A Short History of Social Life in England/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI
Circa 1727—1742
COUNTRY LIFE
"I fancy it was a merrier England, that of our ancestors, than the island which we inhabit,"—Thackeray.
THE death of George I. in 1727 and the accession of his son as George II., made little difference in the social life of England. The new King could speak English indifferently and with a strong accent, and was only a foreigner in his tastes and prejudices. Hence he exercised no influence in the Cabinet Councils, which, like his father, he did not even trouble to attend. And, indeed, so independent of the King did the Government grow that, since the reign of Queen Anne, no English ruler has been present at a Cabinet Council or refused assent to any Act of Parliament passed by the representatives of the English people. It was the first step in a movement that was to produce far-reaching changes in the lives of the people. Henceforth the country was to be governed by her Ministers rather than by her King, and the coarse-mannered Walpole was a more influential person than the poor bad-tempered George II.
In the years of peace and prosperity that succeeded, the English life which is ours to-day developed apace. It is hardly necessary to say that it developed more slowly in the country than in London, for many parts of England were completely isolated in the middle of the eighteenth century. Miles of impassable road, deeply rutted or absolutely rotten, or some swollen river overflowing marshy country prevented much intercourse with the outer world, and rendered the appearance of a stranger an event giving rise to much curiosity and conversation. Quaint indeed to modern ears sound the words of John Wesley, travelling from Manchester to Huddersfield, two of our busiest centres today: "The people ran and shouted after the carriage, and I believe they are the wildest folk in England." Or, again, listen to a famous Birmingham bookseller visiting a village in Leicestershire, where the villagers set dogs on the strangers: "Surrounded with impassable roads," he says, "no intercourse with man to humanise the mind, nor commerce to smooth their rugged manners, they continue to be boors of nature." Assaults were not infrequent, and we hear of noses and ears being actually bitten off in a barbarous rage that might well belong to an earlier age. True, the wandering pedlar who travelled from village to village would sometimes bring a stained and tattered newspaper, which was read and re-read to a gaping and ignorant set of country folk. But, if spicy and interesting, it contained nothing edifying or relating to the great affairs of state. It told how "a boy was killed by falling upon iron spikes from a lamppost, which he had climbed to see Mother Needham stand in the pillory"; how a "poor man was found hanging in a gentleman's stables at Bungay in Suffolk by a person who cut him down, and running for assistance, left his penknife behind him"; how the best loaf sugar sold for 9d. a pound, Pekoe tea for 18s., and in what way the Queen was dressed on her forty-ninth birthday. Life was trivial and interests limited, centering for the most part around the monotonous doings of the country squire. Even if the saying that the squire was a mere vegetable "which grew up and rotted on the same spot of ground" was somewhat exaggerated, yet it is true that the "career of one was the career of a hundred.' Their lives were spent in scampering after foxes, leaping five-barred gates, trampling on the farmer's corn, and drinking incredible quantities of ale.
A familiar figure in the eighteenth century was the country squire: familiar the long wig, long coat, silver buttons, breeches and top-boots, the bluff, red face, the couple of greyhounds and the pointer at heel. When not hunting the fox, the popular sport of the day—for hawking had quite gone out of fashion—he settled the disputes of the parish or repaired to the nearest alehouse to get drunk in as short a space of time as possible. Usually he only drank ale, but on festive occasions a bowl of strong brandy punch, with toast and nutmeg, added to his already boisterous spirits. On Sundays he donned his best suit, which often descended from father to son through several generations, and with his wife and family repaired to the parish church, and entered the family pew, where he slumbered during a great part of the somewhat dismal service. He seldom went further than his own country town, for a journey to London was still full of danger and discomfort, nor were these fears purely imaginary. A journey from the North of England to the capital was so hazardous that men shook their heads and made their wills before starting. Stage coaches already ran between London and many of the large towns, as York, Exeter, Chester, and Bristol. But it was not till the year 1774 that a coach began to run from Manchester and Liverpool to London three times a week, and though nominally three days were occupied on the journey, bad weather sometimes delayed it for ten days or a fortnight. As for the "flying coaches," they were very expensive, and regarded as so dangerous that only "neck-or-nothing mortals" travelled by them. Neither were the dangers of the way much lessened as London was approached. In 1727 George II. and his wife, trying to reach Kew from St. James's Palace, passed a whole night on the road, and once between Hammersmith and Fulham the coach upset altogether and they were thrown out. The road between Kensington and Piccadilly was acknowledged to be "an impassable gulf of mud."
Here is Mrs. Delany's account of a break-down near London: "At the end of the town (London) some part of the coach broke, and we were obliged to get out, and took shelter at an alehouse; in half an hour we jogged on, and about an hour after that, flop we went into a slough, not over-turned, but stuck. Well, out we were hauled again, and the coach with much difficulty was heaved out! We then once more set forward, and came to our journey's end about five o' the clock without any other accident or fright, and met with no waters worth getting out of the coach for."
Defoe speaks of a lady near Lewes whose coach had to be dragged to church by six oxen, the road being too stiff for horses to attempt.
Throughout the eighteenth century the improvement in travelling advanced steadily if slowly. When George II. ascended the throne, highway robbery had reached its height, but with the hanging of the famous Dick Turpin in 1739 it began to decline. The passing of the Turnpike Act, making them compulsory all over the country, was one of the most important measures of the century. It was quickly succeeded by four hundred Acts passed for repairing the highways in different parts of England. But even the "family coach" belonging to the country squire remained long months together in the stable-yard, and the family contented themselves in the garden and park. In every part of the country a great love of gardening was growing up, and landscape gardening was taking the place of the formal symmetrical garden. Hedges were no longer clipt in fantastic shape and form, trees were no longer grown in pyramids or cones, flower-beds no longer laid out in geometrical form. Symmetry of design gave way to a wild, luxuriant, irregular, and natural beauty, untamed by the hand of man. New plants were imported, fresh evergreens were grown, exotics increased, books on gardening poured forth, and the interest in botany and gardening grew apace.
Less progress was evident inside the squire's old house. Oak furniture was passing out of fashion. Indeed, the finest old oaks in England had been cut down for the navy in the days when "hearts of oak were our ships." Mahogany was the rage at this time. George II. had ordered the staircases at his country houses to be constructed of mahogany, and it soon became the fashion to sit on chairs and dine off tables of mahogany. But these were innovations which took long to penetrate to the country homes of our forefathers. The interior of their houses was plain. Often enough the country gentleman had no carpet on his floor or curtains to his windows. He had no piano, but there might be found a harp, spinet, or virginal in the home of the smaller squire. Failing all else, there was always the old eight-day clock. There were few easy-chairs, no writing-tables or bureaus, such features of our modern living rooms, for letters were rare. They were written with quill pens and pale ink, and in the absence of envelopes were folded and sealed with a huge piece of sealing-wax. Two brass candlesticks, with a pair of snuffers and tinder and flint for striking a light, stood ever on the mantelpiece, in the absence of matches. The kitchen was moderate in size, there was no kitchen range, and the cooking utensils were still clumsy. Spits for roasting were turned by lads known as Jacks, or even dogs trained for the purpose. The lady of the house always carved the joints for her family and guests. Indeed, it was part of a woman's education at this time to take lessons in carving, so that she might perform her duty properly. The old love of hospitality still existed, and guests were repeatedly pressed to eat of certain dishes. The food was simple, if lavish. The first course would consist of a "good big dish of meat," weighing some fifteen pounds, either boiled or salt beef, roast beef, boiled mutton, with vegetables always served under the joint, followed by a pudding "made of rice, flour, and breadcrumbs."
"An Englishman's table is remarkably clean," says a Frenchman of this period. "The linen is very white, the plate shines brightly, and knives and forks are changed surprisingly often, that is to say, every time a plate is removed. When every one has done eating," he continues, "the table is cleared, the cloth even being removed, and a bottle of wine, with a glass for each guest, is placed upon the table. The King's health is first drunk, then that of the Prince of Wales, and finally that of all the Royal Family. After these toasts the women rise and leave the room, the men paying them no attention or asking them to stay; the men remain together for a longer or lesser time. This custom surprises foreigners, especially Frenchmen, who are infinitely more polite with regard to women than are Englishmen; but it is the custom, and one must submit."
The ladies having retired, decanters of port and madeira were put upon the table, and the guests helped themselves for the most part liberally. "It was the custom of Squire Western every afternoon, as soon as he was drunk, to hear his daughter play upon the harpsichord … he never wished any music but what was light and airy; indeed, his favourite tunes were 'Old Sir Simon the King,' 'St. George he was for England,' 'Bobbing Joan,' and others." "Bobbing Joan" was a country dance, and other familiar and favourite tunes of the day were "The Whirligig," "The Grasshopper," "The Dumps," "Sweet Kate and Blouzy Bella." A dinner party in the country usually ended with dancing. The hornpipe, cotillon, reel, country dances, and stately minuet were performed by a mixed assembly to the "scraping of a fiddle or the tinkling of the harpsichord," and in this connection it is interesting to note that there was no frequent change of partner, as there is to-day, but a lady was obliged to dance the whole evening through with the same man. Each lady placed her fan on the table, and danced with the partner who selected her fan from the many.
It was distinctly a merrier England than is the England of to-day. Dancing, drinking, card-playing, dining, hunting, took up a large share of men's thoughts. "Every town had its fair, every village its wake." But morals were low, and conversation was coarse. "You could no more suffer in a British drawing-room a fine gentleman or a fine lady of Queen Anne's time, or hear what they heard and said, than you would receive an ancient Briton," says Thackeray, in words which apply equally to the early Hanoverian period.
Indeed, there was little to refine and elevate at this time. Religion was at a low ebb, reading at a discount, learning not compulsory. One is almost surprised to see that such new books as "Gulliver's Travels" and "Robinson Crusoe" could be bought for sixpence, "tastefully bound in flowered and gilt Dutch paper." Magazines, too, were increasing. The Gentleman's Magazine made its appearance in 1731, and was followed by the London Magazine, till in 1750 there were eight periodicals in circulation. But these were for the educated few. There was no national education as yet, and servants in town and country were peculiarly ignorant. They were taken for the most part from the farmer class, and paid at the rate of £4 to £7 a year. It seems little enough to us to-day, but Defoe complains bitterly of the difficulty of getting female servants and of the high wages they expect In past years content with 30s. a year, they now demanded £6, and he suggests a fixed wage to counteract the tendency to rise to an impossible £20! It is interesting to note that the commission system, so much deplored to-day, was in full swing at this time. Cooks received from tradesmen a percentage on everything supplied to the house, thereby nearly doubling their wages. Here is a page from an old eighteenth-century account-book kept by a country squire. Wages for the whole year were paid on Lady Day:—"Sarah" receives £4 19s.; "Old Becky," £1; "Anne," £2; "Nanny," 5 guineas; "Cook," 7 guineas; Gardener, £2 7s.; "Bray the waggoner," £9; "Betty," £6.
Complaints as to the worry and inefficiency of servants are by no means confined to the present day, though through the ages faithful and devoted service is ever on record. "I think it is the duty," says a current number of the eighteenth-century Times "of every good master and mistress to stop as much as possible the present ridiculous and extravagant mode of dress in their domestics. Formerly a plaited cap and a white handkerchief served a young woman three or four Sundays; now a mistress is required to give up the latter end of the week for her maids to prepare their caps, tuckers, and gowns for Sunday. … I look upon their exorbitant increase of wages as chiefly conducive to their impertinence. … And what is this increase of wages for? Not in order to lay by a little in case of sickness, but to squander in dress."
The same note is struck in Swift's ironical "Rules and Directions for Servants." Their laziness, their insolence, their careless and dirty ways, their lying, their immorality—all come in for the Dean's fiercest irony.
"If a lump of soot falls into the soup," he says to the cook, "and you cannot conveniently get it out, stir it well, and it will give the soup a high French taste."
To the footman: "In winter time, light the dining-room fire but two minutes before the dinner is served up, that your master may see how saving you are of his coals."
To the coachman: "When you are in no humour to drive, tell your master that the horses have got a cold, that they want shoeing, that the rain does them hurt and rots the harness."
Addressing them generally, he suggests to them: "Quarrel with each other as much as you please, only always bear in mind that you have a common enemy, which is your master and lady."
"Never come till you have been called three or four times, for none but dogs will come at the first whistle."
"There are several ways of putting out a candle, and you ought to be instructed in them all: you may run the candle end against the wainscot, which puts the snuff out immediately; you may lay it on the ground and tread the snuff out with your foot; you may hold it upside down until it is choked in its own grease, or cram it into the socket of the candlestick; you may whirl it round in your hand till it goes out."
Such suggestions as these only emphasise the fact that the domestic difficulties of to-day were the domestic difficulties of our forefathers in the eighteenth century.