The story is, she had arranged to run away with a young man, who was also a visitor at the house. The arranged signal was the sounding of the gong for the evening meal. After the young couple had escaped, her father took the gong and threw it at my grandfather. Luckily he missed, but he cracked the gong, which has never sounded since.’

‘And  . . Georgina ?’

‘She died a few years later. Diphtheria, I think. All very sad. But I believe she was very content here, which is perhaps why she tends to appear before a happy event.’

‘She was smiling, when I saw her,’ said Julia.

Mrs White gave a mild squawk and fell back against the pillows.

Later again, Julia was standing in the library, looking up at a portrait. The sitter was female, dressed in cream white with a daring neckline and her hair in a bouffant style. The artist had painted the year 1860 in the bottom right corner.

Neatly engraved on the frame was the name ‘Lady Georgina Cardew-Barrett.’

(©B.Lloyd)

ROBERT WARREN : Sir, you pushed me.

THOMAS GRANVILLE : Sir, I did not.

ROBERT WARREN : I say you did, and  knocked my hat askew.            

THOMAS GRANVILLE : I have no interest in your hat.

ROBERT WARREN : (to the bookseller) Sir, I am come to make a serious purchase, and this gentleman insults me -

THOMAS GRANVILLE : I do no such thing. This gentleman has grabbed hold of my coat -

ROBERT WARREN : This gentleman knocked my hat off -

BOOKSELLER : Please gentlemen  both, make your purchases and cease making a scene, or I must call upon the constables . . .

Another scene outside the Cathedral, after service :

ROBERT WARREN : Sir, you were observed looking at my sister during the service.

THOMAS GRANVILLE : (flushing)There is no law to forbid glancing at other persons’ appearances.

ROBERT WARREN : There is in my book, sir, and I require that you desist.    

THOMAS GRANVILLE : I cannot help but see people who happen to sit directly in front of me.

ROBERT WARREN : You were looking at her throughout the whole of the service. Without interruption. I warn you, sir, against doing so again.

THOMAS GRANVILLE : I call bluff to your warning, sir. And I shall look at you, or any one of your sisters or parents, as often as I choose. Though in your case sir, it may be without favour.’

 Greenwood Tree, Chapter 2

 The two men could easily  end up fighting a duel – except that by the late eighteenth century, duelling was already going out of fashion, having lost the edge of the 1600s when the gauntlet thrown at one’s feet was enough to signal drawn swords.

Duelling had in fact become a most secret affair, for very practical reasons: the increasing opposition from the general public and relatives in particular, who would definitely attempt to prevent the duel going any further if they had the slightest whiff of it; even the seconds would often look for a way to prevent it going ahead (providing a healthy source of farce for subsequent writers and artists).

 I have come back to the London Mob with this, which I find an excellent book for background concerning behaviour on the streets, in particular the evolution of social ethics and boundaries in the 18^th century.

In chapter 7 ‘Duels and Boxing Matches’, the author Robert Shoemaker gives an impressively mixed list of the various individuals who would attempt to prevent a duel reaching fruition : footmen, soldiers,  housemaids, anonymous passers by. The whole business of duelling became a subject of heated debate, with the public weighing in against the whole idea.

 Add to this an interesting detail : the rapier replaced the sword, and became increasingly a fencing weapon (defensive as opposed to offensive), then the pistol replaced the rapier - but the majority of pistols did not shoot straight. This added to the possible decrease in mortality (always depending of course where approximately you were aiming  . . .) and perhaps thereby ultimately helped show Mr Duel the way out.

James Gillray : The Explanation

 Professor Shoemaker clearly shows how the wish of the individual to appear capable of instruction and improvement necessarily drew away from acts of violence (at least in public) – it was the time of the Gentleman, who had become ‘subject to the ideals of politeness, in which men were expected to control their emotions and be generous and complaisant towards those with whom they interacted . . . the ideals of sensibility required men to show even greater sensitivity and sympathy to other people’s feelings.’ (chapter 7 ‘Duels and Boxing Matches’, The London Mob by R. Shoemaker)

The culture of honour had been replaced by one of inner worth.

With the arrival of the age of enlightenment had come civility, of self respect, of modesty and a desire to be perceived as ‘of the gentility’, i.e., not given to violence where a cutting word might do.

Gone the dagger and the rapier, the sword had finally been won over by the word – the witty word that could slice through an antagonist’s outer shell like a knife through butter – had you the learning and brains to do it effectively enough.

The London Mob by R.Shoemaker, is published by Hambledon and London

 Interesting sites related to duelling :

http://swiftlytiltingplanet.wordpress.com/2011/05/25/the-duel-by-chekhov/

 http://emerylee.wordpress.com/2010/10/24/dueling-and-the-18th-century-small-sword/

 Georgian period :

http://www.georgianlondon.com/

 http://georgiangentleman.posterous.com/?page=1

18th century studies :

https://www.shef.ac.uk/c18studies

(Posted by B.Lloyd)

Greenwood Tree on Authonomy

 In fact the format of a good many morning/evening shows regularly viewed on broadcasting channels has changed very little since the 18th century salons of Miller and Montagu.

The purists may tear their hair and bang their heads on their desks, but essentially, it was and is a question of the host and his guests : guests who do not however bring only  their dirty shoes, walking canes and gossip, but ideally, something that can  contribute to the common lot of man  . . . one hopes.

 The internet contains many such salons now, blog circles, online communities and forum threads; various individuals develop a gathering, a following, an online audience whereby it is sufficient to write a sentence (however simple, even, dare I say, banal – no, even utter drivel) and be instantly responded to by a series of bright, witty, psychotic or plain dull individuals. Plus ça change.

Dr Johnson would have a field day. After a crash course in IT. Actually, he’d probably break the internet on first encounter . . .

 ‘Sirs of the Internet, it has come to my notice that there are no oysters to be had on this site. This situation should be rectified immediately, as a site bereft of oysters is :  ”. . as bad as bad can be: it is ill-fed, ill-killed, ill-kept, and ill-drest.”

 And he would probably hit the ‘send’ button with the full force of his fist, thereby bending the keyboard in two.

Dr Johnson consulting an IT manual prior to breaking the internet

  Had we had Aethernet in the 18^th century, whole websites, forums, threads would have opened up with the likes of Johnson, Boswell, Seward and Montagu strolling through, offering their pennyworths and exchanging “no solid conversation; for when there is, people differ in opinion, and get into bad humour, or some of the company who are not capable of such conversation, are left out, and feel themselves uneasy. It was for this reason, Sir Robert Walpole said, he always talked bawdy at his table, because in that all could join.”

So bawdiness, no solid conversation, indeed whole threads and forums full of banter and lightheartedness, without (to quote Boswell now): “uttering one sentence of conversation worthy of being remembered.”

As Johnson replied then:  “Sir, there seldom is any such conversation.”

Plus ça change indeed.

Let them stroll into the average salon forum then, as hosted by Mistress Seward, or Mistress Kettle, or Madame ByYourLeave, where the hostess asks : ‘And what have these gentlemen to say for themselves ?’

What can the latest news be ?

‘Why, Mistress Kettle, we have been in a vlog,’ they reply.

‘A vlog,’ she asks – ‘What kind of a thing is that, sirs ?’

‘Why, a very pretty thing indeed, madam, if you cared to try it – and a very ugly thing if others tried it.’

‘How so, pray ?’ she asks, quite perplexed.

‘How so ? Why, it is a fine show, if you have something to say worth listening to, and a view to offer – but a pretty poor show if you babble on and on, and show nothing that is either pretty, original or even inviting.’

‘I wonder so many do it !’ says one of the others, helping himself to some Punch.

‘Ah indeed, we live in an age of mediocrity where the poorest pisspot of a brain  may display a total want of good taste, intelligence, even character and all for a song – indeed, for nothing at all, which is often all it is worth.’

Here Mr Remonstrance interjects, with an air of reproval : ‘It is a spectacle, one that we can all participate in after all.’

‘Yes,’ joins in Mr Irascible, ‘and we can cheer or howl or throw peanuts at the performers all we like – for they shall not hear us – so all are happy, except for those of us who seek only a little entertainment, and get a full spittoon instead.’

‘Indeed, I wonder whether I should try such a thing after all,’ says Mistress Kettle dubiously.

‘Madame Kettle, you could only be an adornment and a treasure were you but to try . . .’ offers Sir Lech, by way of a compliment.

(Here Mistress Kettle blushes and fans herself coquettishly. Sir Lech leers over her, Dr Ponderous takes offence and hurls a pot of ink at him. ‘Music !’ clamour the other guests, wearied unto death . . . and usher in the servants of Euterpe :

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYUsdePziBo)

 The comparison of 18^th century salons and their present day online equivalent might be worth a thesis-full for some under-grad of social history or literature; it would surely be an improvement on research into how many people actually frequent a coffee bar . . .

‘Indeed, I wonder whether I should try such a thing after all,’ says Mistress Kettle dubiously.

 Some more entertaining visions on view at the following salon  :

http://www.freakingnews.com/IBM-PC-turns-25-Pictures–1114.asp

 How might King Lear have put it, after strugging for hours in front of his laptop? :

Other sites of related interest : http://www.drjohnsonshouse.org/

http://www.thrale.com/hester_thrale_1741_1821

http://www.classic-literature.co.uk/scottish-authors/james-boswell/james-boswell-biography.asp

http://orlando.cambridge.org/public/svPeople?person_id=montel(Elizabeth Montagu)

http://www.chawton.org/library/biographies/seward.html (Anna Seward)

http://georgiangentleman.posterous.com/anna-seward-part-one-letter-to-a-favouriet-un

UPTSWWQ5FNYD

MRS RAWNSLEY : Did you mention the Edsops were there ?
MRS GLASS : Only the vicar, as Mrs Edsop was away.
MRS RAWNSLEY : She has been absent on other occasions, I believe.
MRS GLASS : That now puts me in mind of a rather singular incident. Sir Morton mentioned his not having seen the lady in church the previous two Sundays, and the vicar then said she had gone to stay with a relative in Fradley.
MRS RAWNSLEY : I never knew she had family there.
MRS GLASS : Nor did I. Nor did anyone there. Then young Mr Warren pipes up, and recalls stopping over at Armitage on his way home from ‘Varsity, and swears he saw a lady very like Mrs Edsop, in walk and manner of dress, stepping across the town square. He did not finish, and Mr Edsop supposes he imagined it, but the young man is most insistent about it – is all set to quarrel on the matter, even to the point of suggesting that she was on the arm of an unknown gentleman – after which Mr Edsop grows very heated, and asks whether the young man is not trying to put a slur on a lady’s honour. Then young Mr Crewe joins in, even more heated, and as good as challenges young Mr Warren outright – though why he should want to involve himself, I cannot imagine . . .
(stirs tea vehemently).
MRS RAWNSLEY : He always seems a very upright, honest sort of young man to me –
MRS GLASS : That may be : I would not presume to judge; in any case, just as all seemed set to burst out, Sir Morton and the Italian gentleman intervened, and we finished the game almost amicably . . . and Sir Morton was so good as to hand me into the carriage himself.
MRS RAWNSLEY : I find it very shocking.
MRS GLASS : I can assure you, Mrs Rawnsley, that had any of the other ladies been unaccompanied, he would have done as much for them – he is the very soul of propriety . . .
MRS RAWNSLEY : What are you talking about, Mrs Glass ?
MRS GLASS : What are YOU talking about, Mrs Rawnsley ?
MRS RAWNSLEY : Why, young Mr Warren. To be so very definite, and on such a delicate matter -
MRS GLASS : I do not know that I am so much surprised myself. A close creature always, ever since Mr Edsop brought her from wherever he found her ; I always suspected he would rue the day. With such a young woman, of such mysterious background . .well, one never knows . . .
(taps teaspoon knowingly against cup).
MRS RAWNSLEY : Your Fanny would have made such a proper matron for the place. How is she, by the bye ?
MRS GLASS : Perfectly well; I do not think she ever gave him a second thought, such a plain man he was. . . no, the thought was all mine. . . but he would not have done – my Fanny needs a more lively and elegant companion to suit her ways . . .
MRS RAWNSLEY : Doubtless she will find such a one at the next ball, Mrs Glass.
MRS GLASS : More tea, Mrs Rawnsley?

(Excerpt, Chapter Two, Greenwood Tree)

The two ladies’ chatter is not perhaps quite on a level to cause real damage – but had the contents of their gossip been repeated in a public place some twenty or so years earlier, those involved might well have ended up in court for defamation.
Reputation in the 18th century was everything, an essential requisite for business, trade, the finding of a good match in marriage; slander and loose tongues could wreak mayhem in families and communities - yet the Georgian era bore witness to a change of social language and attitude, and saw a steady decline in defamation lawsuits over the 18th century.
All of this and much more is gone into with great detail by Robert Shoemaker (Professor of History at Sheffield University) in his book ‘The London Mob’ ; from Defamation to Gossip, from Riots and Mobs to Duels and Boxing Matches, he covers a wide range of social interaction and rebellion, the attendant changes in law and the evolution of a civic code.

On the question of gossip for instance, in chapter 3 (Public Insults) he observes that defamation suits in early 18th century London played a large part in court business, although interestingly, the gentry tended to be less involved. Despite the popular conception that slander was the domain of women, a great many perpetrators are shown to be men of fashion, usually indulging in casting slurs as some form of entertainment, although up to 1780 women still outnumbered men by 65%. He then demonstrates how public and social behaviour and attitudes towards the business of defamation changed over the succeeding years by focussing on the conversion of the dangerous scold to the less harmful gossip. According to an account from 1750 of a typical Sunday evening, between four and ten in the evening the local poor women in London suburbs would bring their chairs out into the street and “sit with their constant gossips, and pass verdicts on people . . .”

A further illustration of how domesticated gossip had become is by the fact that it was “exchanged primarily over the tea table (rather than on the streets)”; there was even a pamphlet was issued in 1760, ‘The New Art & Mystery of Gossiping’, apparently offering a list of women’s gossip clubs.
Shoemaker also points out how much blander gossip had become in drama since Restoration times; all in all, he suggests, Gossip had lost its power to damage Reputation.

Gossip : “exchanged primarily over the tea table"

Street life, punishment, riots, violence and the process of law: Professor Shoemaker shows, in clear and accessible language, the various changes in perception and behaviour, the transition from public to private in these various areas – whereby insults in the street declined, outdoor crimes became private homicides, and violence was progressively hidden behind closed doors.

‘The London Mob’ is a lively, informative book, offering a vivid picture of life in London across the 18th century. It contains excellent reference material and is well-illustrated with contemporary prints, including works by Gillray, Rowlandson and Hogarth; indeed, few works on 18th century social life would feel complete without Hogarth’s Gin Lane.

Whether you are writing fiction or non-fiction requiring a background to Georgian England, whether you are boning up for a social history thesis, or whether you love anything pertaining to the Age of Enlightenment, this is a highly entertaining read.

Thoroughly recommended; more on this anon . . .

(Robert Shoemaker is also co-director of The Old Bailey Proceedings : www.oldbaileyonline.org, database of all printed trial accounts 1674-1834)

Other links which might be of interest : Smuggled tea

Georgian Gentleman (on the Gordon Riots : The Gordon Riots at first hand)

“1783

 The ball is arrived. Long live the ball. With its laces and petticoates, and fans and bows, and powder and masks . . .  no one knows who is who (or affects not to know) and as the evening progresses, no one much cares. Not to be outdone by the fine gentry of Vauxhall, the local gentry of Lichfield have chosen to compete even in this area of fashion.

Enter a large red Cabbage (Mrs Rotundity with trimmings), followed by a purple Pencil (Lord Withered) and a green Peacock (Lady Withered). A quadrille commences, and the Peacock is engaged by a grey Spider, (Mr Lucrative), while the Pencil makes do with the Cabbage.

The room is already half-full, with many coy guesses as to identity being tossed about; there are various innocent looking Turtles, a few Kittens and Puppies, a white Hen or two (probably Mrs Glass and Mrs Rawnsley) all jostling and slipping and capering. It is well past nine before another carriage of any significance arrives, producing one up-turned purple Tulip and one Beetroot (Lady and Lord Puffball respectively), who linger a while to adjust themselves in the court yard before joining the revellers within . . .”

 (Chapter 6, Greenwood Tree)

From Tom Jones, Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison to Faulkner’s Lost Stradivarius, the masked ball offered more than flirtatious subterfuge. The poor, the rich, risk-takers and gamblers could intermingle at leisure – although not always to their mutual benefit, for the same function also provided ample opportunity to thieves, thwarted suitors and assassins. Ladies’ pockets and ladies’ virtue were both besieged, warned of by writers and cartoonists alike; it was the place for seductions, elopements, kidnappings (as Fielding and Richardson illustrate) and even murder (as in Faulkner’s Lost Stradivarius).

The Return from a Masquerade, A Morning Scene, Museum of London

Vauxhall, Ranelagh, the Pantheon and Carlisle House were among the most popular resorts for such unexpected excitement and pleasantries, ready for those bored with their lot in life to wander about, whispering invitations, offering, informing, discovering . . . agents and spies could benefit as much as anyone else at these gatherings : for about the time that Tom Jones was ploughing fields of petticoats and Clarissa and Grandison were verbally mortifying themselves, the ‘sbirri’ of Venice were going about their business very comfortably in their bauté and tricorni – because virtually everyone else was similarly disguised. For six months of the year the Carnival in Venice allowed the domino to throw a convenient veil not only over social distinction, allowing gamblers both poor and rich alike to scrabble for their coins on the ridotto tables, but over informers, intriguers and spies too. The same masks that sheltered their identities travelled as far as England where the idea of disguise appealed mainly for its piquancy. The loose behaviour at the public functions caused various condemnations, yet public demand saw to it that these licentious affairs continued well up nigh to the end of the 18^th century.

Exhibition of a Rhinoceros by Pietro Longhi, National Gallery

The masquerade ball goes on all the time now, costumes have become avatars or profile pictures, offering the user an identity as mysterious as the domino ever was; covering up, transforming, offering  total metamorphosis : ideal as ever for flirting, gossiping and sadly some not so innocent mischief-making. The bauté and tricorno sit hovering in the ether,  their variations many and manifold, to be plucked at a moment’s notice . . . kittens and puppies, bears and baubles, wine bottles, corks, koalas with berets . . .

Aether user : “Well, what have you for me today ? Mind, I am to attend Lady HaHa’s forum this very evening, and wish to make a splash !”

Website costumier : “A splash? Why, I have the very thing – take this image of a great pool, with a fluorescent penguin adorned in grass skirt raising a cocktail in his left flipper !”

A : “ Yes, I think when I said ‘Splash’, I did in fact intend something a little less literal – have you not some fine picture of an antelope with feathers ?”

W : “But of course, I have many – look here – and here – and here : flamingo pink, with a pineapple, or celestial blue with a drunken dog, or what about a little sparkle, an explosion of fireworks with an apple peel judiciously displayed in the foreground ?

A : “Drat, I have no more time – I’ll take it ! No, wait, what is that drunken unicorn doing with those bananas ? Excellent ! I’ll have that one instead !”

(And another final vestige of sanity bites the dust . . .)

And yes, I have a kidnapping or two going on in Greenwood Tree as well . . .should I have mentioned that earlier ?

View of all the principal masquerade figures at the Rotunda, May 12th 1789, Ranelagh Gardens.Museum of London

Links to related topics:

http://elizabethhanbury.blogspot.com/2010/07/masquerades-and-pantheon.html

http://www.vauxhallandkennington.org.uk

 http://www.andrewgrahamdixon.com/archive/readArticle/128

The Goons coined this in a sketch, Wallace Greenslade then offered the audience a range of silences to choose from :’You might like this type of silence  . . . or this might be more in your line . . . .’

 Silence is one of those abstract qualities we think we want when we are deprived of it, and can find quite overwhelming, even intimidating when we have too much of it.

 Writers are perceived as requiring special areas which they must keep only for their creative moments, where the daily grind is kept at bay, out of sight, out of mind. Who works best in total silence ?  For some, it is a requisite, and can mean a total withdrawal from any outside sound, so that they can inhabit their own brains alone, unimpeded, uninterrupted. For others, it is near total silence with something quietly playing out on the CD player, or for that proper vintage feel for period detail, an original gramophone player (I don’t think I know of anyone who actually does that – yet). There again, it will be a particular piece of music, sometimes so efficient in throwing or coaching the pen-pusher into the act of writing that it is played continuously throughout the process. (Douglas Adams springs to mind in one of his dedications, quoting an album “which I played incessantly while writing this book. Five years is far too long” . . ).

Total silence can help develop our senses – not just of hearing (we really will hear a pin drop, a bird land on a branch outside the window etc), but of perception and imagination. Especially if you are in the middle of writing a particularly eery scene – the sound of a pebble sent skittering across by a passing cat, the odd dead twig cracking in that total silence can make us jump and twitch nervously and from there devise a whole new scenario to finish the chapter off with the perfect cliff-hanger . . .

 But short of lining the room with cork and wearing earmuffs (or cotton balls in the old auriculars if you must), how does the writer demanding total silence achieve it ? And is it for everyone ?  

Total noise, other people’s music and children, the house nearby undergoing reconstruction – these are invasions, distractions, unwanted alien things.

But so too can be total silence, like a vanished world, leaving you in a capsule outside of time, until it too becomes a weight, a shadow resting a hand on your shoulder as you gaze blankly at the void screen or paper before you.

 This was not intended as an advertisement for the writing programmes available on the net – but the fact so many of these already exist suggests a demand for some balance between the two, the need for that subtle threshold between tranquillity and atmosphere, without the distractions of a busy world.

(I will add though that my personal favourite at the moment is ZenWriter . . . )

 Just to show no bias, the link below offers a comparative  run down on the most popular programs :

http://alternativeto.net/software/zenwriter/

 Links to other opinions on the subject of writing in silence :

(http://wordswithoutborders.org/dispatches/article/peter-cole-on-silence-in-writing-and-translation/)

(http://das-schreiben-und-das-schweigen.realfictionfilme.de/assets/templates/das-schreiben-und-das-schweigen.realfictionfilme.de/pdf/Writing-and-Silence_press-kit.pdf)

  Writing Conference : Breaking the Silence

 (http://www.learner.org/workshops/writing35/pdf/s5_writing_conference.pdf)

After trawling for months through writings, both published and non, by present day authors, I begin to find stagnation setting in; from the very snazzy to the very humdrum, there is a common thread running through, a streak of sameness, which makes me wonder how much publishing and publishers actually influence modern writers by their perceived ‘demands’ or lists of do’s & don’t’s.

I pick up a Sheridan le Fanu, one I haven’t yet read, The Haunted Baronet, and am transported :– yes, it is another world, the past, yes, it is another universe, the paranormal – but so are many books written now. Yet his voice struck me as fresh and vital in a way that all those others writing now do not, or cannot. His imagery, however contrary to the guidelines (rules for some) laid out, down, upon us by would-be guru scribes, flashed images across my tired brain that the present day ones could not. He was not writing outside of his own contemporaries ; he was not resorting to gimmicks or games – he was writing well. And no, he is not staccato, Hemmingway-like,  nor vague and missing punctuation, Joyce-like (and many other examples, but this is not intended as a catalogue).

 Reading a classic author from the past (from at least a hundred years ago, that is) gives us the opportunity to time travel. We get to see speech patterns, social customs, mores, attitudes, highs and lows, problems and solutions of the period in the flesh, so to speak. Any writer of historical fiction wants to read them, partly to get the vocabulary right (hardly anyone has ever really said gadzooks anywhere, it transpires) and surely to get the background, atmosphere and general feeling right. Any writer wanting to write sensational fiction will surely want to read Wilkie Collins as well as Bram Stoker, most writers wanting to bring in social commentary, both Dostoyevsky and Dickens,  and so on – and not necessarily only the top classics; even the very mediocre ones can teach us something , if only on how not to write it.

 Where I felt so many of the texts I had been looking at were failing to make the mark lay perhaps in the authors trying so hard to avoid clichés that they often end up sounding exactly alike one another, sans ton, sans voix, sans anything very much – rather the literary equivalent of walking around a stage, trying desperately not to bump into the furniture. If writers don’t read (and I mean read books printed more than thirty or forty years ago  . . .) and in great quantity and variety, how can they develop a voice that is not inevitably resonant with comic book speech, and so called ‘pithy’ language (because they think swearing gives them street cred), the inevitable drone of the uninventive, the uninspired and the uncreative ? How many more are there going to be, pounding out on keyboards simply because they can, enforcing the idea in the minds of new generations of readers that there is only one way of expressing oneself, when in fact there are many ?

The idea started with a competition (although I never submitted it). Lichfield Council set it up as a biennial event, with a promise of prizes and publication. It was a good promotional wheeze, the main stipulation being that the books submitted be set in or around Lichfield. Information packs could be ordered from the local tourist office, and this was duly done. Apart from the more obvious inclusion of Dr Johnson, there were other, more mysterious elements that surfaced : pagan sites, the Greenhill Bower procession, rituals and traditions with the Green Man weaving in and out of the whole.

Added to this was Lichfield’s position in Regency society, with its salons, literati, ballrooms and gardens. I was sorely tempted by the possibilities this afforded. The Georgian Period is a favourite of mine for its architecture, design, literature, arts and sciences . . . Britain was not yet so embroiled in the soot of Industrial misery nor ‘driven into factories,often where . . . there is no necessity for it, save again the profit-tyranny.’ (thank you, William Morris)

But I was also in a quandary here. I was most emphatically uninterested in anything approaching Mills & Boon Regency Romance , and most emphatically intrigued by mystery, suspense and detection. How to combine those elements ? A mystery that started somehow in the late 1780′s, say, but which left a thread to be picked up several generations later. This was a while before the recent spat of ‘cold case’ series now so regularly produced for home entertainment. I decided against a present-day detective – for one thing, it would require more resources than I had available to keep up to the minute with the latest discoveries in forensic science – and for another, more importantly : I wanted total escapism. How to ensure you are never ‘out-of-date’? Place the whole thing securely in the past. A very distinct past, where there is moreover opportunity for the kind of atmosphere I wanted to create. Add to this a predilection for Michael Innes , Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie and a pattern begins to emerge. The twenties. Roaring, desperate, depressed, ravaged by a Great War which so many wished fervently to forget – and a new form of Enlightenment to mirror that of the 18th century. Ho, and onwards to the invention of a crime writer, looking for a new plotline, under mild pressure from her editor. Female ? Because so many crime writers in the twenties (yes, and now too) happened to be women.

Bits and pieces, fragments and oddities, ‘a thing of shreds and patches’, the whole phantasmagoria wandering around in my head in a series of images. Transient, haunting, intertwining, . . . now, to maintain that fragility, while moving the narrative forward cohesively through time . . . Quite probably an over-ambitious project, but I was too far in to back out now. Besides, the images were there now, fluttering about, asking to be sewn together.

I scribbled and typed as and when scenes occurred to me. Several times the plot line was overhauled, rearranged, mauled, shredded, patched together again . . .There were other projects getting in the way too. It sat, sulking, on laptop or in notebooks, on loose flying scraps of paper, on the backs of train tickets, the usual. I left it to doze for a couple of years, occasionally prodding at it to see if it was feeling any better. A renewed enthusiasm emerged one summer to actually finish the damn thing . If only to throw it out. At least it would be done. And then along came Authonomy. This was probably the incentive that urged me on to complete it to as decent a stage as could be tentatively uploaded without causing too much offence. I wanted to leave it again, walk away and come back to it later, as with a painting. I still do this, making occasional adjustments, adding bits here and there and pestering a few people whose opinions I value to read it. Yet again.
This is partly why I started AuthorsAnon – to invite those whose opinions I trust to pop by, post their thoughts, upload excerpts they want to dissect, and so forth. A little less crowded here than on Authonomy.

B.Lloyd