| This blog explores social attitudes in Jane Austen's time, discusses her novels, reviews forgotten 18th century novels, and throws some occasional shade at the modern academy. The introductory post is here. My "six simple questions for academics" post is here. Spoilers abound in my discussion of these forgotten novels, and I discuss 18th-century attitudes which I do not necessarily endorse. |
CMP#262 The Dead Letter Office; and a Tale for the English Farmer’s Fire-Side (1811)
Title-page courtesy of British Library, AI enhanced for visibility The Dead Letter Office is perhaps the most intriguing title on the list of novels associated with the anonymous author of The Woman of Colour (1808), A "dead letter office" suggests many exciting plot possibilities. (Should I explain for the kids that this is the department of a post office where undeliverable letters end up?) The subtitle--A Tale for the English Farmer’s Fireside--also teaches us something about book publishing in Jane Austen’s era, but I’ll get back to that.
I was not able to read it until I visited England recently and looked at a copy in the British Library. I discovered it is not a novel with a plot built around the dead letter department of a post office. It is a pastiche, a collection of individual letters with no connection to one another except that they all portray folly or greed or vanity. A young man who works at the post office in London visits his aunt, an “antiquated spinster” (who is also the narrator), and shares letters which have ended up in the dead letter office with her. They are intended (naturally) to teach a moral lesson.
So we have some miscellaneous writings--what was called, in those days, "fugitive pieces"--including a poem, which could have lain in the author’s desk for years, patched together to eke out a two-volume publication. This author had already produced six novels in seven years for the publisher Benjamin Crosby, but after this title, there was to be only one more, The Splendour of Adversity (1814). The Crosby publishing firm declared bankruptcy in 1814.
The "dead letters" account for about half of the content of this two-volume title. The letters are basically mini short stories, similar to the short fiction pieces you will find in periodicals of the era, such as The Lady's Magazine. I won’t give details of all the letters, but here’s a sampling...
I was not able to read it until I visited England recently and looked at a copy in the British Library. I discovered it is not a novel with a plot built around the dead letter department of a post office. It is a pastiche, a collection of individual letters with no connection to one another except that they all portray folly or greed or vanity. A young man who works at the post office in London visits his aunt, an “antiquated spinster” (who is also the narrator), and shares letters which have ended up in the dead letter office with her. They are intended (naturally) to teach a moral lesson.
So we have some miscellaneous writings--what was called, in those days, "fugitive pieces"--including a poem, which could have lain in the author’s desk for years, patched together to eke out a two-volume publication. This author had already produced six novels in seven years for the publisher Benjamin Crosby, but after this title, there was to be only one more, The Splendour of Adversity (1814). The Crosby publishing firm declared bankruptcy in 1814.
The "dead letters" account for about half of the content of this two-volume title. The letters are basically mini short stories, similar to the short fiction pieces you will find in periodicals of the era, such as The Lady's Magazine. I won’t give details of all the letters, but here’s a sampling...
The letters
In a comic vein: A poor young man falls in love with a beautiful girl on the eve of his departure to India, knows he can’t ask her to marry him, toils away in India and returns years later, wealthy. He is dismayed to find out that she is married, but he doesn’t want her anyway, because she has grown fat. Then he is chagrined to realize she thinks he looks like a wizened old sunburnt scarecrow and she was never in love with him.
In a tragic vein: a naïve clergyman answers a letter offering him a post in London, not realizing he’s the victim of a cruel prank. In London, bewildered and soaked in the rain, he is coincidentally reunited with his daughter, who had been seduced by the same horrible man who played the prank on him. Before the daughter dies, she writes a reproachful letter to her seducer, who has abandoned her: “Rivers, could you have seen the death bed of my father, you would have beheld the triumph of religion!”
At the conclusion of each letter, the aunt and nephew comment and moralize on the lessons learned. As it happens, the aunt is herself a writer, and she has an unpublished manuscript in her desk, which she agrees to read to her nephew.
That's the balance of this book--a novella about an English farm family.
A Tale for the English Farmer’s Fireside
Our tale opens in Gloucestershire, where an honest yeoman farmer, Richard Forest, decides to move away after the neighbourhood squire unreasonably raises his rent. The section introducing the family (mom, dad, two sons and two daughters) is mostly narration; we are told that the Forests are hard-working, devout, unpretentious, and ever-generous with a pitcher of broth or whey for the poor. Their virtues are really hammered home when the author introduces a contrasting farm family, the Lobbans, who drop by to welcome them to the neighbourhood.
Mrs. Lobban, who is wearing soft kid slippers, is surprised that the Forests don’t have carpet on their hard flagstone floors. Her daughter Matilda is foolish and vain enough to cross muddy fields wearing white muslin, because Matilda, unlike the Forest girls, has been to boarding school, which has filled her head with ideas of living above her station. Mr. Lobban likes to hear himself talk, and he drinks freely of Farmer Forest’s homemade ale.
This scenario of a merchant or a farmer's family with aspirations to gentility is a comic theme of the day, and was lampooned by cartoonist James Gillray in this 1809 cartoon.
In a comic vein: A poor young man falls in love with a beautiful girl on the eve of his departure to India, knows he can’t ask her to marry him, toils away in India and returns years later, wealthy. He is dismayed to find out that she is married, but he doesn’t want her anyway, because she has grown fat. Then he is chagrined to realize she thinks he looks like a wizened old sunburnt scarecrow and she was never in love with him.
In a tragic vein: a naïve clergyman answers a letter offering him a post in London, not realizing he’s the victim of a cruel prank. In London, bewildered and soaked in the rain, he is coincidentally reunited with his daughter, who had been seduced by the same horrible man who played the prank on him. Before the daughter dies, she writes a reproachful letter to her seducer, who has abandoned her: “Rivers, could you have seen the death bed of my father, you would have beheld the triumph of religion!”
At the conclusion of each letter, the aunt and nephew comment and moralize on the lessons learned. As it happens, the aunt is herself a writer, and she has an unpublished manuscript in her desk, which she agrees to read to her nephew.
That's the balance of this book--a novella about an English farm family.
A Tale for the English Farmer’s Fireside
Our tale opens in Gloucestershire, where an honest yeoman farmer, Richard Forest, decides to move away after the neighbourhood squire unreasonably raises his rent. The section introducing the family (mom, dad, two sons and two daughters) is mostly narration; we are told that the Forests are hard-working, devout, unpretentious, and ever-generous with a pitcher of broth or whey for the poor. Their virtues are really hammered home when the author introduces a contrasting farm family, the Lobbans, who drop by to welcome them to the neighbourhood.
Mrs. Lobban, who is wearing soft kid slippers, is surprised that the Forests don’t have carpet on their hard flagstone floors. Her daughter Matilda is foolish and vain enough to cross muddy fields wearing white muslin, because Matilda, unlike the Forest girls, has been to boarding school, which has filled her head with ideas of living above her station. Mr. Lobban likes to hear himself talk, and he drinks freely of Farmer Forest’s homemade ale.
This scenario of a merchant or a farmer's family with aspirations to gentility is a comic theme of the day, and was lampooned by cartoonist James Gillray in this 1809 cartoon.
"Farmer Giles and His Wife Showing Off Their Daughter Betty to Their Neighbours on her Return from School"
The visit of the Lobbans is contrasted with a visit from the sensible local clergyman Rev. Mirvan and his wife. Mrs. Forest and Mrs. Mirvan compare the ways that working women earn money in Gloucestershire versus Devonshire, and their conversation also touches on the central theme of this book—don’t foolishly try to rise above the station in life in which God has placed you.
Mrs. Forest notes that the women of Gloucestershire might “earn a few shillings in the hay field” at harvest-time, but they don’t bother with knitting and spinning because “being surrounded, as it were, by manufacturing towns, spinning is all done by the machines, and stockings are so cheaply rendered from the looms, that nobody thinks of learning to knit."
Mrs. Forest notes that the women of Gloucestershire might “earn a few shillings in the hay field” at harvest-time, but they don’t bother with knitting and spinning because “being surrounded, as it were, by manufacturing towns, spinning is all done by the machines, and stockings are so cheaply rendered from the looms, that nobody thinks of learning to knit."
| “But had you no schools of industry?” [asks Mrs. Mirvan. She herself sponsors a school for the village girls.] “O yes, Madam; when [they] began to learn fine sewing, they soon got too fine themselves, as to be fit for nothing, and they disgust their benefactors.” [She adds that two of the girls even skipped school one day and went into the nearest town to get their ears pierced.] “You surprise and frighten me, Mrs. Forest;” [Mrs. Mirvan responds] I shall call at my school in my way home-wards, and examine all the ears of the children. I endeavour to keep them plain and humble, but I have some difficulty.” |
Card rack (Author Sharon Lathan's website) Mrs. Forest and her daughters then return the social visit of the Lobbans. Hmm, there is no mat at the door, the carpet is dirty, and Mrs. Lobban and Matilda are caught in a state of slovenly undress, so they have to whisk themselves to their bedrooms to get dressed before receiving their guests. Mrs. Forest takes “a silent survey of the apartment.” The walls and woodwork, painted in impractical light colours, are dirty and scuffed. “The window-curtains had been pea-green calico, but they were soiled and faded, and heavily encumbered with tasteless draper and French fringe… ripped and hanging by a single thread in more than one place…. The chimney-piece was a picture of unmeaning confusion; china and biscuit ornaments were crowded and elbowed out of place by phials, parcels, tobacco-pipes, the halves of mouldy lemons, the ink-bottle…” Card-racks, [a bourgeois ornament intended to display visitors’ calling cards] supported the greasy notes of the butcher, and all the Farmer’s memorandums..”
In case we haven’t got the point, the Lobban’s pet dog chews up a common prayer book lying on the floor.
Oh, but we’re not done! Turns out Matilda loves reading novels, and Mrs. Forest has something to say about that, but I’ll save that for another day.
In case we haven’t got the point, the Lobban’s pet dog chews up a common prayer book lying on the floor.
Oh, but we’re not done! Turns out Matilda loves reading novels, and Mrs. Forest has something to say about that, but I’ll save that for another day.
The squire's son and the dairy maid, Adam Bede We’re gonna need a montage
The Forests continue to fix up their farm and the narrator tells us we're going to skip ahead a bit. The family befriends an invalid old lady and her granddaughter who live in a cottage by the ocean. Patience Martin has a bit of an inheritance coming to her, so Mrs. Lobban has announced that Patience, or Patty, will marry her darling son Ralph. Young William Forest is not too pleased with this idea. Ralph is a vulgar lout, who hangs out with the loutish Squire Wilson. Match-making Mrs. Lobban is also throwing her daughter Matilda at Squire Wilson, even though Mrs. Forest warns her that he is irreligious and a drunkard.
Mary Forest, on her way back from a visit to her new friend Patty, pauses to admire the sea view and is startled by a young man hunting pheasants. He is Captain Freemantle, the handsome son of their landlord. He is smitten with the beautiful and artless farmer’s daughter. The author assures us that Captain Freemantle is not a cad. This is not George Eliot's Adam Bede (1859) with Captain Donithorne setting out to seduce the dairymaid Hetty Sorrel.
The author then introduces some new characters, the poor widow Cooper and her four children. Just as Rev. Mirvan is above the Forest family socially, the Coopers are far enough below that Patty and Mary can bestow charitable attentions on them. You will recall Emma Woodhouse making this distinction between friends, objects of charity, and the people in-between that she can have nothing to do with socially, in Austen’s Emma. And alas, Dame Cooper needs help! Her oldest daughter Bridget, who had gone out to service at the Lobban’s farm, is with child! “Mr. Ralph swore that he would marry me!” she sobs. Patty had already realized that Ralph was not as wonderful as his mother said he was, but this news shocks and disgusts her. While the girls are still taking in this grim development, Mrs. Lobban storms into the cottage and assails Bridget.
The Forests continue to fix up their farm and the narrator tells us we're going to skip ahead a bit. The family befriends an invalid old lady and her granddaughter who live in a cottage by the ocean. Patience Martin has a bit of an inheritance coming to her, so Mrs. Lobban has announced that Patience, or Patty, will marry her darling son Ralph. Young William Forest is not too pleased with this idea. Ralph is a vulgar lout, who hangs out with the loutish Squire Wilson. Match-making Mrs. Lobban is also throwing her daughter Matilda at Squire Wilson, even though Mrs. Forest warns her that he is irreligious and a drunkard.
Mary Forest, on her way back from a visit to her new friend Patty, pauses to admire the sea view and is startled by a young man hunting pheasants. He is Captain Freemantle, the handsome son of their landlord. He is smitten with the beautiful and artless farmer’s daughter. The author assures us that Captain Freemantle is not a cad. This is not George Eliot's Adam Bede (1859) with Captain Donithorne setting out to seduce the dairymaid Hetty Sorrel.
The author then introduces some new characters, the poor widow Cooper and her four children. Just as Rev. Mirvan is above the Forest family socially, the Coopers are far enough below that Patty and Mary can bestow charitable attentions on them. You will recall Emma Woodhouse making this distinction between friends, objects of charity, and the people in-between that she can have nothing to do with socially, in Austen’s Emma. And alas, Dame Cooper needs help! Her oldest daughter Bridget, who had gone out to service at the Lobban’s farm, is with child! “Mr. Ralph swore that he would marry me!” she sobs. Patty had already realized that Ralph was not as wonderful as his mother said he was, but this news shocks and disgusts her. While the girls are still taking in this grim development, Mrs. Lobban storms into the cottage and assails Bridget.
Chat GPT illustration Mrs. Lobban on the rampage
“So,” said she, “this is the way the young hussy tries to excite compassion, is it? Ladies, she is an infamous strumpet! Get out of my sight you abandoned wretch, and don’t dare to breathe your wicked lies!” and very unceremoniously Mrs. Lobban pulled the hair of Bridget as she lay on the ground, and kicked her with vehemence… “unsay all you have said, directly, hussy, or I will get you whipped round the village the next revel day!”
Dame Cooper protests: “I will defy the whole parish of Arlburton to produce a more modest girl than my Biddy was, [when] she went into your service.”
“And do you mean to say my house corrupted her, you old canting, doating fool?”
[Bridget repeats] “Indeed Mr. Ralph promised me marriage.”
“Marriage--you marriage?” cried the almost raving Mrs. Lobban; “You! You out-scout of filth! You dreg of the dung-hill!...”
Mrs. Lobban and Ralph continue to pressure Bridget to recant, and Mrs. Lobban even suggests that William Forest and Captain Freemantle have beaten a path to that hussy’s door, if you know what I mean. Biddy refuses to accuse an innocent man and stands by her story. As Mrs. Lobban feared, this means the end of Patty’s half-hearted promise to marry Ralph. This development makes young William happy, and he is swift to offer to escort his sister Mary to Sea Cottage whenever she wants to pay a visit.
One evening as they are returning to their own farmhouse, William suddenly leaves Mary on an isolated path and dashes away, telling her to wait. Mary doesn’t understand what’s going on, but after a while, Captain Freemantle appears and explains that Dame Cooper’s cottage was on fire—he, Captain Freemantle, has rescued everyone, and William, having spotted the flames, ran to assist. William is still there, working to extinguish the last of the blaze. At such a dramatic moment—fresh from his heroic exploits—alone with Mary in the moonlight, Freemantle can’t help himself—he reveals his love for her and asks her to be his wife.
“So,” said she, “this is the way the young hussy tries to excite compassion, is it? Ladies, she is an infamous strumpet! Get out of my sight you abandoned wretch, and don’t dare to breathe your wicked lies!” and very unceremoniously Mrs. Lobban pulled the hair of Bridget as she lay on the ground, and kicked her with vehemence… “unsay all you have said, directly, hussy, or I will get you whipped round the village the next revel day!”
Dame Cooper protests: “I will defy the whole parish of Arlburton to produce a more modest girl than my Biddy was, [when] she went into your service.”
“And do you mean to say my house corrupted her, you old canting, doating fool?”
[Bridget repeats] “Indeed Mr. Ralph promised me marriage.”
“Marriage--you marriage?” cried the almost raving Mrs. Lobban; “You! You out-scout of filth! You dreg of the dung-hill!...”
Mrs. Lobban and Ralph continue to pressure Bridget to recant, and Mrs. Lobban even suggests that William Forest and Captain Freemantle have beaten a path to that hussy’s door, if you know what I mean. Biddy refuses to accuse an innocent man and stands by her story. As Mrs. Lobban feared, this means the end of Patty’s half-hearted promise to marry Ralph. This development makes young William happy, and he is swift to offer to escort his sister Mary to Sea Cottage whenever she wants to pay a visit.
One evening as they are returning to their own farmhouse, William suddenly leaves Mary on an isolated path and dashes away, telling her to wait. Mary doesn’t understand what’s going on, but after a while, Captain Freemantle appears and explains that Dame Cooper’s cottage was on fire—he, Captain Freemantle, has rescued everyone, and William, having spotted the flames, ran to assist. William is still there, working to extinguish the last of the blaze. At such a dramatic moment—fresh from his heroic exploits—alone with Mary in the moonlight, Freemantle can’t help himself—he reveals his love for her and asks her to be his wife.
A Devonshire Farm, Thomas Girton, 1798 (detail) She was only a farmer's daughter but...
Here, the narrator addresses readers directly and defends Mary from being an ‘unnatural character’ because Mary, after going home to pray, weep, and struggle with herself, writes a letter turning him down.
Her father backs her up, and later explains his views in an encounter with young Freemantle. The class gulf between them is too wide, the Freemantles would never accept Mary, and she could never fit in. He basically makes an explicit defense of the British class system, which I might excerpt in full in a future post. Thus our author is placing herself firmly in the anti-Jacobin conservative camp, against the wild egalitarian notions of the progressives.
Who set the fire?
So, what about that suspicious fire at Dame Cooper’s? Ralph is suspected. The shock of the event probably helped hasten the premature labour and subsequent demise of Bridget, who is laid to rest with her stillborn child in the parish churchyard. When Mrs. Lobban hears the church bell tolling, she calls Bridget a “hussey.” Mrs. Forest sermonizes that at least she died repentant.
But the Lobbans and the Forests are still speaking to each other, because Ralph and his drinking buddy Squire Weston invite everyone to come to a theatrical performance by a troupe of strolling players. The next day, we learn that neither Matilda nor her brother have returned from the play. Ralph has run off with one of the actresses, and Matilda has eloped with Squire Weston. Mrs. Lobban is triumphant until it becomes clear that the squire has seduced Matilda, not married her.
Mrs. Forest moralizes over how badly Ralph and Matilda were raised, while the narrator sums up the fates of each of the characters. Humiliated by their daughter’s disgrace, the Lobbans pack up and move to (where else) Wales. (The author of this series of novels always packs people off to Wales in times of crisis.) Ralph joins the army, William marries Patty and at the last minute, the author conjures up a nice young curate for Mary, which raises her into the lower ranks of gentility. Captain Freemantle marries a good woman of his own social class, the landed gentry.
“In the sober enjoyment of domestic comfort, in industrious pursuits, in active benevolence, and in the cheerful exercise of a pure religion, the Forests continue to pursue the ‘even tenor of their way.’” The end.
Here, the narrator addresses readers directly and defends Mary from being an ‘unnatural character’ because Mary, after going home to pray, weep, and struggle with herself, writes a letter turning him down.
Her father backs her up, and later explains his views in an encounter with young Freemantle. The class gulf between them is too wide, the Freemantles would never accept Mary, and she could never fit in. He basically makes an explicit defense of the British class system, which I might excerpt in full in a future post. Thus our author is placing herself firmly in the anti-Jacobin conservative camp, against the wild egalitarian notions of the progressives.
Who set the fire?
So, what about that suspicious fire at Dame Cooper’s? Ralph is suspected. The shock of the event probably helped hasten the premature labour and subsequent demise of Bridget, who is laid to rest with her stillborn child in the parish churchyard. When Mrs. Lobban hears the church bell tolling, she calls Bridget a “hussey.” Mrs. Forest sermonizes that at least she died repentant.
But the Lobbans and the Forests are still speaking to each other, because Ralph and his drinking buddy Squire Weston invite everyone to come to a theatrical performance by a troupe of strolling players. The next day, we learn that neither Matilda nor her brother have returned from the play. Ralph has run off with one of the actresses, and Matilda has eloped with Squire Weston. Mrs. Lobban is triumphant until it becomes clear that the squire has seduced Matilda, not married her.
Mrs. Forest moralizes over how badly Ralph and Matilda were raised, while the narrator sums up the fates of each of the characters. Humiliated by their daughter’s disgrace, the Lobbans pack up and move to (where else) Wales. (The author of this series of novels always packs people off to Wales in times of crisis.) Ralph joins the army, William marries Patty and at the last minute, the author conjures up a nice young curate for Mary, which raises her into the lower ranks of gentility. Captain Freemantle marries a good woman of his own social class, the landed gentry.
“In the sober enjoyment of domestic comfort, in industrious pursuits, in active benevolence, and in the cheerful exercise of a pure religion, the Forests continue to pursue the ‘even tenor of their way.’” The end.
The author's afterword
After a pro forma modest declaration in which the author declares “she tremblingly feels her own inferiority,” she explains she got the idea for her story about the Forest and Lobban families from a best-selling novel by Elizabeth Hamilton, The Cottagers of Glenburnie, a Tale for the Farmer’s Inglenook (1808). An inglenook is the space on either side of a large fireplace. Hamilton’s story concerned a respectable retired servant who moves in with her Scottish relatives and tries to improve their unhygienic and slovenly ways. The story was a big hit, so that's why publisher Benjamin Crosby swiftly re-named this novella about the Forests and the Lobbans, as "A Tale for the Farmer's Fire Side," even though the book had already been set up by the compositors. It was originally titled “A Tale for Farmers’ Wives and Daughters” but he went with the copy-cat subtitle to imitate Hamilton's bestseller. You can still see the original subtitle, “A Tale for Farmers’ Wives and Daughters” in the second volume, and in the running head along the tops of the pages. The narrator even refers to her original title in one of her remarks to her readers: “Even if we should succeed in getting farmer’s wives and daughters to peruse our little story, we guess, that they will frequently yawn over cottage scenes, and cottage conversations; so not entirely to sicken them, we will hasten Mary Forest away." Ironically, Crosby made a huge fuss when another publisher brought out A Winter at Bath the same year that Crosby brought out A Winter in Bath.
However, despite this effort to link this book to Hamilton's book, despite the tacked-on epilogue making the connection, I think The English Farmer’s Fireside more closely resembles a story for young people by Maria Edgeworth, The Contrast (1807), which compares two farm families, the Franklands (good, who raise their children well) and the Bettesworths (lazy and selfish, who raise their children poorly). The Bettesworths come to a bad end. I reviewed The Contrast in an earlier blog post.
After a pro forma modest declaration in which the author declares “she tremblingly feels her own inferiority,” she explains she got the idea for her story about the Forest and Lobban families from a best-selling novel by Elizabeth Hamilton, The Cottagers of Glenburnie, a Tale for the Farmer’s Inglenook (1808). An inglenook is the space on either side of a large fireplace. Hamilton’s story concerned a respectable retired servant who moves in with her Scottish relatives and tries to improve their unhygienic and slovenly ways. The story was a big hit, so that's why publisher Benjamin Crosby swiftly re-named this novella about the Forests and the Lobbans, as "A Tale for the Farmer's Fire Side," even though the book had already been set up by the compositors. It was originally titled “A Tale for Farmers’ Wives and Daughters” but he went with the copy-cat subtitle to imitate Hamilton's bestseller. You can still see the original subtitle, “A Tale for Farmers’ Wives and Daughters” in the second volume, and in the running head along the tops of the pages. The narrator even refers to her original title in one of her remarks to her readers: “Even if we should succeed in getting farmer’s wives and daughters to peruse our little story, we guess, that they will frequently yawn over cottage scenes, and cottage conversations; so not entirely to sicken them, we will hasten Mary Forest away." Ironically, Crosby made a huge fuss when another publisher brought out A Winter at Bath the same year that Crosby brought out A Winter in Bath.
However, despite this effort to link this book to Hamilton's book, despite the tacked-on epilogue making the connection, I think The English Farmer’s Fireside more closely resembles a story for young people by Maria Edgeworth, The Contrast (1807), which compares two farm families, the Franklands (good, who raise their children well) and the Bettesworths (lazy and selfish, who raise their children poorly). The Bettesworths come to a bad end. I reviewed The Contrast in an earlier blog post.
My Review
The Dead Letter Office received no reviews when it was first published, which must have been a disappointment for the author, who had received some very good reviews for her more recent novels. Was it because the French Revolution was far enough in the rear-view mirror by 1811 that the highly conservative anti-Jacobin message was out of fashion?
While I enjoyed Mrs. Lobban’s vehemence, this story is not as sophisticated as some of this author’s other offerings. Characters are introduced abruptly, and the moralizing is heavy-handed. The combination of letters, poetry, and novella leaves the impression the author scraped together whatever she had in her desk drawer and put it between two covers. Yes, she created a framing device of having an aunt and a nephew discuss the letters, with the additional but very distant background of a covey of village gossips to lend atmosphere, but it’s still a patchwork. It reads to me like an earlier manuscript she had not managed to sell, both because of its lack of sophistication and the dated anti-Jacobin message. Except that she claims she wrote it after The Cottagers of Glenburnie came out in 1808. Hmmm...
Two more thoughts: The Dead Letter Office is another exhibit in my argument that an authoress could be very critical of her society without being a radical. Anti-Jacobins wanted people to live up their duties in the sphere in which God placed them, they did not want to overthrow the system. Yes, there is injustice in the world but we must reform ourselves, not rip down our institutions. Finally, this title has provided more textual evidence for the true identity of the authoress. Stay tuned.
Previous post: On the Banks of the Wye--wye not?
The Dead Letter Office received no reviews when it was first published, which must have been a disappointment for the author, who had received some very good reviews for her more recent novels. Was it because the French Revolution was far enough in the rear-view mirror by 1811 that the highly conservative anti-Jacobin message was out of fashion?
While I enjoyed Mrs. Lobban’s vehemence, this story is not as sophisticated as some of this author’s other offerings. Characters are introduced abruptly, and the moralizing is heavy-handed. The combination of letters, poetry, and novella leaves the impression the author scraped together whatever she had in her desk drawer and put it between two covers. Yes, she created a framing device of having an aunt and a nephew discuss the letters, with the additional but very distant background of a covey of village gossips to lend atmosphere, but it’s still a patchwork. It reads to me like an earlier manuscript she had not managed to sell, both because of its lack of sophistication and the dated anti-Jacobin message. Except that she claims she wrote it after The Cottagers of Glenburnie came out in 1808. Hmmm...
Two more thoughts: The Dead Letter Office is another exhibit in my argument that an authoress could be very critical of her society without being a radical. Anti-Jacobins wanted people to live up their duties in the sphere in which God placed them, they did not want to overthrow the system. Yes, there is injustice in the world but we must reform ourselves, not rip down our institutions. Finally, this title has provided more textual evidence for the true identity of the authoress. Stay tuned.
Previous post: On the Banks of the Wye--wye not?
| I learned about The Cottagers of Glenburnie from Ann Jones’s Ideas and Innovations (1986), which discusses the achievements of some forgotten female authors of Austen’s day. She notes that Hamilton tends to address her readers directly. Our anonymous author does too, in her novels. As I mentioned, the letters in this book read to me as though they were drafted for submission to a periodical such as The Lady's Magazine as short stand-alone fiction pieces. In The Women's Print History Project podcast, scholar Jennie Batchelor talks about how the readers of The Lady's Magazine were contributors to the periodical, and how re-discovering this magazine confounds the stereotype that women's magazines are all about mushy love stories. She is the author of The Lady’s Magazine (1770–1832) and the Making of Literary History (2022). |
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