PODCAST: Stream

The second of three podcasts by Natalie Steed provoked by Clare Whistler’s Residency at the QMUL Centre for the History of the Emotions in 2013-14.


“Reverence. Root. River.”

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Inspired by the story she heard at a friend’s funeral, Clare Whistler and the artist Charlotte Still have been visiting tributary streams and sources of the Cuckmere River, East Sussex and recording their experiences and encounters in photographs, poems and maps.

In March 2014 Clare and Charlotte brought together a large number of people: artists, musicians, dancers, researchers and experts in Hailsham for Waterweek as part of their “Stream” project, including Hetta Howes, a PhD student at QMUL. Over a week they held a series of public events with performances, talks and discussions about water. There were walks, boat making, swimming and dance.

In this podcast Clare and Charlotte take me to one of their streams and Hetta Howes explains the associations between women and water in the medieval world, especially in the context of texts written by and for religious women.

With music by Katherine Gillham.


Read more about Hetta Howes’s research.

Read about and listen to all of the related podcasts.

Read more about ‘Weather, tears, and waterways’.

PODCAST: Tear Bottles

The first of three podcasts produced by Natalie Steed provoked by Clare Whistler’s Residency at the QMUL Centre for the History of the Emotions in 2013-14.


“I take things out of boxes, but need boxes to put them back in”

unguentarium

 

A light dabble with a search engine on the subject of “tear bottles”  will lead you to a world of  assertions, often by online shops, about the historical use of “tear bottles” in the mourning rituals of Romans, Greeks and Victorians with stories of how tears were collected in small, stoppered, glass bottles as a sign of respect and grief.

They’ve featured in opera designs and art installations   and there are at least a couple of references to collected or collecting tears in the Bible including Psalm 56:8 where God is being addressed:

Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?

John Gill’s mid eighteenth century Exposition of Whole Bible unpicks this with another assertion about the “tear bottle” in the psalm being  an  allusion  “to “lachrymatories”, or tear bottles, in which surviving relatives dropped their tears for their deceased friends, and buried them with their ashes, or in their urns; some of which tear bottles are still to be seen in the cabinets of the curious.”

In other translations and versions it’s not a bottle into which God’s collecting tears but a wineskin. In others he’s just writing them down on his scroll.

Nevertheless, the idea of the tear bottle remains a powerful one and a way of thinking about tears and emotion.

One aspect of Clare Whistler’s residency was her interviews with academics and others at QMUL about tear-bottles. She asked people to imagine a receptacle for their tears and also to collect their tears in a small book. She created poems from their answers and I have used some of these poems in the podcast. I wanted to show how Clare’s project mixed the professional investigation with the more personal reflection.

We also hear Jennifer Wallis, Chris Millard and Thomas Dixon, from the Centre for the History of Emotions talk about tears in their research: the internally liquefying inmates of a 19th Century Asylum; Neil Kessel’s social experiments in the 1960’s with sales of large quantities of aspirin to weeping women and Hogarth’s Enthusiasm Delineated. Alongside this, Paul Roberts, Head of the Roman Collections at the British Museum, shows me some beautiful, tear-shaped glass bottles from the British Museum’s stores and there are some specially commissioned musical tears created by the composer Jonathan Dove.


Read about and listen to all of the related podcasts.

Read more about ‘Weather, tears, and waterways’.

 

PODCAST: One Single Tear

The third of three podcasts by Natalie Steed provoked by Clare Whistler’s Residency at the QMUL Centre for the History of the Emotions in 2013-14. Clare made a film inspired by the Jewish Cemetery in the Mile End Campus and commissioned a new setting of a George Herbert text from Kerry Andrew.


“I have not lost one single tear:
But when mine eyes
Did weep to heav’n, they found a bottle there
(As we have boxes for the poor)
Readie to take them in; yet of a size
That would contain much more

“But after thou hadst slipt a drop
From thy right eye,
(Which there did hang like streamers neare the top
Of some fair church, to show the sore
And bloudie battell which thou once didst trie)
The glass was full and more.”

qmul image of Jewish Cemetery

In the middle of QMUL’s Mile End campus lies the remnants of the Novo Cemetery (Beth Chaim) which was awarded Grade II listed status in April 2014. The gravestones are laid flat in the Sephardic tradition to symbolise the equality of all in death.

The site is only part of a much larger cemetery, which was opened in 1733, that was redeveloped by QMUL during the 1970’s and 1980’s. What remains is part of an 1855 extension to the original site, with around 2000 graves of the original 9500. What

Near the middle of the cemetery there is a circular enclosure, surrounded by a low stone wall, which marks the place a number of graves were damaged during a bomb blast in the second world war.

Clare Whistler has worked with a dancer and filmmaker to create a short film inspired by the cemetery with the dancer acting as a “tear” finding her way to the central, circular enclosure.

Alongside this she commissioned a new setting of part of George Herbert’s poem Praise (III) from the composer and singer Kerry Andrew.

In this podcast Clare talks about making the film and we hear some of George Herbert’s poem, read by Peter Marinker, and the new piece of music.


Read about and listen to all of the related podcasts.

Read more about ‘Weather, tears, and waterways’.

 

What Quaker companies can teach us about well-being-at-work

Henry-RowntreeMy great-great-great grandfather, a York Quaker called Henry Isaac Rowntree (that’s him on the left), set up Rowntree’s chocolate company in York in 1862. He was an amiable young man, ‘perhaps the only Rowntree with a sense of humour’ according to one historian. He had a parrot who liked to shout obscenities from under the table, much to the consternation of the Quaker elders when they visited. Henry loved adult education and journalism, but family members feared he knew ‘next to nothing about business’.

This led to him not being invited to be a partner at the family grocery business in York, so instead he bought a cocoa company set up by a plucky Quaker called Mary Tuke. A few years later, the company was in financial difficulties. Bankruptcy was the height of shame in the Quakers – indeed, you were ejected from the church for it – so Henry’s older brother, Joseph, came to help him run it. Joseph was much more sensible and meticulous, and public demand for cocoa powder and chocolate was beginning to take off.

By the 1940s, Rowntree’s had become one of the biggest confectioners in the world, making well-known brands like Aero, Rolos, Kit-Kat, Polo, Black Magic, and Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles. Alas it was sold to Nestle in 1988, and Joseph had already given away all the money he made to his charitable trusts, so distant descendants inherited not so much as a packet of Smarties.

Peter Cheese of the CIPD talking about Rowntree's

Peter Cheese of the CIPD talking about Rowntree’s

Nonetheless, Rowntree’s are still relevant to my interests because the company was a pioneer in adult education, and well-being-at-work. In fact, when I went to a conference on well-being-at-work, organised by Robertson Cooper last year, the first speaker began his keynote with a slide of the Rowntree’s factory.

So what can the example of Rowntree’s tell us about well-being-at-work?

1) Rowntree’s made worker well-being a priority

Rowntree’s, like its Quaker rival Cadbury’s, was run in a spirit of industrial paternalism. The workers were treated not as mere cogs in a machine, but as characters to be developed (and souls to be saved). Rowntree’s was one of the first companies to have dedicated ‘welfare officers’ – what today we’d call human resources managers – whose job was to look after the well-being, education and moral character of the young (14 and up) male and female workers.

There was also a medical officer, regular medical and dental examinations, and company public health campaigns against the evils of tobacco and booze. The dentist, I am informed by wonderful Rowntree archivist Alex Hutchinson, was an alcoholic fascist who often removed far too many teeth…well, you win some, you lose some.

The women's canteen at Rowntree

The women’s canteen at Rowntree

As the company grew to a staff of 4,000 or so, Joseph Rowntree was keen to make sure it was still ‘united by a common purpose’. To that end he introduced one of the first in-house company magazines, as well as group-bonding concerts, theatricals, feasts and field trips. One trip involved sending the workers on a walk across the Yorkshire dales. Unfortunately it rained, the workers repaired to a nearby pub, and after an afternoon’s intensive drinking, the police had to be called to eject them.

Historical accounts, like this history of Rowntree female employees, suggest workers enjoyed working at the firm

The Rowntree’s also supported workers’ education through libraries, discussion groups, the Yorkshire philosophical society, and through a network of adult schools. Quakers played the leading role in the establishment of adult education at the end of the 19th century – by 1900 there were 350 adult schools around the UK, with 45,000 pupils, of which two-thirds were at schools run by Quakers. Many Rowntree family members were actively involved in setting up and teaching in adult schools – the school they all taught at was round the back of their grocery business on the Pavement in York.

Some of the Rowntree staff lived in a ‘model village’ launched by Joseph Rowntree, called New Earswick. It was inspired by the ‘garden city’ designs of Ebenezer Howard, with worker cottages, a village green, and a veritable Quaker porridge of village committees – a library committee, a women’s guild, an orchestral society, a village council, a men’s social club, a musical society etc etc etc. It’s still going.

Historical records suggest that, to a large extent, Rowntree employees enjoyed working there, forged good relationships, and were happy – indeed, Rowntree women were famous for singing at work, as this short film from 1932 shows.

2) This sort of Quaker industrial paternalism was potentially patronising and illiberal

However, the strong emphasis on worker welfare could potentially be creepy – the company poking its nose in your inner life. Fry’s Chocolates, for example (another Quaker company), held an annual workers prayer service, which Joseph Fry said was ‘often a means of observing their conduct and checking any tendency to impropriety’. The Rowntree’s welfare officers, known as ‘overseers’, were also sometimes resented (‘she sits up there like the Queen of Sheba’, one worker complained).

Workers might well feel that what they did in their own time was their own business, and that the imposition of Quaker ethics on them was an infringement of their own religious liberties. So what if they drank in their own time? Should that be a cause for sacking, as it was at Fry’s? When did religious non-conformism become so conformist?

The Quaker emphasis on character and do-gooding could be annoying and patronising, as one poem showed:

Take a dozen Quakers, be sure they’re sweet and pink
Add one discussion programme, to make the people think
…Garnish with compassion – just a touch will do
Serve with deep humility your philanthropic stew

A modern equivalent of Rowntree’s focus on worker-welfare might be something like the American shoe company Zappo’s, which also is something of a personality cult of its CEO, Tony Hsieh, and also has a strong emphasis on employee well-being. Reading Hsieh’s smug and self-congratulatory comic book, Delivering Happiness, makes me feel queasy – Zappo’s sounds like a bit of a happiness police state.

It’s important, then, for companies to think about how to balance a strong collective ethos with autonomy, how to create a culture that encourages people to be individuals rather than clones, how to create room for dissent and satire, and how to make sure their well-being programme doesn’t feel forced, patronising, conformist. or a form of illiberal surveillance.

Saracens rugby club is an interesting example here – its ethos was also inspired by a strong Christian emphasis on the well-being and personal development of its staff and players, but manages to find a way to promote this without being too patronising, and with room for dissent. Staff and players are co-creators of the culture, rather than merely automatons to be programmed.

3) Ethical capitalism always has its internal tensions

The Quakers helped to set up some of the best British companies – Rowntree’s, Cadbury’s, Barclays, Lloyds, Clarks, Friends Provident – most of which strived to be not just profitable but ethical. They were family-owned, meaning they could pursue their own values rather than trying to please distant shareholders. They were often run as quasi-mutuals, ‘as a kind of partnership between masters and men, uniting their labour for a common end’, as Joseph Rowntree put it. Rowntree’s had a ‘Cocoa Council’, which elected MPs from every department.

In all of this, perhaps there are lessons for our own time, when corporations have come to be seen as psychopathic, and when Barclays and Lloyds have become by-words for dodgy dealing (indeed, Barclays’ CEO, Anthony Jenkins, recently suggested the firm needed to remember its Quaker history).

However, Quaker capitalism always had its internal contradictions and tensions.

Quakers blossomed in business partly because their religious non-conformism meant that historically they were unable to go into other careers like politics, partly because they had amazing networks of trust between themselves, and partly because their austere Puritanism made them very good at meticulous book-keeping and rational management. But, as Max Weber explored in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, there was a paradox in directing this Puritan zeal towards the accumulation of capital.

Sex and status in Rowntree's advertizing

Sex and status in Rowntree’s advertizing

Quaker businessmen had a constant struggle to try and balance their service both to God and to mammon. For example, Rowntree’s initially rejected advertising as insincere and duplicitous, but quickly realised they had to embrace it to compete. Both Rowntree’s and Cadbury’s used their ethical principles as a form of advertising, which works from a marketing point of view but is not really in accord with the Gospels. They also spied on each other to try and get each other’s recipes – this was the inspiration for Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. They colluded and set prices when it suited them. Both families made their fortunes by profiting on our growing addiction to sugar – which was originally intended to wean the nation off alcohol but has become its own public health menace.

And the family-ownership model depended on having family members with the genius for business. The Rowntree heirs became increasingly interested in different things, so the company appointed its first non-Rowntree chairman in the 1930s – George Harris, my great-grandfather, who married into the family.

Harris wasn’t a Quaker and had little time for their Puritan do-goodiness. He was more inspired by the American Forrest Mars, who once told his employees: ‘I am a religious man…I pray for Milky Way, I pray for Snickers…Profit is our sole objective.’ Harris used marketing research to launch the very un-Quaker ‘Black Magic’, advertised as a tool for seduction! Rowntree’s, which initially spurned advertizing, became a master of it. Indeed, the first ever ‘talkie’ advert was a seven-minute Rowntree’s ad for ‘Plain Mr York’. By the 1980s, Rowntree’s ads were ever-more-ingenious attempts to tie consumers’ desires for sex and status to products like After-Eights.

Harris’ products – like Kit-Kat, still the biggest-selling chocolate bar in the world –  helped to save Rowntree’s. His business-stye was not particularly Quaker, he was more of an authoritarian, although he did keep the welfare / well-being side of the company going (unlike Nestle’s, who closed most of the adult education and well-being facilities in the 1990s).

Black Magic, a tool for seduction

Black Magic, a tool for seduction

4) So what we can take from Quakernomics today?

– Try to run companies as mutual enterprises – not necessarily by mutualizing, but by facilitating discussions, suggestions and group activities with all levels of the company. Strive for fair pay for all levels of the company, and make sure your suppliers’ values are aligned with your own.

– Provide opportunities for employees to broaden their minds, like Rowntree’s adult schools, the Google Campus, or the Saracens personal development programme.

– Support employees’ well-being through online and one-to-one advice, which should be entirely confidential rather than a means to spy on staff. Connect well-being services both to broader adult education (like Google’s Search Inside Yourself course) and to wider philanthropy and CSR.

– Provide opportunities for employees to pursue philanthropic activities and to feel they are working for a company with a moral mission.

– Provide opportunities for dissent, for disagreement, for satire and internal criticism – to make sure a strong collective ethos doesn’t turn into a cult!

– Explore new models of ownership which don’t make the company a slave to short-term shareholders.

– Combine moral mission with empirical rigour – what works, both for the company and for employee well-being? What sort of philanthropy or social reforms genuinely work, rather than simply making the giver feel good? Joseph and Seebohm Rowntree were both more than mere do-gooders. They were scientific in their do-gooding.

– Finally, a commitment to employee well-being is entirely in line with a commitment to business excellence, although companies can expect some dilemmas and tough decisions along the way. The moral mission needs to be led by CEOs at the top, rather than Corporate Social Responsibility reps in the middle.

Five Hundred Years of Friendship

Welcome to the History of Emotions Blog at Queen Mary, University of London.

From this page you can browse a series of specially commissioned blog posts supporting the BBC Radio 4 series ‘Five Hundred Years of Friendship‘.

The series is presented by Dr Thomas Dixon, Director of the Queen Mary Centre for the History of the Emotions.

We hope that these blog posts will provide a lasting resource for anyone interested in reading more about friendship, past and present.

They are written by experts on friendship from various fields – including philosophy, psychology, sociology, literature, and history. They are grouped according to the themes of the three weeks of the series, first broadcast in March and April 2014.

___________

I. Extending the Family, 1500-1800

Robin Dunbar, ‘Counting your friends in threes’

Mark Knights and Tessa Whitehouse, ‘Talking about friendship’

Antonella Liuzzo Scorpo, ‘Friendship in the middle ages’

Mark Vernon, ‘Philosophy and the art of friendship’

Laura Gowing, ‘Friends without words’

Amanda Herbert, ‘Female alliances’

Naomi Pullin, ‘The Lord hath joined us together’

Alex Shepard, ‘Crediting female friendship’

Naomi Tadmor, ‘Friends and families’

Sally Holloway, ‘Friendship, love, and letter-writing’

___________

II. Improving Society, 1800-1918

Helen Rogers, ‘Thick as thieves’

Beaty Rubens, ‘Stranger danger in the 18th Century’

Thomas Dixon, ‘Leaving the magic kingdom’

Helen Rogers and the Writing Lives project, ‘Memories of improvement’

Emma Townshend, ‘From the same animal pattern’

Liz Gray, ‘Loyalty and a dog called Bobby

Angharad Eyre, ‘Creating a circle of friendship: Constance Maynard’

Santanu Das, ‘The dying kiss’

Paul Reed, ‘Looking for the Grimsby Chums

___________

III. Connecting the World, 1918-2014

Seth Koven, ‘The match girl and the heiress’

Sue Morgan, ‘Without a friend thou canst not live well’: Maude Royden, friendship and faith

Michael Kay, ‘Phone a friend?’

Jenna Bailey, ‘Can any mother help me?’

James Ellison, ‘Friends across the ocean’

Thomas Dixon, ‘Thank God we can choose our friends’

Barbara Taylor, ‘Friendship trumped madness’

Mark Peel, ‘New worlds of friendship’

Deborah Chambers, ‘Online friendship’

Beaty Rubens, ‘What makes friendships last?’

 

___________

Listen to ‘Five Hundred Years of Friendship

Listen to a range of other available BBC Radio 4 clips and programmes about friendship

Follow Thomas Dixon on Twitter: @ProfThomasDixon

Follow the History of Emotions Blog on Twitter: @emotionshistory

What makes friendships last?

Beaty Rubens is the Series Producer of ‘Five Hundred Years of Friendship‘ on BBC Radio 4. She previously produced a 30-part history ‘The Invention of Childhood‘, presented by Michael Morpugo, first broadcast in 2006. In this blog post, Beaty describes a personal friendship stretching back 40 years, and examines why it has lasted.

___________

As I opened the image on my laptop and the photo filled my screen, I was instantly transported back to a time in the South of France, aged twelve, eyes screwed up against the sunlight, lips tight with anxiety about what I was going to say next to the French girl, Fabienne, standing beside me.

Photo friendship

More than 40 years later, we are still friends.  In fact, my friendship with Fabienne is probably my oldest continuous friendship.   When she sent this photo to me, I was immersed in making a 15 part narrative history series on the changing face of friendship, so friendships – how we make them, what their function is, why they matter to us today, and have mattered over the centuries, – were very much on my mind.

Fabienne and I had met for the first time the day before the photo was taken.  Two families, each with six children, sitting at two long tables in a French hotel dining-room.  We seemed a good match from the start.  Her parents were looking for an English pen-friend for their daughter and had noticed that I was about the same age. Might I be interested?

Initially, our friendship entailed laboured letter-writing, in which we each attempted to stretch our small grasp of grammar and wildly inadequate vocabulary around descriptions of our twelve year old selves.  But mutual visits to one another’s homes and schools, learning to find common ground in the space between two countries, two cultures, two languages, gradually became easier.

As Thomas Dixon, the presenter of Five Hundred Years of Friendship explains, scholars generally identify three distinct kinds of social bonds within the concept of friendship: ‘familial’, ‘instrumental’ and ‘emotional’.   The French word for pen-friend is “correspondent”, and Fabienne and I had the good fortune to find a real correspondence between us, so that our friendship ticked all three boxes.

“Familial” bonds are the oldest form of friendship, and the term really refers to kinship within or between families. We never had this, but our younger brothers became friends, our mothers still exchange phone calls, and our shared understanding of how to operate amongst many siblings helped our friendship to become absorbed into each other’s families.

Our friendship was of real utility too – that’s the ‘instrumental’ bit – as our language skills were improved by a growing desire to communicate beyond the basis of “Do you like the Beatles?” and “Surely you can’t be saying you’ve  never heard of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin?”.   Fabienne’s English is far better than my French, but, to this day, I can be in a group of French people and unthinkingly follow not only the words but also the shifting tenor of the conversation – a Gallic “moue” of the lips, a shrug of the shoulders – and for that I have my friendship with Fabienne to thank.

Finally, there is the emotional part – which, as the series reveals, was not always  considered the most important aspect of friendship in the past, but is certainly central today.  We were lucky at the start to share many interests: we were both passionate readers, we studied the same subject at university, and, years later, we even married men with the same name.

Now, into our fifth decade, our friendship continues to flourish on shared memories, experiences, jokes.  We love each other’s national cuisine and exchange Maltesers for Carambars, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for tajine d’agneau, Summer Pudding for Tarte aux Pomme.  And while we acknowledge one another’s national characteristics, we also dismiss them: Fabienne agrees that (some) English women dress well; I concede that (some) French people understand irony.   When we both turned 50 a couple of years ago, we didn’t manage to celebrate together, but now we have a plan.

Perhaps the hotel, with its large, light dining room, offering family supper at six o’clock each evening, is still there?   Certainly we might revisit the medieval town with its window boxes spilling geraniums over the river, and find again the bridge where we stood, in our 1970s frocks, waiting for our lives to begin.

[This piece was first published on the Radio 4 Blog]

 _________

Listen to Five Hundred Years of Friendship

Return toFive Hundred Years of Friendship at the History of Emotions Blog

 

Thick as thieves

Dr Helen Rogers is Reader in Nineteenth-Century Studies at Liverpool John Moores University, and the author of the blog Conviction: Stories From a Nineteenth-Century Prison. She is also one of the editors of the Journal of Victorian Culture. In this post for the History of Emotions blog she writes about her research into juvenile criminals, including their friendships and tattoos, subjects she also speaks about in Episode 6 of ‘Five Hundred Years of Friendship’.

__________

We’ll never know who coined the phrase ‘as thick as thieves’ to describe close and furtive acquaintances but the phrase had currency by the late 1830s when it began to appear in fiction and newspapers.[i] The timing is striking for it coincides with growing cultural anxieties about the rise of a ‘criminal class’ inhabiting a clandestine world of ‘hardened’ offenders bound by ‘evil associations’ and ‘bad connections’.

Poor and unprotected children were deemed particularly susceptible to ‘contaminating influences’.[ii] Nowhere was this evoked more vividly than in Oliver Twist (1837-9) with its fascinated horror in the tight bands of boisterous, street-wise youths and their corruption by professional thieves. In Dickens’s portrayal of the wily Fagin and his artful dodgers, the novel speaks to enduring concerns about unregulated childhood friendships and inappropriate adult-child relationships that underlie our preoccupation with ‘grooming’.

What can these cultural anxieties tell us about the experience of youthful companionship in the past? Here I trace the friendship networks of boys and youths who served time at Great Yarmouth Borough Gaol in the 1830s and 1840s. Law enforcers in Yarmouth frequently observed the link between offending and ‘bad connections’, namely relatives and friends. In his report when dispatching sixteen-year-old Thomas Bowles to the hulks, the Gaoler noted:  ‘Bad character and connexions. Hasty disposition.’ Sentencing Thomas to seven years transportation for theft, the magistrates hoped he would be sent to one of the new ‘reformatories’ designed to rehabilitate young offenders.[iii]

In 1839-41, 41% of prisoners at Yarmouth were aged eighteen or under, mostly convicted of vagrancy, petty theft, and absconding from apprenticeships.[iv] While the authorities did little to address the causes of youth offending, Sarah Martin, a local dressmaker, voluntarily ran a pioneering scheme of prisoner rehabilitation. She spoke to inmates as a friend and fellow sinner, like other Christian philanthropists committed to ‘loving the sinner, not the sin’. Less common, the Christian fellowship she offered prisoners extended to teaching reading and writing, training in useful work, and helping discharged prisoners find employment. Knowing the likelihood of their reoffending, she worked assiduously with first-time offenders. Her notes on inmates before and after their release indicate what they had to gain by her assistance and the challenges they faced in following her strict programme of Christian improvement, as we can see by following Thomas Bowles through his early convictions to his transportation.[v]

‘Sarah Martin and her Jail Congregation’, Women of Worth: A Book for Girls, illustrated by W. Dickes, (London: James Hogg, 1859)

Swiftly following a short remand, Thomas was imprisoned again, aged 14, for three months in 1841 for breaking into a shop and stealing with Joshua Artis (16) and Edward Juniper (13). Martin thought Thomas a ‘clever boy – and both diligent and obedient’. While regretting he had a ‘bad father’ and that his mother was ‘in want and distress’, she hoped with ‘judicious guidance he might become a better character’.[vi]

Like other Christian reformers, Sarah Martin believed lack of moral and religious training was the cause of much delinquency. She taught young prisoners by using picture-story books which stressed the need to be good and kind friends to each other and dutiful to their parents and teachers, while illustrating the dire fate awaiting wicked and idle children. The prison scholars enjoyed these books, despite their humourless didacticism, asking for more each day.[vii] Learning and useful work were valued distractions from the tedium of confinement, as the ‘diligent’ Thomas must have found. Many acquired literacy remarkably quickly, often by helping each other with their letters. Few were prepared to forgo the opportunity of instruction and consequently inmates policed themselves in class and rarely were punished for misconduct. If their prison schooling was effective, it was in part due to companionship between cellmates.

The Gaoler’s disciplinary record exposes, however, the different tenor of inmate relationships when left to their own devices. Thomas, Joshua and Edward were punished several times during their sentence for fighting, quarrelling, and making noise together. Their unruly behaviour continued on release for within months they were back in prison for stealing a bottle of wine.[viii] In the 1840s, prisons were increasingly turning to solitary confinement to prevent inmates ‘contaminating’ each other, especially the young, but at Yarmouth most spent the day in small wards where friendships were forged and rivalries battled out. Juveniles were by far the most troublesome inmates, particularly boys under 17.  While some met ‘partners in crime’ in gaol, many knew each other from outside. Overwhelmingly, friendships were between boys of a similar age rather than with the career criminals feared by social commentators.

In their raucous behaviour, the boys asserted their place in the inmate pecking order, stood up defiantly to authority, and sought to control the prison environment with their loud and disruptive use of space. In nine imprisonments before he was transported, Joshua Artis was punished eighteen times for talking with prisoners in the chapel, insolence to the gaoler and chaplain, and for being always ‘Idle and Artful’. Acting out his cockiness for his own and others’ amusement, Joshua climbed the prison walls with one cellmate, threw water over another, shouted to get the attention of the female inmates, and so on.[ix]

Both the boys’ offending and their bravado seem to have been responses to their precarious position in the family home and the labour force as well as their imprisonment. Most had finished what little schooling their family could afford and were expected to pay their way. Though few had no family ties, two-thirds of those transported had lost a parent, which suggests the immediate support networks of many juveniles were similarly compromised by bereavement and poverty. Thomas Bowles’s family, for instance, had been deserted by his father and he had spent time in the workhouse where he had been a ‘refractory pauper’.[x]

Work, play and offending merged with each other. Boys were prosecuted, frequently together, for swimming where it was prohibited, removing sand from the shore, stealing rope off the docks, and letting boats adrift. Some were fortunate to have an apprenticeship yet struggled to adapt to work discipline, often losing their employment through absence. Most depended on casual labouring jobs or occasional sea voyages, as did Thomas, but supplemented irregular work by pilfering. Provided her young scholars appeared committed to reform when released, Sarah Martin would help tide them over until they found a job, giving them a basket and a weight of fish so they could support themselves by hawking. She also kept a close eye on them.

The prison visitor recommended Thomas to a Sunday school and ordered him a two-penny loaf for the Sabbath and a blue slop at the end of the month if he attended. The boy called to say he had found work as a bricklayer’s labourer and could pay his sister for sheltering him. He was anxious to assure the teacher of his good conduct. He had met a prison friend, he explained, who ‘asked me to go with him in a boat on Sunday but I told him I would not, for I should go to the school, and said “You had better go to:” he said “Well, perhaps I shall.”’ But when next the teacher called on Thomas, she found him without work and playing marbles. This prompted a lecture. If he wished to play, he should drive a hoop or throw a ball; marbles was a form of gaming that would lead to worse. She was relieved when he won a berth on a fishing vessel for which she bought him canvas trousers.[xi] But her support seemed to come to nothing for the boy was imprisoned for leaving his master before being sentenced to transportation for housebreaking.[xii]

With their precarious networks of support, laddish behaviour gave boys like Thomas much needed companionship and relief from the hard task of survival. Without the steadying influences of regular employment and their own family and dependents care for, male juveniles were by far the most likely of Martin’s ‘liberated prisoners’ to reoffend. Two-thirds of repeat offenders at Yarmouth were under twenty-one. They also featured heavily in the persistent offenders who were transported.

The convict records of these boys and young men reveal the allegiances and habits which militated against the pious intervention of the prison visitor.[xiii]  Among their physical characteristics listed on their convict records can be found the descriptions of their tattoos. All most all had elaborate tattoos marking the names of family, loved ones and friends which reveal the strength of their attachments. One had the names of the boys with whom he had been convicted and others he met in gaol.[xiv] Another had an image of two men arm-in-arm, probably the brother with whom he was transported.[xv] Many wore blue dots, perhaps denoting gang membership.

Their tattoos, often begun in their early teens, also signalled the boys’ efforts to join the adult world of Yarmouth men, based around heavy labouring occupations, sea-faring, and the tavern. Joshua Artis displayed his hardy defiance of authority: ‘Man with staff in one hand cuffs in the other.’[xvi] In a port where lives depended on the sea and fate loomed large, their tattoos bore the superstitious, gambling and risk-taking elements of this culture. Most, including Thomas, wore the maritime symbols of mermaids and anchors, with their promise of safe passage. The tattooed ‘fouls’ on Thomas’s arms no doubt showed his love of cock-fighting and the failure of his teacher in warning him against gambling.

Among the most repeated images in the convicts’ tattoos were pictures of men smoking and drinking, crossed pipes and cupped glasses, the symbols of masculine camaraderie and conviviality. In their tattoos, then, these boys and young men celebrated the friendships that sustained them and on which, they had imagined, they would build their future.

Illustration 2: John Newstead’s tattoos, described by Gaoler, 8 June 1844, showing the names of friends and crossed pipes and glasses.

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Follow Helen Rogers on Twitter: @helenrogers19c

Read more at the Conviction blog

Return toFive Hundred Years of Friendship at the History of Emotions Blog


[i] The earliest reference I can find via Google Books is in the novel Mayne Reid, Osceola the Seminole (1818), though there are no more until T. Hook’s The Parson’s Daughter (1835). The earliest newspaper reference via the British Newspaper Archive is in relation to the Tories in an election covered by the Western Times, Devon, 19 August 1837. Thanks to Miriam Cady and Robin J. Barrow for searching Eighteenth Century Collections Online for me.

[ii] Heather Shore, Artful Dodgers: Youth and Crime in Early Nineteenth-Century (London, Boydell Press, 2002)

[iii] Thomas Bowles, per Asiatic, 1843, Police no. 10001; database no. 6264; Conduct Record, CON33/1/42; Convict Indent, CON14/1/24, State Archives of Tasmania. Bury and Norwich Post, 4 Jan 1843 p. 3

[iv] Based on analysis of Gaol Registers.

[v] Anon. Sarah Martin, the Prison Visitor of Great Yarmouth, with extracts from her Writings and Prison Journals, a New Edition with Additions. London: Religious Tract Society, n.d. [1847]. Helen Rogers, Kindness and Reciprocity: Liberated Prisoners and Christian Charity in Early Nineteenth-Century England, Journal of Social History, Spring 2014, 47.3: 721-45.

[vi] Gaol Register, 15 December 1841; Martin’s Register 1841, no. 106. All the gaol records are held at Norfolk Record Office. Sarah Martin’s surviving journals are on display at the Tolhouse Museum, Great Yarmouth Museum Services.

[vii] Helen Rogers, ‘“Oh, what beautiful books!” Captivated Reading in an Early Victorian Prison’Victorian Studies, Vol. 55, No. 1 (Autumn 2012), pp. 57-84.

[viii] Gaol Keeper’s Journal, 1841-5; Gaol Register, 20 June 1842.

[ix] Gaol Keeper’s Journal, 1836-40 and 1841-45.

[x] Sarah Martin, pp. 130-2.

[xi] Sarah Martin, pp. 130-2.

[xii] Thomas Bowles, per Asiatic, 1843, Police no. 10001; database no. 6264; Conduct Record, CON33/1/42; Convict Indent, CON14/1/24.

[xiii] Between 1836 and 1852, twenty-six boys and young men were transported to Van Diemen’s Land who had begun offending at Yarmouth when under twenty one. (A similar number were transported elsewhere). All but 3 were tattooed according to their convict records.

[xiv] John Newstead, 21025, per Ratcliffe (2), 1848, CON33/1/91, CON14/1/40 (see image)

[xv] Isaac Riches, 17982 per Joseph Somes (1), 1846, CON33/1/77, CON14/1/35

[xvi] Joshua Artis, 15826, per Theresa, 1845, CON33/1/67, CON14/1/29.

 

Stranger danger in the 18th Century

Beaty Rubens is the Series Producer of ‘Five Hundred Years of Friendship‘ on BBC Radio 4. She previously produced a 30-part history ‘The Invention of Childhood‘, presented by Michael Morpugo, first broadcast in 2006. Here, in an article first published on the BBC News website, she writes about the perceived dangers of childhood friendships, both in the eighteenth century and the present. 

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Many parents are anxious about their children falling in with the “wrong crowd”, particularly in the era of untrammelled access to social media. But worries about the wrong type of friends go back 200 years at least.

In the 18th Century, children were given “conduct books” that gave moral advice on how best to live their lives. They routinely warned of the dangers of friendship.

“Friendship was regarded as quite dangerous,” says Professor Matthew Grenby, an expert on children’s literature from Newcastle University. “Friends are the sort of people that are going to lead you off the straight and narrow and are going to be detrimental to your secular prospects and also your spiritual prospects.”

One particularly popular book, The Governess, by Sarah Fielding, published in 1749, warned that a “delight in friendship may lead to all manner of errors”.

“Fielding was very anxious that you could fall in with the wrong crowd, and that these people are going to be problematic for you in a way that your family, which has your best interest at heart, is not,” says Grenby. The 18th Century view of children’s friendships is “family – good, friends – very often bad”.

But changes in the 19th Century made this view unsustainable. As family size diminished in the mid-Victorian period, a child would simply have had fewer siblings to turn to for companionship. Meanwhile, the introduction of the Elementary Education Act in 1880 meant that children were going to school en masse and inevitably forming friendships outside their own families.

Two Victorian friends

Anxieties persisted. Grenby believes children’s school stories from Thomas Hughes’s Tom Brown’s Schooldays to Angela Brazil’s A Fourth Form Friendship were simply a more appetising continuation of the conduct book tradition. The books featured veiled warnings about falling in with the wrong crowd – though things do tend to work out well in the end. After a few unhappy errors of judgement, Tom is befriended by the saintly Arthur, while Brazil’s heroine, Aldred, is saved by the sensible and forgiving Mabel.

A new book on social media and personal relationships in the 21st Century, by Professor Deborah Chambers, of Newcastle University, suggests that young people continue to show balanced judgement in their choice of friendships.

Online, Chambers believes the most worrying dimension is the new concept of public display – whether in establishing a new friend or bringing a relationship to an end by “unfriending”.

“People are still learning the etiquette that’s required for this sort of set of online friendships.”

For those parents who are concerned that their children’s social circle will be a bewilderingly random selection of people met on social media, there is reassurance. The vast majority of young people are not forming online friendships with strangers, says Chambers. “Young people often say that they regard face-to-face friendships as superior, and very few of the young people that have been engaged with by researchers are interacting with strangers online. Their connections are actually still very local, and they’re usually with people at school that they connect with in the evening, at home. They are cementing friendships”.

Young people who find difficulties forming bonds at school are more likely to turn to online friendships with strangers, Chambers concedes. A group of girls from King Edward VI Handsworth School for Girls in Birmingham, are typical in sharing a subtle understanding of different types of friendship. One girl says: “A Facebook friend is an acquaintance that you just want to have a way of communicating with, rather than switching phone numbers or emails, because that’s a bit too personal.”

More than one of the girls in the group spoke of deactivating their Facebook accounts: “I recently just deleted my Facebook because I was kind of considering whether these people were my friends, and I felt that I knew more about strangers than I needed to know, and I wanted to be comfortable in the fact that I know who my friends are, so I saw people with hundreds and hundreds of friends and that’s why I deleted mine.”

Three girlfriends

Parents who worry that their children are soulless “cyborgs” stuck permanently in front of a screen having only virtual relationships are wrong, says Dr Thomas Dixon, from Queen Mary, University of London.

“In fact, they’re doing something quite similar to what we did in our childhood and just reinforcing it.”

Crediting female friendship

Dr Alexandra Shepard is Reader in Early Modern History and Director of the Centre for Gender History at the University of Glasgow.  Here she reflects on a rare glimpse of a long term friendship between two London women in the early-eighteenth century.  She will be discussing this case at greater length in a public lecture for the Royal Historical Society in Huddersfield on 21 October 2014.

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Friendship was celebrated in print in sixteenth and seventeenth century Europe as equivalent to marriage and kinship.  One character sketch of a ‘true friend’ depicted him as ‘dear as a good wife, more dear than a brother’.  Friends were mates, second selves, and other halves.  With roots in classical literature (particularly Cicero’s dialogue On Friendship), such idealisations of ‘entire’ or ‘perfect’ friendship usually imagined relationships between men.  In practice, the development of deep emotional attachments was not limited to men.  Women also celebrated such bonds using the imagery of both marriage and kinship. The physical remains of such friendships – diaries, letters, and even tombs celebrating their union – tend to survive only for those wealthy enough to have had the time, writing skills and resources to record and commemorate them.

Monument to Sir John Finch and Sir Thomas Baines, in Christ’s College, Cambridge, designed to commemorate their friendship which Finch described as a ‘marriage of souls’.

Such bonds were not exclusive to higher ranking men and women, however.  Occasionally the daily realities of past intimacies can be glimpsed amongst the voluminous records of the litigation that soared to unprecedented levels between the mid-sixteenth and mid-eighteenth centuries, which concerned the affairs of the relatively humble as well as the intrigues of the rich.  A particularly interesting example concerns the relationship of two women – Elizabeth Carter and Elizabeth Hatchett – who were friends and partners in a pawn-broking business in London in the early eighteenth century.  We know about them because of a property dispute over Elizabeth Hatchett’s claims to Elizabeth Carter’s goods after she died ‘of a fever’ in 1722.  Hatchett’s own death occurred a mere nine months after Carter’s, and the case was brought by Elizabeth Carter’s sister (Mary Lucas) against one Eleanor Jennings who had inherited Elizabeth Hatchett’s property.  Mary Lucas sued Eleanor Jennings on the grounds that Elizabeth Hatchett had wrongfully bequeathed property belonging to Elizabeth Carter (particularly a ‘gold striking watch’ and a brooch of diamonds) to which Hatchett had had no claim and which rightfully belonged to Lucas.

The case revolved around the relationship between Elizabeth Carter and Elizabeth Hatchett who had clearly enjoyed a long association as co-residents and trading partners before Carter’s death.  In question was whether they had been mutually bound to each other by intimacy and friendship, or whether they had been in each other’s service and/or debt with one taking responsibility for the other’s maintenance.  Thirty-nine witnesses were produced to give evidence, generating over 200 pages of testimony on the character of Carter and Hatchett’s association.  In support of Mary Lucas’s case against Eleanor Jennings, Carter was represented by the majority of witnesses as an extremely wealthy and successful midwife as well as money-lender, on whom Hatchett had depended as a servant, and whose extensive goods Hatchett had misappropriated during Carter’s final sickness and after her death.  The evidence in support of Eleanor Jennings’ claims instead focused on the extent to which the women had worked in partnership with each other – with Hatchett as the senior partner – and stressed Carter’s relative poverty and her reliance on Hatchett for her basic provisions and care in her final sickness.

It is particularly interesting that both women were married during the majority of their association. Elizabeth Carter’s husband (a baker by trade) predeceased her by a year or so, while Elizabeth Hatchett’s husband outlived her. The women’s ties to each other appear to have been more significant than the bonds of marriage. Hatchett’s husband had been a long-term inmate of Wood Street debtors’ prison until she secured his release (shortly after Carter’s death), reportedly providing him with a new suit of clothes on condition that he relinquished any claims on her property.  Elizabeth Carter’s husband had given up baking, and, depending on which witnesses are to believed, either lived comfortably on the proceeds or relied on his wife for support having failed miserably in his trade.  At this point the women are described as having ‘a greater Love & kindness to & for each other than one Sister could have for another’.  Another witness, declaring that ‘she never saw more sincere Friendship & Affection between any two Persons’, described a scene in which Carter and Hatchett made an agreement that the ‘longer liver’ of the two would inherit all that the other had in her possession, with Carter reassuring her husband that Hatchett would care for him should he be left a widower on her death.  Their business partnership – which delivered extensive returns – as well as their emotional ties, appear to have bound these women more closely together than their conjugal obligations to their husbands.

Deposition of Susanna Bagnall, wife of Ditus Bagnall (writing master) of Stockwell, Surrey, 21 May 1725.

Women such as Carter and Hatchett could be lifelines to others – such as Carter’s sister-in-law who borrowed 20 shillings to fit out her son for an apprenticeship (secured with a pawn of a silver salt and a silver spoon).  They also contributed crucial resources in the form of cash and credit to an expanding economy. This is not to become dewy eyed about the possibilities of friendship in a bygone age.  It is clear from the witness testimony in this case that Carter and Hatchett could drive a hard bargain, and that they were on the look-out for investment opportunities rather than simply providing a service for their friends and neighbours.  And just as the authors of printed tracts on friendship cautioned – even of ‘entire’ or ‘perfect’ unions – friendship was not without its risks or pitfalls, particularly when it concerned ties of debt or uneven obligation.  Warning his son about trusting a friend with credit, William Cecil (Elizabeth I’s famous adviser) counselled that ‘it is a mere folly for a man to enthrall himself to his friend’.  Even the rosiest idealisations of friendship acknowledged the difficulties of disentangling selfless love from instrumental self-interest.

The reason we know so much about of Carter and Hatchett’s great affection for each other was because it did not last: Mary Lucas’s claim to her sister’s estate was at least partly on the grounds that Carter had renounced Hatchett as a thief, a cheat and a fraud not long before her death.  The two women had clearly fallen out, with Carter pursuing a charge of theft against Hatchett in a case heard by the Old Bailey in April 1719 – which charge was dropped on the suspicion that it was maliciously motivated rather than grounded in fact.This case not only sheds light on the ‘great intimacy & friendship’ between these two women.  It also reveals the dense networks of mutual support that connected Carter and Hatchett with others.

The majority of the witnesses in this case were women, many of whom spoke of their own ‘acquaintance’ and ‘intimacy’ with Carter and Hatchett on account of having regularly borrowed money from them. Because there was insufficient coinage in circulation to support the growing volume of exchange in the early modern economy, as many as 90 per cent of transactions were undertaken on credit.  The extension of credit required mutual knowledge and mutual trust, and a good deal of small-scale, informal credit was brokered by wives despite the fact that marriage barred women from the formal ownership of moveable property.  Women were also active as money lenders, providing the resources necessary to bridge gaps in cash flow or for future investment.  Carter and Hatchett lent money to women from within the immediate vicinity of St Stephen, Coleman Street where they lived as well as to residents of neighbouring parishes.  Carter also exploited her connections more further afield, for example in the parish of Christ Church, Surrey, by lending to a poor widow of that parish who got her living by cutting wool for a hatter who had first been introduced to Carter through a mutual friend.  Many witnesses describing how they came to borrow money from Carter or Hatchett similarly alluded to webs of friendship that had secured an introduction.  In some cases, familial ties established patterns of trust.  A neighbour of the two women described how his mother had first borrowed the sum of £10 from Hatchett, after which he and his brother had regularly borrowed smaller amounts, presumably on their mother’s recommendation.

The fragility of the ties binding Carter and Hatchett compared with the legal bonds enshrined in marital property law also become evident in the action of Carter’s husband, Humphrey, who exploited the rift between his wife and Hatchett to claim his entitlement to all outstanding loans due to Carter (which he did by way of a newspaper notice).  Carter and Hatchett’s friendship would have chimed with their contemporaries’ concerns about the conflicting demands of selfless devotion and the practical realities of mutual obligations.  As recounted by those who witnessed it – no doubt with a degree of distortion to serve the interests of the litigants in the case – Carter and Hatchett’s friendship was perhaps more unusual in traversing the full extremes of both.  Besides shedding light on the connection between two women in eighteenth-century London, this case is also a reminder that both extremes were so readily imaginable for the many witnesses who supplied so many intricate details of their relationship.

 

Further Reading:

Alan Bray, The Friend (University of Chicago Press, 2003)

Amy Louise Erickson, ‘Coverture and capitalism’, History Workshop Journal, 59 (Spring, 2005), pp. 1-16

Alexandra Shepard, Accounting for Oneself: Worth, Credit and the Social Order in Early Modern England (forthcoming, Oxford University Press, 2014)

 

Return to: Five Hundred Years of Friendship at the History of Emotions Blog