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1 This electronic thesis or dissertation has been downloaded from the King s Research Portal at Late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives : genre, culture and space Stenton, Alison Mary The copyright of this thesis rests with the author and no quotation from it or information derived from it may be published without proper acknowledgement. END USER LICENCE AGREEMENT This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International licence. You are free to: Share: to copy, distribute and transmit the work Under the following conditions: Attribution: You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work). Non Commercial: You may not use this work for commercial purposes. No Derivative Works - You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. Any of these conditions can be waived if you receive permission from the author. Your fair dealings and other rights are in no way affected by the above. Take down policy If you believe that this document breaches copyright please contact librarypure@kcl.ac.uk providing details, and we will remove access to the work immediately and investigate your claim. Download date: 25. Sep. 2017

2 Late Eighteenth-Century Home Tours and Travel Narratives: Genre, Culture and Space Alison Mary Stenton Thesis submitted for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy King's College, University of London, 2003

3 2 Abstract This thesis is a study of travel narratives, and in particular a selection of travel journals, which were produced by British people travelling in Britain between 1750 and Arguing that these texts have for a long time been overlookçd as travel writirg because they do not describe the foreign or unfamiliar, my study suggests that it is possible to engage with critical and theoretical thinking about genre which firstly enables us to consider them as travel writing, and secondly, finds a way to read them which draws on both eighteenth-century and contemporary discourses of travel writing. In the first chapter of the thesis I propose a way of reading home tours and travel narratives which engages with work done in the critical field of cultural geography where travel is redefmed as 'movement through space', and travel writing as the representation of that movement through space in writing. Considering the philosophical and eighteenthcentury meanings of 'space', this chapter then proposes that the eighteenth-century culture in which home tours and travel narratives were produced makes sense of the more abstract definition of travel writing which is proposed by cultural geography. As the journals and narratives which home travellers produced engaged not only with descriptions of the places through which they travelled but all aspects of movement through space, including being in motion and stopping to rest; the journals also directly engage with the act of writing travel itself, in particular the relationship between looking, movement and writing, and the experience of representing a period of time spent travelling in text. The remaining four chapters of the thesis consider these four discourses of travelling and writing travel in turn by reading texts by a number of writers which include Samuel Johnson, Hester Thrale, and James Boswell amongst other lesser-known eighteenth-century home travellers.

4 Contents 3 Abstract pane 2 Acknowledgments 4 Introduction 5 Chapter One Critical and Theoretical Context: Eighteenth-Century Home Tours and Travel Narratives, : Vogue, Genre, Space and Culture 13 Chapter Two Bodies, Health and Motion: Discourses of Movement in Samuel Johnson's 'Journey into North Wales in the Year 1774' and Hester Thrale's 'Journal of a Tour in Wales with Dr. Johnson' 71 Chapter Three Stopping and Putting Up: 'Long Tags' and 'Inn Pleasures' in John Byng's Tours, and Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland 104 Chapter Four Ways of Going and Seeing: Looking and Writing at the Country House in the Journals of Caroline Powys and Horace Walpole 140 Chapter Five Picturesque Moments and Picture-esque Time: Representing Travelling Time in Joseph Budworth's A Fortnight's Ramble to the Lakes and James Boswell's 'London Journal ' 177 Conclusions 209 Bibliography 213

5 4 Acknowledgements The writing of this study has been helped by a number of individuals during my four years of doctoral research. My greatest debt is to my supervisor, Clare Brnt, whose always inspiring supervision has been invaluable. Her breadth of knowledge, criticisms and advice have prevented more errors than I know it would be sensible to reveal here. I am also very grateful to others who have read this thesis at various stages, including Lucy Munro, David Nokes, Ralph Parfect and Christine Rees; to those who have enabled me to present papers, especially Padraig Kirwan and Stephen O'Neill; and those who I have met at various conferences with shared interests, especially Zoe Kinsely and Lydia Syson, who are good travel writing allies, and now even better friends. At King's, students on the 'eighteenth-centuiy travel writing' course , and teaching colleagues were supportive, helpful and inspiring during my first experience of lecturing. Moreover, King's Postgraduate Reading Group (formerly the Critical Theory Reading Group or, to my non-academic friends, the 'Geek Meet') has provided stimulation, support and, perhaps more importantly, society of the kind I didn't believe was possible in academia. Enormous thanks therefore go to Devorah Baum, Andrew Eastham, Max Fincher, Malt Merlino, Lucy Munro, Selina Packard, Ralph Parfect, Lucie Sutherland and Angus Wrenn: I definitely would not have stuck this out without them. In the long time it has taken me to complete this study, friends and family have been both encouraging and usefully distracting. Clare Langston and Abi Yates (especially) helped me keep the thesis in focus by constantly reminding me tat there's more to life than work, and by insisting that I continue to make time for Ladies' Night. Similarly, my parents David Stenton and Maureen Stenton - though baffled by quite what it is I've been doing all this time - have been unfalteringly supportive and forever patient: this thesis is for them. Lastly, Ross Hansen has been a wonderful sounding board, ally and counsellor throughout. He of all people knows the loneliness of this long-distance researcher, and he has facilitated the writing of my thesis in many ways. Finally, this thesis was funded for three years by an AHRB award, and for the remaining time by flexible working hours provided by Kim Lund at Books Etc., and John Stokes, Ann Thompson and Dot Pearce at King's. Thanks of the most necessary kind therefore go to them all.

6 5 Introduction In a recent article by Jean-Didier Urbain for Studies in Travel Writing, an appeal is launched for critics to recognise 'dwarf-like explorers who stay at home' as legitimate travellers and, potentially, travel writers.' Suggesting that such people are usually overlooked or branded as 'slipper-wearing stay-at-homes', who 'with their wings clipped, [...] are no more than semi-travellers, authors of unassuming trips to the centre of the everyday', Urbain proposes that their journeys and their stories should not be ignored in the elaboration of 'an open anthropology of travel'. 2 As Urbain's appeal came mid-way through my research into late eighteenth-century British home tours and travel narratives, this thesis is not a response to his plea, but all the same, accords with his concern that these kinds of journeys, and their representation in text, must be included as part of literary studies' ever expanding interest in the subject and nature of travel writing. For British people in the late eighteenth century, travel within the borders of the British Isles, or as this study will term it, 'at home', was a popular activity that often resulted in the production of a text which represented an individual's experience of touring around, journeying to, or visiting parts of his or her own country. For many of these travellers, going no further than the next county, touring from town to town, or simply moving from their home to another town or city for a short period of time, was enough to stimulate them to write about their experiences of being on the move. That travelling at home at this time was a pursuit which travelling subjects deemed worthy of representation - as worthy, in fact, as any further flung journeys they undertook - suggests that these texts testif' that whether their journeys were 'dwarf-like' or not, travellers took home touring and travelling seriously enough to write about it. As a 'species of writing', however, late eighteenth-century home tours have received little attention as a subject of literary enquiry; 3 the fact that they exist - as books, journals, 'Jean-Didier Urbain, 'I Travel Therefore I Am. The "Nomad Mind" and the Spirit of Travel', Studies in Travel Writing, 4 (2000), (146). 2 lbid, 148, 147 and 146. Exceptions include Doris Feldmann, 'Economic and/as Aesthetic Constructions of Britishness in Eighteenth-Century Domestic Travel Writing', Journal for the Study of English Cultures, 4 (1997), 31-45; Barbara Korte's short chapter on 'Home Tours' in English Travel Writing from Pilgrimages to Posicolonial Explorations, trans. by Catherine Matthias (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000), 66-81; Robert Mayhew, 'The Denominational Politics of Travel Writing: The Case of Tory Anglicans in the 1 770s', Studies in Travel Writing, 3 (1999), 47-81; and studies which make travelling in Scotland their focus, for example Elizabeth Hagglund's PhD. Thesis, 'Tourists and Travellers: Women's Non-Fictional Writing about Scotland ', submitted to the University of Birmingham (2000), and especially those which focus on James Boswell and Samuel Johnson's tour to the Hebrides, including Pat Rogers, Johnson and Boswell: The Transit of Caledonia (Oxford Clarendon Press, 1995).

7 6 journal-letters, letters and fragments - has not yet been reason enough for them to demand attention from critics interested in eighteenth-century literary culture, or, indeed, eighteenth-century travel writing. Identifying that a certain number of texts exist, of course, is always the first stage of any enquiry into a kind, or a mode, of writing which has been ignored; having said that, it is not the purpose of this study to excavate a body of work, but rather to illuminate the ways in which late eighteenth-century Britons produced their experiences of travelling at home as travel writing, by looking closely at particular examples of their tours and travel narratives. 4 Archaeologies of genres are useful, but not always reliable: kinds of texts are not stable, and any identification of a way of writing at a particular time can always be contradicted by finding texts that defy or disrupt convention. For eighteenth-century travel writing, various attempts have already been made to identify moments of generic stability or synthesis; most importantly, Charles Batten's authoritative study, Pleasurable Instruction: Form and Convention in Eighteenth- Centuiy Travel Literature, which has isolated a period in the mid eighteenth century when travel writing conformed to, and debated, a certain way of writing which produced informative texts for general readers. 5 My study is indebted to Batten's work, and recognises the importance of his identification of a general kind of writing. However, I depart significantly from Batten's thesis by focussing on the kinds of texts which he thought disrupted a period of generic order, and especially those which were too personal or idiosyncratic to be informative, and too private, or 'differently public', to interest or be available to a general reader in the eighteenth century. 6 By deliberately selecting home tours and travel narratives which share a relationship with life writing - either because they are journals, or because they prioritise a personal voice in their texts - this thesis overlaps with Batten's to muddy his waters of generic stability, and to look forward to the later decades of the eighteenth century, and the first decade of the nineteenth, in order to suggest that a way of writing developed or persisted which continued to acknowledge a contemporary discourse of 'pleasurable instruction', but also disrupted, challenged, and personalised it. Consequently, this study departs significantly from social histories of eighteenth-century travel, notably, Ian Ousby's Englishman's England: Taste, Travel and the Rise of Tourism (Cambridge Cambridge University Press, 1990; repr. 2002), which uses many home tours and travel narratives as domients, but does not discuss their status as literary texts or, specifically, as travel writing (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978) Batten's study included a number of home tours alongside other travels, but does not afford them special consideration. 6 'Differently public' is a phrase which I adopt in order to identi1,r how many home tours and travel narratives were produced not in order to be published, but often to be read by their authors' friends and family, or more generally, with a sense of an imagined audience.

8 7 Finding a way to read late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives in line with both contemporaly and modem discourses of travel writing, however, is a task that not only requires a reconfiguring of ideas about genre, but also a certain amount of rethinking in terms of critical approach. Certainly the phrase 'home travel' evokes something of a contradiction: Tzvetan Todorov, in seeking a definition of travel writing declared that '[a] journey in France would not result in a "travel narrative". It is not that such narratives do not exist, but they clearly lack the feeling of alterity in relation to the people (and the lands) described'. 7 As a4uof France, Todorov's comment proposes that home travel narratives cannot exist; more generally, he also suggests that for European or Western readers, a journey through terrain which is as familiar as France cannot be defined as travel writing because even if it is not home, it is too near, or too like home, to qualify. Lacking a 'feeling of alterity', then, Todorov hi9hlights a dominant discourse of travel writing which makes othemess a codifying property of this literary genre; his refusal to acknowledge journeys in France as travel narratives suggests that even though they have been produced, there is nothing that can be done with them in terms of a discourse of travel. By making home travels the focus, however, my study challenges this dominant discourse by insisting that home is a subject of travel writing, and not merely as a default location a 'dwarf-like' journey - but as a mode of writing which does not rely on a 'feeling of alterity' for definition, and which a large number of late eighteenth-century British travellers acknowledged and practised. Focussing on late eighteenth-century home tours arld travel narratives through close readings, and placing their production in histoncal context, this thesis finds a way to read such texts by sidestepping Todorov's request for otherness, and searching for a more sympathetic approach. Certainly it would be possible to read home tours in terms of geographical otherness, by considering how late eighteenth-century tourists explored the lesser known areas of their own country, or, indeed, made the familiar unfamiliar by looking at it differently. However, by drawing on critical theories of travel writing from a number of different disciplines, and most notably from cultural geography and its recent work on 'space', as well as other areas of cultural studies, this study suggests that it is possible to sketch out a methodology for reading home tours which acknowledges both a more open anthropology of travel, and a more inclusive genre of travel writing which does not rely on a notion of alterity for definition. This line of enquiry argues that 'The Journey and its Narratives', trans. by Alyson Waters, in Transports: Travel, Pleasure, and Imaginative Geography, , ed. by Chloe Chard and Helen Langdon (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1996), (293).

9 8 cultural geography's more abstract approach to travel writing, which includes thinking of this mode of production not only as a literary genre, but also as a more conceptual representation of 'movement through space', makes the most of late eighteenth-century home tours because, as texts which do not engage with the foreign or unknown, but which focus on the traveller's own experiences of travelling, they highlight not the representation of different geographical locations, but a more basic experience of being on the move. 8 As the home tours and narratives which I have selected foreground personal experiences of travelling at home, the question of geographical place recedes from their texts in favour of a more detailed representation of the daily business of travelling, stopping, visiting and, indeed, writing; representing 'every step of the way', in fact, was something which late eighteenth-century home tourists routinely did, and the production of their journals and narratives was as much a part of their travelling experience as exploring different counties or visiting remote parts of the British Isles. Taking the lead from cultural geography and its ideas about 'space', then, this study proposes that there is a more abstract relationship between travel and writing than simply the representation of other or different places. In order to illustrate this, I examine a selection of late eighteenth-century travel journals and narratives with the intention of exploring the discourses which home tours and travel narratives employ in their representation of 'movement through space'. With this line of enquiry, the emphasis of my study is focussed on the writing of travel, and seeks to answer the following questions: what are the subjects which home travellers choose to write about in their texts; and how do these travellers represent their experiences of travelling, not as a record of difference or othemess, but as a register of 'movement through space'? Suggesting that this mode of writing has a tangential relationship with other kinds of life writing such as journalizing, I argue that late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives have an important relationship with time, as travellers record not only the things they see and the places they visit, but equally, the time they spend travelling, or the 'minutes' of their tours. In this respect, my approach is indebted to Stuart Sherman's work on seventeenth- and eighteenth-century diurnal writing, but my study 'Movement througl space' is a phrase I adopt in order to reference scholarly work in the discipline of Cultural Geography which underlies my critical approach, and also to directly contradict Todorov's suggestion that 'everything is a journey' when travel is abstracted to '[m]ovement in space', which Todorov says is 'the first sign, the easiest sign' of the journey. In 'The Journey and its Narratives', 287. James Buzard has suggested that travel writing is not simply about the representation of geographical place, but that travellers record 'every step of the way [...] so that everything they pass is fully a "place" to them', in The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature, and the Ways to Culture, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 34

10 9 takes his arguments further to suggest that when one considers travel writing as movement through space, the relationship between travelling and time is more intimately nuanced because 'space' is also a metaphor for a period of time, and travelling is an experience which inherently relativises place and time.' In fact, the need to travel between two points in space over a certain period of time is fundamental to most experiences of travelling, and is especially pertinent to touring which moves from one place to another according to a temporally ordered itinerary. In selecting texts for this study I felt it was imperative to include examples of home tours and travel narratives which have not been the subject of literary enquiry before, but also to include alongside these texts, home tours and travels by more famous authors such as Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Dorothy Wordsworth, Fanny Burney and Horace Walpole, in order to demonstrate the extent to which writing travel about home was part of British literary culture in the late eighteenth century. As my study suggests that home tours and travels were not a fixed genre, but a mode of writing which was related to both travel writing and life writing, the body of texts which can be described as 'home travels' is recognised to be voluminous and varied. Subsequently, the journals and narratives which I discuss reflect heterogeneity and, as a result, sometimes have a fragmentary, incomplete or repetitive nature. Having selected texts which I believe represent the voluminousness of 'home travels', I also recognise that this mode of writing is not always polished, accomplished or complete, though this in no way detracts from its importance, nor from the fact that as a way of writing, these texts nevertheless negotiate ways to write about travelling at home. Indeed the repetitive nature of some of the texts - in particular the serial travel journals produced by John Byng and Caroline Powys - points to a mode of production which upheld eighteenthcentury notions of a 'spirit of inquiry' - where an urge to know was matched by a similar urge to go - but which also reveals the often compulsive habit of recording travel, as tourists represented their movement through space, even when there was nothing new or interesting to say (except, perhaps, that they'd been there), or to accurately represent every minute of their travelling." ' See Telling Time: Clocks. Diaries, and English Diurnal Form, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996). " Mary Wollstonecraft declared in her Scandinavian travel book that 'this spirit of inquiry is the characteristic of the present centuly', in A Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark ed. by Richard Holmes (London: Penguin, 1987), 93. Serial home tour journalists of this time and earlier include John Loveday, who produced tours between 1729 and 1765, and Philip Yorke, whose tours were undertaken between 1744 and See Sarah Markham, John Loveday of Caversham : The Life and Tours of an Eighteenth-Century Onlooker (Salisbuiy. Michael Russell, 1984) and 'The Travel Journal of Philip Yorke', ed. by Joyce Godber, The Publications of the Bedfordshire Historical Society, XLVII (1968),

11 10 Unearthing and foregrounding home tours and travel narratives, then, this study both engages with a mode of writing which has been overlooked, and, at the same time, proposes a way to read these texts in line with discourses of travel writing. When I began this thesis, little had been written about either the anthropology of travel, or eighteenth-century travel; recently, however, more and more critics have identified a need to accept a more inclusive idea of a genre of travel writing, just as more studies have been published which add to, and complicate, any single idea of the nature of eighteenth-century travel writing.' 2 Whilst the focus of my study is necessarily circurnscnbed, the mode of writing which it foregrounds, and the approach which it adopts, contribute both to an unfolding of the history of eighteenth-century travel writing, and to the on-going investigations of travel writing studies. In the following study, there is a thematic coherence to the structure of my own text which represents what I consider to be the dominant discourses of late eighteenthcentury home tours and travel narratives, and which simultaneously takes the reader on a virtual journey as movement through space. Chapter One places my line of enquiry in context, and proposes a way of reading home tours and travel narratives as travel writing by engaging with the culture of late eighteenth-century travelling, and by reading theories of travel writing in order tq find a supportive approach. Arguing that home tours and travels are usually excluded from travel writing studies because they lack Todorov's required 'feeling of alterity', I then propose that re-conceiving travel as 'movement through space' opens up travel writing to expose not only its representation of different people or places, but its representation of all aspects of a traveller's travelling including their movement and moments of stasis, their time spent looking, exploring or visiting, and their time spent writing, or producing the 'minutes' of their travelling experience as literary discourse. Consequently, Chapter Two begins the metaphorical tour by focussing on the 'Welsh Journals' of Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale, and reading these texts as representations of the body in motion, analysing how Johnson's journal employs 12 Most recently Katherine Turner's study British Travel Writers in Europe : Authorship. Gender and National Identity (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001) and Jean Viviès, English Travel Narratives in the Eighteenth Century: Exploring Genres (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), which focuses on the relationship between travel writing and fiction (forthcoming), suggest that eighteenth-century travel writing is a hybrid form which 'adapts and pirates from genres both 'highbrow' (philosophy, history) and downmarket (fiction, journalism, gossip)' (Turner, 54). More generally, Robyn Davidson's anthology of travel writing, Journeys (London: Picador, 2001) and Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel (London. Haniish Hamilton, 2002), both suggest that travel can be domestic or routine, and that travel writing is a heterogeneous form.

12 medical discourse in order to argue that a travelling body is a healthy body, and how Thrale's journal challenges this discourse by suggesting that the female body in motion is not so easily persuaded by a culture which sought solutions to poor health in motion. In Chapter Three, bodies in motion are replaced by travellers in search of rest, as John Byng's home tours, and Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland, are read as representations of both the need to stop, and the spaces in which these tourists put up - the inns. As texts which record an extraordinaiy amount of detail about being stopped, I identify that the rhythm of the travelling day, and the contained space of the inn, are tropes of these travellers' narratives which imply that their representations of movement through space are not merely as registers of travelling, but are also narratives of personal experience and incident. In the next chapter, the third aspect of a home traveller's movement through space - their acts of looking and exploring - are examined by reading the travel journals of Caroline Powys (who spent a lifetime writing about travelling at home and visiting country houses and gardens) and comparing these texts with examples of representations of country house visiting, including Horace Walpole's fragmentary journals. In this chapter I propose that home tourists developed a mode of writing which sought to replicate the way that they looked at, and travelled through the space of a country house, and, moreover, that by representing their experience of this kind of looking and exploring, the space was not merely consumed by the tourists but re-produced as a process of inscription and appropriation. In the final chapter of my study, representation itself is made a subject as I analyse the way in which home tours and travel narratives, either during, or at the end of a tour, were produced to reflect a period of time spent travelling. Reading Joseph Budworth's A FortnIght's Ramble in comparison with James Boswell's The London Journal, I suggest that Boswell's urban travel narrative reveals the ways in which home tours and travel narratives represented movements as minutes and periods of time through journalizing. In this chapter I argue that in representing an experience of travelling, these travellers used women as tropes to register both a desire to fix travelling experience in time, and also to acknowledge a sense of time passing by turning personal experience into public memory. As this chapter compares a travel journal with a published book, I also argue that the public/private distinction that is often made between modes of writing does not necessarily apply for these texts because 'public memory' is not only achieved in the published book market, but also in the act of repxesenting experience, re-reading it, and keeping it in the family archive. 11

13 As chapters two to five take the reader through various stages of a metaphorical eighteenth-century home tour or journey, the abstracted conceptions of a tourist's movement through space - motion, stasis, looking, writing - are complemented by attention to the detail of how this travelling was produced in line with a discourse of late eighteenth-century travel writing, which brought personal experience to the fore of the text. In each stage of a traveller's movement through space, the relationship between life writing and travel writing is explored as, in Chapter One, a process of disclosure, in Chapter Two, self-narrativisation, Three, inscription and appropriation, and in Four, further disclosure and self-promotion. In all of my readings, close attention is paid to the argument that these kinds of texts can be read in line with discourses of travel writing, but this particular reading nevertheless recognises that in all of my examples, there are other ways of approaching and reading the same texts. With my selection of late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives, I argue that the act of travelling and the act of writing travel are intimately related because a traveller's experience of being on the move is only ever as good as her or his representation of it. It is thus the purpose of this study to engage with the ways in which late eighteenth-century British travellers wrote about travelling at home, and to examine how they produced their texts as representations of their own movement through space. My study chooses to foreground late eighteenth-century home tours because they have been overlooked and because they are difficult to reconcile with traditional discourses of travel writing; but this approach could be taken for many different kinds of travel writing, and not only that which represents 'home', but also that which details the foreign or unfamiliar. Consequently, abstracting travel as 'movement through space' is not to take the culture or the politics out of different kinds of travelling, but first and foremost is to expose those aspects of travelling - such as simply being on the move - which are often neglected in discussions of travel and travel writing, and to explore a more basic relationship between going and representation - the need, in this case, to write about being on the move. In late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives, travellers abstracted their own travelling and writing to take into account the different stages, and the different acts of representation, which they encountered or employed in travelling and writing their way about the British Isles. This study thus aims to illuminate a way of travelling, and a way of writing travel, which truy benefits from this more abstract approach. 12

14 Chapter One 13 Critical and Theoretical Context Eighteenth-Century Home Tours and Travel Narratives, : Vogue, Genre, Space and Culture During a two-week tour from London to Weymouth and back in 1782, the traveller John Byng considered how his interest in writing home travels was fast becoming the latest thing in fashionable society: Tour writing is the very rage of the times; it is selidom [sic] that I am in the fashion, but fashions change so quickly that I am obliged, in their round, sometimes to find myself a man of mode. - Everyone now describes the manners and customs of every country thro' which they pass, tho' but from an observation in a Margate-Hoy; and new Yoricks monthly improve our minds with their sentimental effusions.' As someone who produced his first piece of 'tour writing' only one year earlier in 1781, Byng's prefatory remark in his 'Ride into the West 1782' usefully introduces some points concerning this kind of text, which this chapter will address. Firstly, by confidently identifying the zeitgeist, Byng's remark announces an important moment in late eighteenth-century Britain for the writing of home tours and travel narratives. As someone whose travels had, until 1781, taken him no further than the English south coast, Byng's suggestion that everyone was writing about similar journeys at home indicates that even when engaged upon a localised itinerary such as this, travelling still resulted in the production of a text to represent this kind of small or unremarkable journey. According to Byng, then, travelling at home engaged the imagination of late eighteenth-century Britons so that even short trips on the feriy from London to Margate, were produced as travel writing. The second point which Byng's comment raises concerns a closer reading of his self-definition as an occasional 'man of mode'. Identifying himself as a man in step with fashion is one thing, but Byng's comment about the place of his own writing within a culture of travel writing classifies him as both a man of fashion and a man of genre. Byng's allusion to Laurence Sterne's travel book, A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy (1768), suggests that he situates his own 'tour writing' within a broader category of travel writing which includes popular publications that extend their John Byng, 'Ride into the West 1782', in The Torringlon Diaries: Containing the Tours through England and Wales by the Hon. John Byng (Later Fifth Viscount Tornngton) Between the Years 1781 and 1794, ed. by C. Bruyn Andrews, 4 vols (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, ), I, (69).

15 scope further than Weymouth or Margate into foreign lands. Furthermore, the fact that Sterne's text is fictional means that the genre which Byng imagines for his and Steme's writing is wide and inclusive. Comparing, his and others' home travels with A Sentimental Journey, then, Byng's explanation of home travels and 'tour writing' is celebratoiy: perhaps without even knowing why, travellers like him recorded their experiences as travel writing with a confident sense of genenc inclusiveness. In this chapter, Byng's quotation is used as a springboard from which to propose a way of reimagining and reading late eighteenth-centuiy home tours and travel narratives as travel writing in line with this spirit of generic inclusiveness. In the first section, 'Vogue', I identify how Byng could describe himself as 'a man of mode' by considering the ways in which home tours and travel narratives were produced in the late eighteenth century. In the second section, 'Genre', I confront the question of generic inclusiveness to consider how home travels are affected by genre from both eighteenth-century and modem critical perspectives. Proposing that much work on travel writing over-emphasises the importance of foreign or unfamiliar places in its debates, I echo Byng's assumption of inclusiveness to argue that home travels benefit from a relationship with a wider travel writing genre, despite often being dismissed as a less valid kind of travel writing either by Byng's contemporaries or by modem scholarship. The third section of this chapter, 'Space', expands on the paradigms set by genre and scholarly work on travel writing to find a more sympathetic way of reading home travels. Considering different definitions of 'travel' and 'travel writing' by engaging with disciplines outside of literary studies, notably, cultural geography, I propose a way of reading home tours and travel narratives which abstracts the relationship between travelling and writing by adopting a metaphor of 'space' to redefine travel writing not only as a literary genre, but also as, simply, the textual representation of 'space'. By reconceiving travel writing as 'movement through space', I argue that room is made for home travels within a less exclusive and conservatively defined anthropology of travel writing. The fourth and final section of this chapter, 'Culture', returns to a late eighteenth-century context in order to put this critical approach to work on the home tours and travel narratives themselves. Forming a bridge between critical and theoretical context, and the remaining chapters of this thesis, I consider how home travels were produced as literary discourse within eighteenth-century travelling and writing culture, and how they can be read as representations of movement through space. Specifically, I argue that late eighteenth-century home travels have a close relationship with life 14

16 15 writing in that both modes of writing engage with ideas of representing the self, and recording time. As descriptions of personal experience and a traveller's owi time are brought to the fore of these texts, the question of 7 recedes from cntical enquiry to uphold Byng's celebratory note that travellers were writing about their journeys, without worrying about where they happened to be travelling. In this section I propose that because home travels instinctively undermine the importance of place in their texts to focus on different aspects of travelling, the re-conception of travelling as 'novement through space' makes the most of these kinof 'small journeys' by exposing the detail of daily travelling, and the complex relationship between travelling and writing they negotiate when on the move. 1. Vague The 'very rage of the times': Writing tours and travel narratives about 'hpme' John Byng's tour to the West of England, and his subsequent tours to North and South Wales, Sussex, the Midlands, Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, Kent and 'the North' between 1781 and 1794, reflect an interest among literate and wealthy Britons in the second half of the eighteenth century for travelling in Britain, at 'home', and for producing their experiences as travel writing. Historians of English and British tourism - for example Rosamond Bayne-Powell, Esther Moir, Malcolm Andrews, and Ian Ousby - have argued that a tourist map of Britain was created by eighteenth-century home travellers which culminated in the especially popular Picturesque tour of the Lake District in the 1790s. 2 These scholars agree that warring on the Continent in the second half of the eighteenth century helped to keep Britons at home, and that improvements in communications, including the introduction of the fast and efficient Mail Coach in 1784, facilitated at-home travel to make longer distance journeys bearable and affordable for more people. 3 Aside from historical enquiries into how people travelled at this time, the extant evidence of textual production in the later decades of the eighteenth 2 Bayne-Powell, Travellers in Eighteenth-Century England (London: John Murray, 1951); Moir, The English Tourists (London Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964); Andrews, The Search for the Picturesque: Landscape Aesthetics and Tourism in Britain, (Aldershot: Scolar Press 1989); Ousby, The Englishman's England: Taste, Travel and The Rise of Tourism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990; repr. 2002). See also Anthony and Pip Burton, The Green Bag Travellers: Britains 's First Tourists (London: André Deutsch, 1978), John Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination: English Culture in the Eighteenth-Century (London: Harper Collins, 1997). More recently, Barbara Korte has considered the popularity of the home tour in English Travel Writing from Pilgrimages to Posicolonial Explorations, trans. by Catherine Matthias (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000), Korte, English Travel Writing, 67; Ousby, Englishman 's England,

17 16 century suggests that home travels were a prolific kind of writing. Edward Cox and Esther Moir independently calculate that just over two hundred home travels were published between 1750 and 1810, a figure which indicates a four-fold increase on those published between 1700 and 1750, and which declines proportionally in the years following Aside from these published texts, Moir lists in her bibliography a further 123 manuscript home tours, the details of which are collated from private collections and public libraries throughout Britain, suggesting that the true extent of the production of home tours and travel narratives outside of the published-book market is difficult to estimate. 5 In terms of the consumption of home travels, Elizabeth Hagglund's study of The Monthly Review in the years 1749 to 1758 suggests it catered for a strong interest in travel. Moreover, Hagglund calculates that of the 35 to 43 travel books reviewed each year, the largest proportion were about Britain (2 1.5%), compared to 19.9% about Europe, 11.8% on North America, 8.1% on 'Sea Travel' and, 1.8% on Africa. 6 Similarly, Paul Kaufman's study of books borrowed from Bristol library between the years 1773 and 1784 suggests that books of travel were the most popular category; Hawkesworth's Account of Voyages [...] for Making Discoveries in the Southern Hemisphere (1773) was the most borrowed book in the libraiy at 201 records, but home travels also fare well with 109 records for Thomas Pennant's Tour in Scotland (1769) - some years after it was first published - and a cumulative 198 records for Pennant's five different home travels, including his Tour in Wales (1770) and Journey from Chester to London (1782). As the figures calculated by Hagglund and Kaufman suggest, then, the production and consumption of home travels in the second half of the eighteenth century was considerable, and whilst there are limits to the kinds of conclusions which can be drawn about the writing and reading habits of eighteenthcentury Britain from data collected from reviews and library records, such statistics ' Edward Godfrey Cox, A Reference Guide to the Literature of Travel, 3 vols (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1949), ifi 'Great Britain', 1-66; Esther Moir, The English Tourists (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964), Cox lists 214 home tours published between , Moir lists 215 in her bibliography. Cox calculates that 53 home tours were published between 1700 and 1750 and 34 between 1810 and These calculations by Cox and Moir match the English Short Title Catalogue [on CD ROM] searched using title key-words 'tour(s)' and 'travel(s)' and related terms (e g 'excursions(s)'). A usefhl resource of home tours published between 1790 and 1830 is the Corvey Travel Writing Collection, with 187 titles- <httpllshu ac uk/corvev/cata1ojtravel/> Including, for example, the Edward Hall Collection of manuscnpts at Wigan Public Library. 6 'Reviews of Travel in the Monthly Review, in Studies in Travel Writing, 2 (1998), 1-45 (6-7). The other percentages include: 9% 'Miscellaneous', 7% South America, 5.9% 'Natural Phenomena', 59% Asia, 5.7% the Middle East and 2.7% Ireland. 7 Borrowingsfrom the Bristol Library 1773-I 784: A Unique Record of Reading Vogues (Charlottesville: University of Virginia, 1960), 121 and 48. Other home tours fare well with 25 records for Henry Wyndham's A Gentleman's Tour through Monmouthsh:re (1775) and 20 for Richard Joseph Sulivan's Observations made during a Tour through Parts ofengland(1780).

18 nevertheless offer an indication of trend from which it can be concluded that home travels were popular in terms of both production and consumption. Facts and figures such as those quoted above indicate that the second half of the eighteenth century witnessed a phenomenon of travelling in, and writing about, home, but such statistics do not indicate the multiplicity of the kinds of home travels which were produced as part of this vogue. John Byng's travel writing, which opened this chapter, is an example of how many 'tours' like his were produced in the form of journals which, bound separately, represented each travelling experience as a book. Similarly, a contemporary of his, Caroline Lybbe Powys, also organised her travels to Norfolk, Plymouth, Shropshire, the Isle of Wight and Staffordshire between 1756 and 1800, into different books, one for each particular trip. 8 Most journals are like this, kept apart from other kinds of personal memoranda, even when the travel journal is nothing more than a fragment which fills just a few pages in an otherwise blank book, occupies set-apart space in a commonplace book, or is a few loose leaves of paper, held together with string. 9 Other home tours and travel narratives, however, are integrated into collections of personal memoranda, forming part of an archive which might include commonplace books, 'annual' journals or, more commonly, letters. Fanny Burney's trips to Teignmouth and the 'West', for example, were produced not as separately bound journals, but as journal-letters which were posted to her sister Susanna at the end of each tour.' Letters are a familiar form for home tours, and texts such as Arthur Young's agricultural tours of the 'Southern Counties', 'the North' and 'the East' were For further details of Byng's MSS see The Torringlon Diaries: A Selection from the Tours of the Hon. John Byng (later Fifth Viscount Torrington) between the yew's 1781 and 1794, ed. by C. Bruyn Andrews and Fanny Andrews (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1954), 28. Caroline Powys' travel journals are held at the British Library, Additional Manuscripts, For example, Samuel Taylor Coleridge's travel journals to Wales in 1802 and Scotland in 1803 were written in more than one journal: his tour of Scotland is written in 4 notebooks, as he used different books on different days, alternating between two in the first few days of the tour, and then between two new books, and one of the earlier books for the remainder of the tour. See The Notebooks of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ed. by Kathleen Coburn, 4 vols (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1957), I ( , in two parts), entry nos [no page numbers]. The many home tours undertaken by John Loveday between 1729 and 1765 were 'written on odd sheets of paper which were often used again throughout the years'. See Sarah Markham, John Loveday of Caversham : The Life and Tours of an Eighteenth-Century Onlooker (Salisbury. Michael Russell, 1984), 12. ' The 'Teignmouth Journal' of 1773 is described as a 'series of journal letters gathered into a single cahier' by its editor Lars Von Tnode in The Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, 3 vols (Oxford. Clarendon Press, ), , (274). The 'Western Tour' - the title is not Burney's but is given by Peter Sabor and Lars E. Troide in Burney's Journals and Letters (London Penguin, 2001) - of 1791 is one long journal letter which Joyce Hemlow states is 60 pages long in manuscript. See The Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney (Madame D 'Arblay), ed by Joyce Hemlow, 12 vols (Oxford. Clarendon Press, ), , (10) For further discussion of Burney's journal letters see Stuart Sherman, Telling Time: Clocks, Diaries, and English Diurnal Form, (Chicago University of Chicago Press, 1996), ; for a discussion of the public/private nature of letters see Elizabeth Heckendorn Cook, Epistolary Bodies: Gender and Genre in the Eighteenth-Century Republic of Letters (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1996) 17

19 18 Young's agricultural tours of the 'Southern Counties', 'the North' and 'the East' were framed as letters 'to a friend'; similarly Resta Patching's Four Topographical Letters, Written in July 1755, Upon a Journey thro' Bedfordshire [etc.] (1757) which, though From a Gentleman of London to his Brothers and Sister in Town, claimed to be 'written without any View to making them public', and thus used the easy formality of a personal letter in order to convey information to a public readership.' In the published book market, home tours and travels proliferated and were surprisingly diverse: from George Beaumont and Henry Disney's A New Tour Thro' England (?1768) which described the geography, architecture, trade, and antiquities of towns and villages, to a heyday of publication in the 1770s, 1780s, and 1790s, including Thomas Pennant's similarly descriptive tours of England, Scotland and Wales; Thomas Quincey's A Short Tour in the Midland Counties of England (1775); the anonymous travel poem, Northern Epistles (?1776); William Bray's Sketch of a Tour into Derbyshire and Yorkshire (1783), which ignores descriptive detail in favour of communicating 'some part of the pleasure [...} received in the Tour'; the even more unconventional, The Travels of the Imagination: A True Journey from Newcastle to London, in a Stage-Coach (1773) by John Murray; a number of picturesque Tours, most famously those by William Gilpin and William Hutchinson in the 1790s; and a large number of tours or journeys to every conceivable part of the British Isles.'2 Thus, the forms and modes of production of these examples of home travels indicate that in a culture of writing travel at home, multiplicity is the key as different kinds of writing combine to create a collated body of texts which share little in common apart from the fact that they represent time spent travelling by Britons in Britain. Two things, then, stabilise this body of writing as a kind or 'species of writing': the fact that all the texts are about travelling, and the fact that all these travels also took place at 'home'.' 3 In this thesis, different forms such as Powys' journals and Burney's journalletters are united under the name of 'home travels' because although the names of forms ' A Six Weeks Tour through the Southern Counties of England and Wales (London: for W. Strahan, 1768); A Six Months Tour through the North of England, 4 vols (London: for W. Strahan and W. Nicoll, 1770); The Farmer's Tour through the East of England, 4 vols (London: for W. Strahan, and others, 1771). Patching, Four Topographical Letters (Newcastle-Upon-Tyne: for E. Comyns, 1757) [no page number]. 12 Bray, Sketch of a Tour, 2" edn (London: for B. White, 1783), v Edward Cox's bibliography of Tours published in The I 790s suggests that picturesque travel in the Lake District did not dominate the genre, as travels to places as varied as Milford Haven, the Isle of Wight, the Isle of Thanet, Hampshire, Scarborough, East Kent, Chesterfield and Gloucester were also produced at this time. See Cox, A Reference Guide to the Literature of Travel, III 'Tours by Natives', 1-66 (37-46). 13 'Species of composition' was the preferred term for genre in the eighteenth centuly See Modern Genre Theoty, ed. by David Duff (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2000), xiv.

20 19 slide in and out of view - Byng consistently calls both his travelling and his writing 'tours'; Burney and Powys refer to their travelling as both 'travels' and 'tours', though their writing is not given a name different from its form - 'home travels' is a collective name which indicates that all forms of writing are included, but also hints that within this collated body of texts, differences exist and are respected. Questions of form aside, John Byng's observation that writing travel akout home was in vogue in the late eighteenth century nevertheless comes with a small qualification about mode. Commenting that everyone is producing tour writing 'tho ' but from an observation in a Margate-Hoy' (my emphasis), Byng highlights that there is a slight anomaly concerning the kind of writing which a trip on the ferry from Margate to London might warrant. 14 Essentially Byng's remark points to the possibility that however popular, travel writing about the very familiar was nevertheless understood to be slightly odd, and his comment highlights a tension between mode and subject which suggests that 'home' was not always easily associated with travel writing. Certainly there is further evidence from the late eighteenth century which supports Byng's use of the conjunction 'tho', as reviews of home travels sometimes criticised those authors who made the very familiar their subject. Samuel Johnson, for example, declared that Jonas Hanway, the author of a successful book of travels in Persia, "acquired some reputation by travelling abroad, but lost it all by travelling at home'" when he published A Journal of an Eight Days' Journey from Portsmouth to Kingston Upon Thames: through Southampton, Wiltshire, & With Miscellaneous Thoughts, Moral and Religious in 1757.' Reviewers at The Critical Review agreed with Johnson and pronounced this book to be 'as hackney'd and as beaten as the road from Portsmouth to Kingston-Upon- Thames' because it included 'silly, nauseous trifles which can have aftraction only for grandmothers and nurses'.' 6 In this review it is suggested that a beaten path makes for a hackneyed text, as in an explicitly gendered comment, Hanway's travels at home are decreed domestic and fit only for certain kinds of old or servant women who, unlike Hanway, have a duty to stay at home. Clearly Johnson's comment about Hanway's In a letter of July 1779 to the Revd William Unwin, William Cowper explains that 'The [Margate] Hoy went to London every week, loaded with mackerel and herrings, and returned loaded with company'. See Charles Lamb, 'The Old Margate Hoy' (1823), in Selected Prose, ed. by Adam Phillips (London Penguin, 1985), (note 1, 413). ' Johnson as quoted by James Boswell in 1770 from the Rev. Dr. Maxwell's records of Johnson's conversations, recorded in Maxwell's 'Collectanea', in The Life of Johnson, ad. by R. W. Chapman (Oxford Oxford University Press, 1953, repr. 1980), 440. Johnson also reviewed Jonas Hanway's An Eight Days Journey in the Literary Magazine: Or, Universal Review, XVffl (London: for R. Richardson, 1757), but this time his criticism focused on An Essay on Tea which appended the travel text. 16 The Critical Review: Or, Annals of Literature. By a Society of Gentleman, 4 (London: for R. Baldwin, 1757), 2

21 home tour dichotomises home and abroad travel to give 'credit' to those texts which make the latter their subject, and cast an air of disdain over those which choose a more familiar course for their travel writing.17 Despite Johnson's criticisms of Hanway, and his keenness to make a distinction between travel at home and travel abroad, his attack on this particular eccentric writer and his text is not representative of everyone's opinions on the subject of writing travels at home at this time. The Monthly Review's assessment of An Eight Day's Journey, for example, did not question Hanway's decision to write about travelling at home when it issued the following criticism: The description of places through which this Journey of eight days was performed, takes up but a very little part of this performance. The Reader will find, that in his present Travels, the Author's mental are much more frequent than his personal excursions; as, through the whole, he takes every opportunity (and sometimes forces one) to indulge his propensity to moralizing. 18 As this review suggests, staying at home was not Hanway's mistake, rather it was his inability to place home in his text, and keep his feet on the ground, which ruined his literary performance. It adds: 'Novelty of thought, and elegance of expression, are what we chiefly require, in treating on topics with which the public are already acquainted', thus it is not the familiarity of the home-ground which is the problem, but rather the way in which a particular beaten path is represented in the text.' 9 The Monthly Review implies, then, that travelling at home is a valid subject of an eighteenth-century travel writer's inquiry thus contradicting Johnson's assessment of Hanway's text on a home versus abroad binary. Twenty years later, and with books of travel proliferating, the difference between home and abroad travel is further complicated when 'abroad' - particularly Europe - becomes all too commonly the subject of travel writing, as this sarcastic editorial from the Critical Review testifies: Every one that goes abroad, now a-days, whether for health, or pleasure, or for idleness or business, seems to think themselves called upon by the public, to render it a minute account of their occupabons, avocations, observations, and lucubrations, during their pilgrimage. Nay some, I have been informed, have so well prepared themselves for this work, before hand, that they have written half their book ere they set out, cm order to save themselves the trouble of lugging the one they had copied from, about with 20 Nigel Leask has argued recently that eighteenth-century travel writers carefully negotiated readers' 'generic and moral expectations' in order to procure criticai and commercial approval, or 'credit'. In Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing, : 'From an Antique Land' (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 13. ' The Monthly Review, Or Literary Journal. By Several Hands, XVII (London: for R. Griffiths, 1757), i

22 them, from stage to stage. One person, I was assured, deferred his journey, for a twelvemonth, till he had finished his travels.20 As this weaned comment suggests, 'abroad' was equally as familiar as home as a subject of travel writing in the 1 770s. The fact that travel writers were supposedly able to produce their tours in advance of their travelling (presumably by copying from the hundreds of travel books already on sale), corroborates the notion that 'home' and 'abroad' were not polar opposites with unequally weighted opportunities for claiming 'credit' at this time. Moreover, Samuel Johnson's earlier criticism of Hanway's preference for home over abroad seems churlish in light of his own fondness for travelling at home and writing about it. His tour of Wales in 1774 with Hester Thrale resulted in a short journal of his travelling experience which was not destroyed with the rest of his personal memoranda before he died. 2' Similarly, his A Journey into the Western Islands of Scotland, published in 1775, contradicts the binary by which he judged Hanway's text if only to suggest that the business of writing travel was more complicated than simply a question of 'where'; or that what he meant by 'home' is in need of further clarification. In choosing Margate as an example of how a vogue for writing home travels emerged in the late eighteenth-century, Byng selected an example of a location which, for himself and many others who lived in London, meant locality, nearness and familiarity because it was accessible via a short trip down the Thames on the weekly ferry. 22 For Byng, Margate was in his own backyard, which meant that travel writing about Margate-Hoy was writing which addressed that which was so familiar (to him) it could be considered absurd to make it the subject of a travel text. Expecting not to find the familiar in travel writing is thus an assumption about genre which invokes an early modern code of travel whereby the purpose of travel, and the purpose of travel writing, is education and 'improvement' via contact with the foreign or unfamiliar. In the sixteenth century, Francis Drake established this notion when he suggested that foreign travel helped one to 'learn to love our own happy island' by comparing home with 'abroad'; in 1757, Josiah Tucker echoed this code for 'improvement' when he suggested that travel was useful to 'rub off local Prejudices'. 23 In line with this code, then, As quoted by Katherine Turner in British Travel Writers in Eure : Authorship, Gender and National Identity (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 29. From The Critical Review, 42(1776), Journal of his Tour in North Wales 1774, British Library, Additional Manuscripts, Byng was probably referring to George Keate's, Sketches from Nature; Taken, and Colourea in a Journey to Margale, edn, 2 vols (London: for J. Dodsley, 1779). 23 Francis Drake as quoted by Bruce Redford in Venice and the Grand Tour (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 13; Josiah Tucker, Instructions for Travellers (London. [n. pub.], 1757), [3],

23 22 'improvement' was something which staying at home could not easily offer. In 1760, Samuel Johnson linked the idea that travel should be improving with the reason for writing travel and argued that travel writers who had nothing new or interesting to say should not put pen to paper: 'Why should [they] record excursions by which nothing could be learned?' 24 Curious, then, that his trip to Wales in where he discovered that '[t]he mode of life is entirely English. I am glad I have seen it, though I have seen nothing, because I now know that there is nothing to be seen' - resulted in a travel journal filled with details about the progress of his tour and the things that he went to see. 25 Evidently Johnson lost faith in the code of travel in the space of fourteen years or else he deemed his travelling and his travel writing to be different from that which he had criticised years earlier in The Idler. Either way, Johnson's decision to produce his Welsh tour as travel writing indicates that travelling and writing travel for 'improvement' was not the only reason to write, nor the only discourse of travel writing at this time. Clearly, then, there is something else at work besides a code of wnting travel for improvement when one considers home travels and the reasons why they were produced at all. In the first place, 'home' in the eighteenth centuly is not easily qualified as a familiar and local space for those travellers who chose to explore it. As an Englishman living in London, Johnson obviously expected something not like 'home' when he visited Wales in If 'home', then, is defined as the country in which one lives, parts of Britain in the eighteenth century were more foreign than familiar to some. Western Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, and the Lake District, for example, were not only far-flung in terms of distance from the capital, but also were 'foreign' in terms of difference as well. In these parts of 'home', different languages and dialects heightened dissimilarity; Scotland, of course, had only been integrated within the political geography of Britain since 1707, and the events of 1745 served to confirm just how far parts of this periphery were not yet integrated into the whole. 26 In the early eighteenth century, travelling in Britain in order to explore its furthest corners resulted in the production of texts which made sense of the country's new political geography and its potential wealth. In the form of surveys or chorographies, texts like Dame! Defoe's Tour thro' the Whole Island of Great Britain (1724) produced the space of the nation as 24 From The Idler, 97 (1760). In The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, ed. by W. J. Bate, and others, 16 vols (New Haven and London Yale University Press, ), II, (299). 25 Quotation from a letter to John Taylor, Thursday 20th October, From The Letters of Samuel Johnson, ed. by Bruce Redford, 5 vols (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1992), II, See Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation (Oxford Oxford University Press, 1992).

24 23 travel writing; Richard Gough's Anecdotes of British Topography (1768) details the many texts which contributed to this kind of writing, including the many antiquarian tours which, in Barbara Korte's words, performed a 'stocktaking' of the nation's wealth'. 27 But as the second half of the century progressed, even the remotest parts of Scotland, Wales, and other peripheries like Ireland, were explored, mapped, written about, and produced to be part of the text of the nation. What this means is that, though still 'forged' together for the sake of the whole, Britain at this time was nevertheless working towards neutralising differences at home and, as Linda Colley has argued, towards assimilating the idea of Britain, with the idea of 'home'. 28 In the second half of the eighteenth century, the results of the 'stocktaking' years were often collated as compendiums of home travels which represented the antiquarian, topographical and chorographic surveys which had been performed in early decades. William Mayor's The British Tourists is one example of a compendium which collates these kinds of texts as travel writing for other travellers. 29 The purpose of The British Tourists was as a 'Pocket Companion', or a guide to 'home', for British travellers who wanted to visit and read about their country as it has been explored and written-about by fellow Britons. Like,Johnson's trip to Wales in 1774, The British Tourists suggests that going to see what has already been written about by others, or what was by now recognisable as 'home', was still worth the trip because travelling in one's own country can be in its own way improving, especially in terms of knowing what 'home' is like, and what it means to be a Briton belonging to it.3 In producing home travels, then, 'home' is an elastic term which stretches from immediate locality to the body politic and back again. From the kinds of texts produced 27 A,C1OIeS of British Topography. Or, An Historical Account of what has been done for illustrating the Topographical Antiquities of Great Britain and Ireland (London: by W. Richardson and S. Clark, 1768). Korte, English Travel Writing, 70. Travel texts about Scotland were produced both before and after the '45: Martin Martin's A Description of the Western Island of Scotland (London: for A. Bell, 1703); Daniel Defoe's A Tour thro' that Part of Great Britain called Scotland (Dublin: for George Faulkner, 1746) completed his earlier Tour thro' the Whole Island of Great Britain (1724); Thomas Pennant's A Tour in Scotland and Voyage to the Hebrides (Chester: by John Monk, 1774); and Samuel Johnson's A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland (London: for J Pope, 1775). Travel texts about Ireland were popular in the 1770s and 1780s Richard Twiss' A Tour in Ireland (London for the author, 1776); Philip Luckombe's A Tour through Ireland (London: for 1. Lowndes, 1780); and Arthur Young's A Tour in Ireland (London: for T. Cadell and J Dodsley, 1780). 29 The British Tourists: Or, Traveller '.c Pocket Companion, through England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland Comprehenthng the Most Celebrated Tours in the British Islands, ed. by William Mayor, 6 vols (London: for E. Newberry, ). 3 Gerald Newman has discussed how English national identity developed in the eigbteenth-century, and the part that travel texts like these played in patriotism in The Rise of English Nationalism: A Cultural History (London: Macmillan Press, 1997). See also Doris Feldmann, 'Economic and/as Aesthetic Constructions of Britishness in Eighteenth-Centuiy Domestic Travel Writing', Journal for the Study of English Cultures, 4 (1997),

25 24 in the early eighteenth century and listed in Gough's bibliography, and those which, like Byng's and Johnson's, were produced after the 'stocktaking', 'home' is both the country in which they lived, and the places near to where they ate and slept, at the same time. As the definition of home stretches from the Margate-Hoy to the Western Islands of Scotland, so the definition of 'abroad', as it binary opposite, contracts in late eighteenth-century etymology to also mean simply 'out and about' or 'outdoors'.3' Meanings of words like 'home' and 'abroad', then, alter over time, but perhaps more importantly, the implications of words like these can also change with time. 'Home' can be regional, provincial, national or continental; in the eighteenth century, travels about 'home' were matched in popularity by travels about Europe - especially France and Italy - and as many people lived part of the year, or their life, in another country, 'home' stretches to mean a place or a series places beyond national boundaries. 32 Tobias Smollett's travel book, Travels through France and Italy (1771), for example, describes his journey to and from 'home' as he journeys from his house in London to his summer residence in Nice, and back to London - a double home tour, in other words. For the purpose of this study, 'home' stretches no further than the borders of the British Isles, but it is important to recognise that in order to accept the texts which describe the very local or very familiar as home travels, and those which describe parts of the country which are rather more foreign, 'home' is an elastic term with multiple signification. As this introductory section has demonstrated so far, late eighteenth-century home travels existed in large numbers, and with a variety of different forms and faces between 1750 and Earlier in this section I quoted Samuel Johnson's opinion of a home tour written by Jonas Hanway in which Johnson used a binary of 'home' and 'abroad' to assess the quality of the travel writing and declare the 'home' text as weaker. To disrupt his binary, this section has demonstrated that home travei produced in the late eighteenth century did engage with the very familiar as their subject even where they recognised that this perhaps did not fit within a usual code of travel or travel writing. What is most important for this kind of travel writing, however, is the fact that it was produced at all; the simple evidence of its existence means that the late eighteenth century witnessed a way of writing and a writing culture which deserves attention. John ' This usage pre-dates the eighteenth-centuiy (see for example George Herbert's 1633 poem 'The Collar') and yet persists throughout the period. See for example Maria Edgeworth's novel, Belinda, in which Edgeworth describes how the personality of one character changes within and without of her own London house S 'Abroad, and at home, Lady Delacour was two different persons Abroad she appeared all life, spirit, and good humour - at home, listless, fretfifi and melancholy', ed. by Kathryn J. Kirkpatrick (Oxford S Oxford University Press, 1994; repr 1999), 10. Belinda was first published in For an account of the kinds of travel writing produced from travels in Europe at this time see Turner, British Travel Writers in Europe.

26 Byng's comment that 'everyone' was 'tour writing... tho' but from an observation in a Margate-Hoy' is potentially celebratory: without perhaps ever knowing why, travellers at home recorded their experiences as travel writing with a sense of generic inclusiveness which is almost unrecognisable today. Since the late eighteenth century, 'travel writing' as a genre has developed in such a way that home travels now find themselves quietly excluded. In the section which follows, I will consider how 'travel writing' as a field of scholarly interest has established paradigms which exc'ude home travels, before I argue for a way of engaging with both eighteenth-century and modem notions of genre which uphold Byng's note of inclusiveness Genre Problems of definition for the 'Man of Mode' John Byng's assertion that his own home travels are situated within a wider context of travel writing makes little sense today in terms of the paradigms which scholarly interest in travel writing has so far established. To an extent, home travels find that they are excluded from the genre of travel writing because the parent discipljne, travel writing studies, has focused in the past on placing travel writing only within the context of place-based alterity, or, in simpler terms, has concentrated on travel writing which represents encounters with foreign cultures. In studies on eighteenth-century travel writing, home travels also find themselves excluded as inquiries into this subject identif' particular trends or genres which cannot, for various reasons, accommodate this kind of travel writing. In plotting a course through all these discourses of travel writing to understand how home travels have been excluded, it is inevitable that problems of definition encounter the related disciplines of colonial discourse and postcolonial studies. For both of these disciplines, travel writing is both source material and a focus of debate, and the central role it has played in the development of these kinds of scholarly inquiry has helped to give the genre a basic shape. This section will therefore weave a course through the definitions of travel writing as developed by literary studies and related disciplines because in order to re-configure the genre to include home travels, it is first necessary to understand how definitions of travel writing have been reached so far.

27 26 Definitions of Travel Writing as 'the discovery of others' [T]he 'true' travel narrative, from the point of view of the contemporary reader, recounts the discovery of others, either the savages of faraway lands or the representatives of non-european civilisations - Arab, Hindu, Chinese, and so on. A journey in France would not result in a 'travel narrative'. It is not that such narratives do not exist, but they clearly lack the feeling of alterity in relation to the people (and the lands) described.33 This quotation from Structuralist critic Tzvetan Todorov highlights how the genre of travel writing has developed to exclude those kinds of travels which do not offer enough altenty, or 'foreignness', for today's readers. As far as Todorov is concerned, location only matters to travel writing as long as it is 'other' to European readers. He adds, 'in order to ensure the tension necessary to the travel narrative, the specific position of the colonizer is required: curious about the other and secure in his own supenority'. 34 Thus, Todorov's exercise in generic definition is dependent on a discourse first conceptualised in 1978 by Edward Said's seminal study, Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient which, though not directly concerned with travel writing, provided a methodology for reading discourse about non-western cultures which was dependent upon alterity. 35 Arguing that texts such as travel writing helped to produce the Orient as Europe's conceptual 'other', Said developed a discourse of difference within which travel writing was implicated as the most likely textual representation of çlsewhere. Before Orientalism, a number of studies had made attempts to define travel writing differently: Percy G. Adams' Travelers and Travel Liars, (1962) favoured inclusiveness by comparing fictional and non-fictional travels, and Adams declared in his follow-up study published twenty years later that 'the literature of travel is gigantic; it has a thousand forms and faces'; Warner G. Rice in Literature as a Mode of Travel (1962) proposed that a definition was impossible, and preferred instead to re-categonse travel narratives by content (as biography, or geography, for example). 36 Post- Tzvetan Todorov, 'The Journey and its Narratives', trans by Alyson Waters, in Transports: Travel, Pleasure and Imaginative Geography, , ed by Chloe Chard and Helen Langdon (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1996), (293). Ibid., 295. Said's thesis in Orientalism (London: Penguin, 1978) is foreshadowed by Franz Fanon's The Wretched of the Earth, trans. by C. Farrington (New York: New Grove Press, 1963) which argued that the power of Europe was created by, and reliant upon, cheap labour sourced in its third-world colonies Percy G. Adams, Travelers and Travel Liars, (N) (New York: Dover Publications, 1962) and Travel Literature and the Evolution of the Novel (Kentucky: University of Kentucky Press, 1983), 281. Warner G. Rice, Literature as a Mode of Travel: Five Ersays and a Postscript (New York: New York Public Library, 1962). Other studies of travel writing produced before Orientalism included anthologies: Henry Major Tomlinson, An Anthology of Modern Trawl Writing (London: Nelson and Sons, 1936);

28 27 Orientalism, however, interest in travel writing developed in tandem with colonial discourse studies as a multiplicity of critics first selected a particular colonised land, and then used travel writing as evidence of the textual production of the 'other' along Said's model. 37 To an extent, travel and its textual representation became synonymous with the foreign; Paul Fussell's important study, Abroad: British Literary Travelling Between the Wars (1980), for example, signified the importance of geographical dislocation in line with Said's Orientalist them/us binary. 38 In this study, Fussell defined travel writing along an Orientalist model when he stated that '[a] travel book, at its purest' is 'a subspecies of memoir in which the autobiographical narrative arises from the speaker's encounter with distant or unfamiliar data'. 39 In its selection of texts and its definition of travel writing, Abroad thus bridged the gap from Said's study on Orientalist discourse to establish the role of travel writing as a literaiy discourse which was dependent on altenty for definition. In defining literary travel writing as that which only engages with the distant or foreign, Fussell's study thus launched travel writing studies on a prescriptive note which, because of its assumption of alterity, could not accommodate home travels as a legitimate, literary subject of enquiry.4 As travel writing studies developed alongside colonial discourse and postcolonial studies, Fussell's insistence upon altenty as a defining feature of travel writing inevitably met with some resistance. In postcolonial studies especially, Said (and thus by implication, Fussell) was reproached for creating an occidental methodology which disallowed a two-way relationship between 'them' and 'us', and relied on one opponent being the more powerful creator of the other. 4' With an urgent Humphry Hannan, Writers in Boots: An Anthology of Travel Writing (London: William Heinemann, 1954) and Geoffrey Bond, The Face of the World: an Anthology of Travel Writing (London: University of London Press, 1968) and biographic studies, for example, Thomas J. Assad, Three Victorian Travellers: Burton, Blunt, Doughty (London: Routledge, 1964). One example of this kind of text within eighteenth-century studies is Peter Hulme, Colonial Encounters: Europe and the Native Caribbean (London: Methuen, 1986). 38Other examples from this time include George Woodock, Into Tibet: The Early British Explorers (London: Faber, 1971); Alan Wykes, ed., Abroad: A Miscellany of English Travel Writing (London: Macdonald, 1973). Abroad: British Literary Travelling Between the Wars (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980), Fussell's study is often cited as a seminal text responsible for making travel writing a legitimate concern of English Literature. Joanne Shattock suggests that Fussell's study was crucial in the development of travel writing studies in 'Travel Writing Victorian and Modern: A Review of Recent Research' in Philip Dodd, The Art of Travel Writing (London: Frank Cass, 1982), A condensed version of Abroad was re-published as 'Travel and the British Literary Imagination of the Twenties and Thirties' in 1992 to acknowledge its importance. See Temperamental Journeys: Essays on the Modern Literature of Travel, ed by Michael Kowalewski (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1992), See Ania Loomba's summary of how Orientalism came under criticism in postcolonial studies, in Colonialism Posicolonialism (London: Routledge, 1998),

29 28 need to find alternatives to Said's history of unequal ideologies of power, studies of travel writing, working within postcolonial studies, began to find ways to dismantle Said's binary in order to re-think the need to find alterity in travel writing at all. In this new wave of research, Mary Louise Pratt's Imperial Eyes (1992) is often cited as the most groundbreaking in finding non-orientalist ways to think about Euroimpenalism notably in her now famous concept of the dialogic 'contact zone'. More pressing for this thesis, however, was her simultaneous decision to resist a single definition of travel writing in her approach. 42 By including scientific documents alongside more traditionally-conceived 'literary' travels (like Mungo Park's Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa), Pratt aimed 'not to circumscribe travel writing as a genre but to suggest its heterogeneity and its interactions with other kinds of expression'. 43 Other studies produced around the same time as Pratt's also sought ways to avoid Orientalist thinking and undo the canon of prescriptive 'literary' travel writing post-fussell. Sara Mills, for example, in Discourses of Differences (1991), reintroduced women's writing to travel writing studies to argue that texts produced by women often struggled to reconcile'euroimpenalism' and gender in the same way as texts produced by men. Nevertheless, whilst these studies successfully dislodged Said's binary from their methodologies and expanded the genre of travel writing beyond Fussell's definition, they yet relied on new definitions - or non-definitions (because they chose to avoid offering one) - which assumed a relationship if not between travel writing and colonialism, then certainly between travel writing and foreign travel. 45 Of course, for studies like Pratt's and Mills' which question (post)colonial discourse, it is logical that foreign travel should be their only focus; but as the anthropology of travel writing develops within literary studies via such scholarly works, definitions (or nondefmitions) of travel writing develop in tandem, and do not take into account the fact 42 Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturalion (London: Routledge, 1992; repr. 2000). 43 Ibid. 11. " Sara Mills, Discourses of Difference: An Analysis of Women's Travel Writing and Colonialism (London: Routledge, 1991). Other studies which offer non-orientalist modes of thinking about travel writing at this time include Denis Porter, Haunted Journeys: Desire and Transgression on European Travel Writing (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991) which attempts Foucauldian and Psychoanalytical readings of travel writing; Stacy Burton, 'Experience and the Genres of Travel Writing Bakhtin and Butor', Romance Studies, 21(1993), which applies Bakhtin's idea of heteroglossia to travel writing to suggest that all texts are sites of battle between opposing ideologies which deny any single stoiy or idea of 'truth'; and All Behdad, Belated Travelers: Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Dissolution (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1994) which proposes a Foucauldian approach to travel writing, recogrnsing circular systems of exchange between competing ideologies of travel. ' See also Karen Veit, 'Journey and Gender - Diversity in Travel Writing' in Feminist Contributions to the Literary Canon: Setting Standards of Taste, ed. by Susanne Fendler (New York: Edward Mellon, 1997), , which suggests that travel writing is not 'a real genre', but 'a composite of elements drawn from several literary traditions, namely the autobiography, the novel and the descriptive', 109.

30 29 that travel writing is also produced at 'home'. Even in more recent years, and despite an explosion of interest in travel writing as part of literary studies, definitions of travel writing continue, for the most part, to exclude home travels. As recently as 1997, Casey Blanton defined travel writing on an Orientalist model when he stated that 'travel books are vehicles whose main puipose is to introduce us to the other'. 47 It is coldcomfort for home travels, therefore, to recognise the important work done to oust alterity from colonial discourse and postcolonial studies. As long as travel writing is defined within its relationship to these fields of scholarly inquiry, and the discourses of home travel are not considered alongside the multiple discourses of foreign travel, such texts find they have no place in the field of travel writing studies at all. Studies of Eighteenth-Century Travel Writing Moving from travel writing studies to eighteenth-centuiy studies, for the most part, work produced by scholars on the subject of eighteenth-century travel writing similarly ignores home travels in favour of more exotic travelling, or else pigeonholes these texts not as travel writing, but as social history. With some notable exceptions, which are discussed below, studies on eighteenth-century travel writing focus on the Grand Tour in the early decades of the century, and Picturesque travel in its later years. Studies of eighteenth-century travel writing which include home travels, for example Malcolm Andrews' In Search of the Picturesque and Robin Jarvis' Romantic Writing and Pedestrian Travel, do so within the context of specific discourses, namely Picturesque aesthetics or Romanticism, and thus do not engage directly with John Byng's earlier idea of a generically inclusive multiplicity of writing. 49 Those studies which do make home travels their focus, do so within a context of social history, reading texts such as Byng's 'Ride into the West' as historical documents and not literary texts produced as U A regularly updated bibliography of recent studies in travel wnting is 'Studies in Travel Writing: Recent and Forthcoming Publications', < human.ntu ac uklstw pubs> ' Casey Blanton, Travel Writing: The Self and the World (New York: Simon and Schuster Macmillan, 1997), xi. Studies on travel writing produced as a result of the Grand Tour include: Bruce Redford, Venice and The Grand Tour (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996); Lynne Withey, Grand Tours and Cook's Tours: A History of Leuure Travel (New York: William Morrow, 1997) and Chloe Chard, Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour: Travel Writing and Imaginative Geography (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999). Studies on picturesque travel include: Barbara Maria Stafford Voyage into Substance: Art, Science and the illustrated Travel Account, (Cambridge, Mass.: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 1984) and Elizabeth Bohis, Women Writers and the Language of Aesthetics, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). Robin Jarvis Romantic Writing and Pedestrian Travel (London: Macmillan, 1997; repr. 2000).

31 travel writing. 50 John Vaughan and Ian Ousby engage to an extent with the relationship between home travelling and the production of home travels, but do so within the context of the rise of British tourism, without considering how such texts function as travel writing.5' The most important and influential study of eighteenth-century travel writing to date which includes home travels in its thesis is Charles Batten's Pleasurable Instruction: Form and Convention in Eighteenth-Century Travel Literature (1978). Batten's study constructs a thesis about the role of genre in the production of travel writing - including home travels - which is antithetical to Byng's point about heterogeneity, but which nevertheless engages with the idea of such texts as travel writing. Reading contemporary reviews and accounts of authorship alongside the travel writing of the period, Batten argues that generic expectation and conventions of form governed the production of travel writing for most of the eighteenth century. Working towards a definition of 'eighteenth-century non-fiction travel literature', Batten identifies a series of narrative and descriptive conventions which writers of travels adopted in order to receive 'credit' from reviewers and readers alike. In his process of classification Batten includes some necessary conventional features which immediately place a question mark next to the kind of wnting produced by my introductory example, Byng. Firstly, Batten suggests that the travel iting which conforms tp type as 'pleasurable instruction' must not be too autobiographical, but must assert a 'nonegotistical' narrative position; secondly, it should have an abbreviated, journal-style of writing which is able to convey information in a 'plain style'; thirdly, a text should prove its veracity by providing specific information about place and time which proves the degree of careful observation undertaken when travelling; and finally, a travel text's main concern should be the investigation and presentation of new infoririation. in conclusion, Batten asserts that eighteenth-century travel writing conformed to Francis Drake's notion of travelling for improvement: Until the last decades of the century, travel accounts uniformly aimed at conveying pleasurable instruction, not about the traveler but about the countries he visited [...] In avoiding the least appearance of fiction or egotism, they responded to a thirst for facts by a philosophical age, making 30 5 For example, Esther Moir, The Discovery of Britain: The English Tourists (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964). "John Vaughan, The English Guide Book c (Newton Abbot: David & Charles, 1974), Ian Ousby, The Englishman's England.

32 travel for the sake of education, even into the farthest corners of the world, available to any man who could afford the price of a book.52 Batten's thesis, then, is that until the 'last decades of the eighteenth century', travel writing, whether about home or abroad, conformed to a series of features and expectations which gave shape to a kind of writing which is identified as travel writing in a particular moment of generic harmony. After this period of 'pleasurable instruction' - and Batten identifies the publication of Laurence Sterne's A Sentimental Journey in 1768 as a watershed moment - generic stability gave way to disorder as travel writing threw off the shackles of conformity to abandon the forms and conventions of earlier decades. In ignoring the rules of 'pleasurable instruction', Batten suggests that all travel writing produced after 1768 is less about travel writing than autobiography or Picturesque aesthetics. 53 In identifying not just a change of form, but an abandonment of form, Batten thus follows a familiar course in eighteenth-century history which shifts gear in the 1760s and 1770s from Enlightenment discourse to Romantic discourse. Batten's insistence that eighteenth-century travel writing does not privilege the Romantic 'I' means that once 'egotism' appears in the 1760s, eighteenth-century travel writing 'turns' Romantic and replaces the 'pleasurable instruction' genre with something quite different. Whilst Batten's study includes home travels in its presentation of an archaeology of a genre, its formalist analysis of eighteenth-century travel writing still excludes the majority of home travels, like those of Byng, which were produced after 1760, and which do include an egotistical 'I' as part of the travel writing. One solution, of course, would be to label such travels 'Romantic' in accordance with Batten's chr9nological axis. To do so, however, would be to shift the focus of this investigation away from the discourses of eighteenth-century travel writing towards the discourses of Rorianticism, a task which does not uphold Byng's celebratory note of generic inclusivcness first presented in the opening pages of this chapter. For as Byng suggested then, his modest home tour to the west of England was part of a large family of texts which were perhaps not generically bound together as a kind of writing, but which certainly shared similar Charles Batten, Pleasurable Instruction: Form and Convention in Eighteenth-Century Travel Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 119. Batten suggests that a lack of new places to describe caused travel writers to move away from a discourse of pleasurable instniction. Ibid., See also George B. Parks, 'The Turn to the Romantic in the Travel Literature of the Eighteenth Century', Modern Language Quarterly, 25 (1964), and Roger Cardinal, 'Romantic Travel', in Rewriting the Se/ Histories from the Renaissance to the Present, ed. by Roy Porter (London: Routledge, 1997),

33 32 features as a mode of writing. 55 The limits of Batten's otherwise wide-ranging analysis of eighteenth-century travel writing, then, are not so much based upon his reading of eighteenth-century chronology (and his insistence upon a change of form after 1768), but on the limits of his understanding of genre and the relationship between the production of texts and the nature of generic stability and change. In more recent studies on eighteenth-century travel writing, the subject of genre has undergone re-evaluation to suggest that Batten's picture of generic stability in the years before 1760 is not the only way of focussing on travel writing at this time. Katherine Turner's study of European travel writing between 1750 and 1800, and Nigel Leask's study of travel writing 'From an Antique Land' between 1770 and 1840, both indicate that the generic stability which Batten claims to excavate is really nothing more than a chimera of literary history. Approaching travel writing of a similar time, but from different perspectives, Turner and Leask both agree that eighteenth-century travel writing is less about moments of stability, than a series of moments of changeability. Turner suggests that 'travel writing accommodates a variety of discourses and stylistic emphases' at this time, because it changes form from 'convention and conformity' to 'oddity' in a heartbeat. 56 Leask adopts a similarly protean approach to travel writing as a genre when he takes assumptions about romantic travel to task in his thesis: '[t]o generalize travel writing in the romantic period as merely 'subjective' is to ignore not only the majority of travelogues produced during the period but also the testimony of contemporary commentators'. 57 Finding that romantic travel does not embody 'the achieved triumph of imagination over knowledge' as is commonly suggested, Leask, like Turner, suggests that a genre's features are subject to change when analytical inquiry looks at a period of time and a selection of texts differently from previous investigations. What they suggest, of course, is not that formalist investigations like Batten's are wrong, but that there are simply ways of looking which can change the shape of a genre by nothing more than a shift in emphasis. 55 David Duff defines the difference between a 'kind' of writing and a 'mode' of writing as 'a mode is often distinguished from a genre, the latter term being reserved for types of literature which are both thematically and formally specific', whereas a 'mode' is 'thematically specific but non-specific as to literaiy form'. In Modem Genre Theo'y (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2000), xv. Turner, British Travel Writers in Europe, 54 and 24. Another study soon to be published also makes the argument for thinking of eighteenth-centwy travel writing not as a fixed kind but as an ever-changing genre. See Jean Viviês, English Travel Narratives in the Eighteenth Century: Exploring Genres Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002). 7 Leask Curiosity and the Aesthetics of Travel Writing, 8.

34 33 Ouestions of Genre Between John Byng's suggestion of generic inclusiveness and Batten's formalist reading of a particular moment of generic stability, then, eighteenth-century travel writing emerges as kind of writing which, at different times, and under different spotlights, was both convention-driven and convention-defying at the same time. As a genre which was forever changing form, style and content, home travels - like all other kinds of travel writing would slip in and out of favour with critics and reviewers as the genre contracted and expanded over time to form different shapes. Contemporary commentators on genre in the eighteenth centuiy were well aware of the protean character of genre, or 'species of writing' as it was then called. In 1762, Lord Kames argued that 'literary compositions run into each other, precisely like colours' to create 'so much variety, and take on so many different forms, that we never can say where one species ends and another begins'. Ten years earlier, during Batten's perceived era of generic stability. Samuel Johnson anticipated Kames' remark when he stated '[t]here is therefore scarcely any species of writing, of which we can tell what is its essence, and what are its constituents'. 58 By comparison, modem genre theory both repels and embraces Johnson and Kames' idea of generic mutability. Tzvetan Todorov, as I suggested earlier, is reluctant to suggest that genres are indefinable, and his argument in 'The Origin of Genres' (1978) suggests that genres do exist and that it is the duty of the literary critic to identify and describe them: 'The study of genres, which has as its starting point the historical evidence of the existence of genres, must have as its ultimate objective precisely the establishment of those properties'. 59 Thus working from the assumption that genres are there if one can find them, Todorov's role as a literary critic is to be an excavator, like Batten, who works to uncover archaeologies of texts which diachromcally register their participation in a genre at any given time. This means, of course, that genres are only recognisable at particular moments of time and as such are subject to chanp - Todorov himself describes genre as a 'system ii constant transformation Isolating moments of generic conformity, then, as Batten hs done, is Hemy Home [Lord Kaznes], Elements of Criticism, 3 vols (Edinburgh: for A. Millar, A. Kincaid and J. Bell, 1762) and Samuel Johnson, from The Rambler, 125 (1751). As quoted by Alastair Fowler, Kinds of Literature: An Jntrobichon to the Theory of Genres and Modes (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982), Kames, 37 and Johnson, 42. In Genres in Discourse, trans. by Catherine Porter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), (17).

35 one option; for, as Alastair Fowler has also stated, 'thinking of a genre as a series of stills is at least better than ignoring its movement altogether'.6 The problem with Todorov's approach to genre, however, is that even where there is evidence of the existence of a genre - in the eighteenth centuly, or in the twenty-first century - there is yet a need to codify the properties of that genre n order to explain its existence. Thus for eighteenth-century travel writing, or indeed fqr modem studies of travel writing, home travels' relationship with 'travel writing' is not much clearer. In John Byng's opening comment about his own tour, there was an assumption that his way of writing was part of a larger kind, but how did he know this? Was there any particular feature about his own writing which gave him the confidence to assume that it participated in a wider genre? Similarly, in the twenty-first century, when 'travel writing' as a descriptive term labels paperbacks sold in bookshops and course descriptions in universities, what texts, as it were, belong? In Jacques Derrida's essay 'The Law of Genre' (1980), the notion of 'belonging' is dismissed as Derrida argues that if it were possible for any text to belong to any genre, it should have 'a code enabling one to decide questions of class-membership on the basis of this trait', or a 'Voilà! I belong' signal. 6' As texts (like Byng's) do not have such a definite sign, Dernda proposes they might have a relationship with genre which is not prescriptive, but familial: A text cannot belong to no genre, it cannot be without or less a genre. Every text participates in one or several genres, there is no genreless text; there is always a genre and genres, yet such participation never amounts to belonging.6 Alastair Fowler agrees with Derrida's notion of participation without belonging when he clarifies that texts can be related to a genre 'without necessarily having any single feature shared in common by all'. 63 Thus, texts can be a member of a particular family by sharing certain features, or themes, and can be supported (or contested?) by this extended family, without a need to conform strictly to its rules or conventions. In this idea of genre, then, there is no 'law' which governs participation and thus excludes certai,n kinds of texts because they fall short of generic requirements. At the same time, however, there is still a shape of a genre - a kind of writing - which makes sense of, and gives form to, texts which are related to it FowIer, Kinds of Literature, Reprinted in Modern Genre Theory, (229). 62 1b,d 230. Fowler, Kinds of Literature, 41.

36 35 Having plotted a course through defmitions of travel writing, studies of eighteenth-century travel writing, and genre theory, it is apparent that eighteenthcentury home travels have a complex relationship with 'travel writing' as both a kind of writing and a subject of scholarly inquiry. Without a component of alterity they struggle to be represented in modern scholarship as travel writing, and without a specifically romantic or pleasurably-instructive discourse, they struggle to fit into existing notions of eihteenth-centuiy travel writing. Nevertheless, whilst home travels produced between 1750 and 1810 do not 'belong' to either these disciplines or genres, they still participate, both as a kind of writing excavated from a previously hidden fold in time, but perhaps more importantly as a way of writing which is not thematically or formally specific, but is all the same modally related. In the section which follows, home travels' relationship with literary genre will be put to one side in favour of more abstract inquiries into the subject of writing 'travel' to suggest that there is a way of reading home travels as travel writing outside of literary-critical conventions. 3. Space Redefining travel as 'movement through space' If eighteenth-century home travels are to be considered as 'travel writing' - as participating within this genre but without necessarily 'belonging' to it - travel writing needs redefimng in order to oust alterity as a required feature, and to recorfigure the shape of the genre itself to be more inclusive. In this process of redefmition, 'travel' is identified as a problematic term which has often been subject to conservative definitions. Paul Fussell's definition of travel writing in Abroad, for example, has been questioned not merely for its insistence on an element of altenty, but also for its selection of certain kinds of travellers whom he describes as being 'more free' than the foreign 'others' they wrote about in their narratives. Suggesting that through Fussell's selection of texts a privileged definition of travel is thereby promoted, attempts to expand the meaning of travel have emerged in recent years from a number of disciplines. Most significantly, theorists working within ethnography have sought to Fussell's choice of only upper and middle class, white, European men as travel writers for his study has been criticised by Caren Kaplan in Questions of Travel: Fos1mudern Discourses of Displacement (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996; repr. 1998), and Steve Clark, '"Bang at its Moral Centre": Ideologies of Genre in Butor, Fussell and Raban', Studies in Travel Writing, 4 (2000), (113). See Fussell, Abroad, 203.

37 36 redefine travel not as something performed only by travellers who go to a country, pass through it, and move on, but as something which happens everywhere, by all kinds of people, even those who stay at 'home'. James Clifford's essay 'Traveling Cultures' (1992) highlights how the ideology of travel privileges 'good' travel from other kinds of journeys which are less likely to be defined as 'proper travel' (commuting, visits or pilgrimages, for example). 65 Arguing that the world is not divided into those who travel and those who don't, nor that it is a series of locations which we can travel to and from whilst those who we move amongst go nowhere, Clifford suggests that 'travel' has become problematically associated with a series of fixed locations which make up a travellers' itinerary. Taking Clifford's argument further, Caren Kaplan in Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement (1998), suggests that it is important when thinking about travel not to privilege the idea of location in a working definition of 'travel'. By not assuming that travel is simply a process of 'going to' or 'returning from' a particular location, Kaplan redefines location as 'a series of locations and encounters [...] within diverse, but limited spaces', thus redefining an experience of travelling from place to place. Ultimately, Kaplan and Clifford argue that 'travel' is a collective noun for all different kinds of movement, performed by a myriad of different people, in a multiple number of 'spaces'. Preferring 'displacement' to the 'historicaltaintedness' of 'travel', Kaplan queries the way in which travel and location have, to an extent, become synonymous. In investigating the ideological function of travel as a 'discourse of displacement', Clifford and Kaplan identify that 'travel' is not merely a name or an action of a particular one thing, but a complex metaphor with a mobility of meanings (l+. Arguing that travel and location are not synonymous, then, means that the process of redefining travel casts a different light on the tendency of literary critics to consider discourses of travel writing as mediated only through experiences of foreign travel. Recently, Jean-Didier Urbain attacked what he calls the 'spatial absolutism' of literary critics who so far have considered only 'i) the distant or foreign nature of travel - i.e. travelling means approaching a distant place, "over there"'; or, 'ii) the notion of breaking away - i.e. travel means leaving, getting out, breaking loose from the inside, 65 In Cultural Studies, ed. by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson and Paula A. Treichler (New York: Routledge, 1992), (105). Kaplan quoting Clifford from 'Notes on Theory and Travel', Inscriptions, 5 (1989), (179) in Questions of Travel, 168. A similar argument for travel and location not being synonymous as 'sites to be travelled to, around and through; cultures as the object of detours; cultures as places to visit and come back from' is made by Celia Lury in 'The Objects of Travel', in Touring Cultures: Transformations of Travel and Theory, ed. by Chris Rojek and John Urry (London: Routledge, 1997), (75).

38 37 escaping, moving away from a fixed here, existing outside'. 67 Insisting that there are multiple ontologies of travel including 'iii) simply the movement of the journey itselfi.e. travelling means crossing, wandering, strolling, stepping over, shifting beyond, going on the road, or even carving out one's own road', Urbain suggests that redefining travel and thus travel writing to include 'more modest journeys' is essential 'in order that one day an open anthropology of travel may be elaborated'. 68 Certainly for home tours, understanding that 'travel' is not hinged on a particular location is vital as the very nature of the tour as a circuit, or a journey from home, through a series of spaces and back again, de-privileges the notion of one single location which defines the trip. Thus, moving towards a more open anthropology of 'travel', scholars like Cli ord and Kaplan, who state that travel mustn't rely on locations for definition, combine with scholars like Mary Louise Pratt, who argues that travel writing mustn't rely on a discourse of difference for definition, and together they approach a definition of travel writing which ousts place from a position of importance in its meaning. 69 Essentially, travel writing doesn't have to be about other places (it can, for example, be about 'home'), nor does it have to be about places at all. In redefining travel and thus travel writing in light of these kinds of scholarly inquiry, places are and will always be a part of travelling and travel writing, but crucially, travel writing, as a kind of writing, is not defined by the fact that these places are features of the writing. Referring back to Derrida's law of genre, neither an other place, nor any place at all, is the 'Voilã! I belong' signal which a Structuralist critic might seek in order to define a genre. Having redefined travel not simply as 'going to' but as many different kinds of movements in and about a series of spaces, place loses its defining grip on the meaning of travel and is reconfigured to be just one of many features of the genre of travel writing. Moving towards a more open anthropology of travel and therefore travel writing, certain assumptions about what travel is, and what travel writing might consist of, begin to fall away. In this process of genre reconfiguration, the notion of 'travel writing' as a species of writing which is identifiable by certain key features is destabilised as meanings of travel expand to accommodate more and more different kinds of travelling, and therefore different kinds of travel writing. Sensing this process 67 Jean-Didier Urbain, '1 Travel Therefore I am: The "Nomad Mind" and the Spirit of Travel', Studies in Travel Writing, 4(2000), (143). Ibid., There is a difference between 'location' and 'place' in this explanation. 'Location' refers to a particular place - a town or a country, for example - whereas 'place' abstracts this concept by referring to a particular position or point in space. See The New Oxford Dictionary of English, ed. by Judy Pearsall (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998).

39 of genre expansion, Todorov suggests that redefining travel and therefore travel writing in this way begins a never-ending spiral of meaning which cannot be resolved: What is not a journey? As soon as one attributes an extended figurative meaning to the word - and no one has never been able to refrain from doing so - the journey coincides with life, no more, no less: is life anything more than the passage from birth to death? movement in space is the first sign, the easiest sign, of change; in this sense journey and narrative imply one another. The journey in space symbolizes the passing of time; physical movement symbolizes interior change; everything is a journey, but as a result thus 'everything' has no specific identity.7 Arguing here against 'extended figurative meanings' of travel, Todorov identifies that once we start abstracting travel as simply 'movement in space' then definitions of what travel is begin to pile up until everything, figuratively speaking, is travelling. What Todorov fails to consider, however, is that there is a difference between metaphors of travel and the ideology of travel, and whilst deconstructing the former means that definitions of travel could spiral into eternity, deconstructing the latter is useful for expanding its definition without losing some sense of how different defliutions are problematic, but how they nevertheless fit together to create a kind ofjigsaw of multiple meanings. Todorov's nervousness that redefining the journey as simply 'movement in space' results in a dissolution of meaning is also questionable. Recently scholars working within cultural geography have argued that travel and travel writing can be approached through geography as the representation of movement through space. The section which follows will suggest that it is possible to redefine travel and thus travel writing not just by collating a number of different definitions of 'travel' to build a more inclusive, wide-ranging genre, but also by abstracting the relationship between newlydefined 'travel' and writing as the representation of space. As with 'travel', 'space' has a number of different definitions in different contexts, and many of these will be considered below before I suggest a way to adopt the metaphor of 'space' to the discoprses of travel writing, and specifically, the discourses of eighteenth-century home travels. 38 Cultural Geography, Travel Writing and 'Space' Scholars working within the field of cultural geography became interested in travel writing as the representation of space in the 1990s. Critical works such as Writing Worlds: Discourse, Text and Metaphor in the Representation of Landscape (1992), 70 Todorov, 'The Journey and its Narratives', 287.

40 Place Culture Representation (1993), Geographical Imaginations (1994) and Writes of Passage: Reading Travel Writing (1999) use Post-Structuralist theories to argue that all kinds of geographical writing, including travel writing, are imaginative geographies.7' Including readings of guide books and other kinds of travel writing alongside geographical surveys and maps, studies such as these shifted travel writing away from discourses of literature towards an abstracted, geographical notion of travel writing as writing space. Observing the opportunity for this kind of interdisciplinarity, Derek Gregory comments that: Geography [...] is not confined to any one discipline [...]. We routinely make sense of places, spaces and landscapes in our every day lives - in different ways and for different purposes - and these 'popular geographies' are as important to the conduct of social life as are our understanding of (say) biography and history. 72 As Gregory implies, re-engaging other disciplines, such as travel writing, with geography can re-direct the critical gaze away from discourses of literature, towards a more abstracted relationship between the act of travelling and the process of writing travel. To a certain extent, abstracting travel and the wrth.ng of travel in this way strips travel writing down to a basic relationship between moving through space and writing space, where 'space' is a metaphor for 'place' or 'places'. By adopting this metaphor, particular places - countries, regions, towns or villages - lose their specificity in favour of kinds of spaces - colonial spaces, urban spaces or unpopulated spaces, for example. In this process of abstraction, travel writing extends work done in ethnography and linguistics to deconstruct the meaning of 'travel' as 'travel to', and as a result finds that as a kind of writing it is defined even less by its relationship with particular loations. kdefining travel writing as writing space, however, is problematic when 'space' is considered only to be a metaphor for 'place' or kinds of places. Investigating the many definitions of 'space' exposes how it is as complex a metaphor as travel in terms of having multiple, often contradictory, meanings. According to The New Oxford Dictionary of English, 'space' is a 'continuous area or expanse which is free, available or unoccupied'; 'the dimensions of height, depth, and width within which all things exist and move'; an 'interval of time'; and 'the freedom and scope to think, and develop in a way that suits one.' Thus definitions of 'space' include geographical blankness, mathematical volume, a period of time, and a rather New-Agey idea about personal 39 Ed. by J. S. Duncan and Trevor J. Barnes (London: Routledge, 1992); ed by J. S. Duncan and David Ley (London: Routledge, 1993); by Derek Gregoiy (Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1994); ed by James Duncan and David Gregory (London. Routledge, 1999). 72 Gregory, Geographical Imaginations, 11.

41 freedom. Nowhere in these definitions is 'space' simply another word for 'place' - as a particular point in space - unless that space happens to be the kind of 'available or unoccupied' space referred to in the first definition. As Caren Kaplan observes, this meaning of 'space' is more often than not the default meaning: The European tradition takes a certain notion of space for granted. The great open emptiness of the desert, sea, or sky has inspired metaphors of infinity and timelessness that alternately inspire and terrify the post-enlightenment subject. Regardless of the emotion that is engendered, space is assumed to be there: a substance that is relatively immune to the workings of time unless culture perpetrates its crimes against space by spoiling, crowding, polluting and inscribing its presence onto or into that blank expanse.73 Assuming that space is simply 'there' - as a blank area waiting to be filled - is also inherently problematic, however, as it supposes that when that blank is occupied by something or someone passing through it, only then does it become a 'place'. Edward Casey defines 'place' as 'what human beings create when (for largely utilitarian motives) they set about determining the distance between the position of things', and thus 'place' is a part of space which emerges when space becomes occupied. 74 Echoing, then, the problematic definition of travel as ultimately tied in with location ('travel to'), imagining space as an expanse to be filled repeats the idea that locations or places are illuminated or given meaning only when an outsider occupies or reaches that particular point in space. Historians of the philosophy of place and space identify this definition of space as Newtonian, meaning that it is perceived as a kind of empty container awaiting action within it. 75 As this notion of space as a container relies on space as somehow remaining fixed and stable, geographers identify this Newtonian concept as a 'taken-forgrantedness' of space which is related closely to the politics of capitalism which historically has perceived the blankness of space in terms of its potential for generating profit. 76 This metaphorical meaning of 'space', then, with its Newtonian definition as blank potential, relies on the spaces which travellers move through as being fixed in place and somehow awaiting their arrival. Having already re-defined travel as something which cannot assume fixed locations and static places, abstracting travel writing as the representation of space in this context only contradicts the efforts made to 40 Kaplan, Questions of Travel, 147. Edward S. Casey, The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 165. " See Paula R Backscheider, Probability. Time and Space in Eighteenth-Century Literature (New York: AMS Press, 1979) and Casey, The Fate of Place. 76 For example Neil Smith and Cindi Katz, 'Grounding Metaphor: Towards a Spatiahzed Politics', in Place and the Politics of Identity, ed by Michael Keith and Steve Piles (London: Routledge, 1993), (75) and Edward Soja and Barbara Hooper, 'The Spaces that Difference Makes: Some Notes on the Geographical Margins of the New Cultural Politics', ibid,

42 make 'travel' a more inclusive metaphor for movement and struggles to achieve the open anthropology of travel writing which will benefit home travels. Using a metaphor of space to abstract a relationship between travel and writing, however, does not mean having to rely on the Newtonian definition of 'space' as a contained area. Recently, scholars working within geography, ethnography and philosophy have worked to rethink the metaphorical meanings of space in order to advance a definition which does not assume that space is essentially fixed and inert. Doreen Massey, for example, urges us to think about space not as contained, but as a series of spaces, relative to each other, whose veiy relativism gives 'space' its meaning. In Space, Place and Gender (1994), Massey argues that 'thinking in terms of relations' is a strategy for 'rethinking the concepts of place and space' because by imagining that neither space nor place are fixed concepts, these terms regain metaphorical currency by resisting one single definition. 77 In philosophicail definitions of 'space', the relationship between place and space is similarly not fixed. Michel de Certeau in The Practice of Everyday Life (1974) defines space as 'intersectons of mobile elements' whereby space becomes when it is a 'practiced place': A space exists when one takes into consideration vectors of direction, velocities, and time variables. [...] It is in a sense actuated by the ensemble of movements deployed within it. Space occurs as the effect produced by the operations that orientate it, situate it, temporalize it, and make it function in a polyvalent unity of conflictual programs or contractual proximities.78 In Certeau's philosophy of space, the Newtonian idea of space as a container is reconceived so that space is not simply there awaiting action, but is produced by the activity which radiates from a configuration of practiced places. Marc Augé describes Certeau's philosophy of space as 'a frequentation of places rather than a place', suggesting that for Certeau, places are there in an endless possibility of configurations, but space is not until those configurations are recognised. 79 According to Augé, places are those spaces 'formed by individual identities, through complicities of language, local references, the unfonnulated rules of living know-how' which in Certeau's scheme are configured to make up 'space'. 8 Thus 'space' in these philosophies is both abstract and anthropological as it defines the configuration of places which Certeau descnbes, but then also produces it as the outcome of these 41 (Padstow: Polity Press, 1994; repr. 1998), 7. Trans by Steven Randall (Berkeley University of Los Angeles Press, 1984; repr. 1988), 117. Marc Augé, Non-Places: An Introduction to the Anthropology of Supermodernity, trans. by John Howe 'ondon: Verso, 1995; repr. 2000), 85. Ibid., 101

43 42 same configurations. Far from simply being an empty vessel in the Newtonian definition, 'space', then, is both a concept and an active force made by those people and those things (plants, animals and other natural phenomena) which occupy it. This definition of space, as forwarded by Certeau, is reinforced by Henri Lefebvre in his seminal work The Production of Space (1974) which argues that space is not passive or empty, but in fact is a kind of 'energy' which is bound up with both social relationships and property relationships. Lefebvre's idea of abstract space as 'the space of exchange value' will be reconsidered in the section following this in light of eighteenth-century ideas and definitions of space, but for now serves to illustrate the fact that space is not necessarily inert or passive in the traditional Newtonian sense.81 As the metaphorical meaning of space expands to suggest that it is no longer something fixed, its suitability as a metaphor for travel begins to gain currency. If 'travel' is redefined as simply 'movement through space', then that 'space' is no longer a blank expanse of nowhere which a traveller enlivens with his or her footprints, and neither is that 'space' simply a catch-all phrase for one or a number of geo-political locations which a traveller passes through (what we might most simply refer to as 'places'). Reconsidering the metaphorical meaning of space to suggest that it is not fixed, inert or passive means that all places are re-endowed with a parity of meaning which pre-exists the traveller's arrival. Reinforcing this redefinition of abstract space as active, recent thinking in cultural geography and sociology suggests that not only is space not fixed and inert as in Newton's container, but also that space is diachronic, or subject to change through time. Massey's notion of spatial relativism, referred to earlier in this section, is expanded by her subsequent insistence that a metaphorical meaning of space be developed which includes its analogous definition as an interval of time. Acknowledging that space and time are usually dichotomous - 'Time Marc1es On but space is a kind of stasis, where nothing really happens' - Massey suggests that we resist this binary difference in favour of a 'four-dimensionality' where 'spatiality and temporality are different from each other but neither can be conceptualized as the absence of the other'. 82 Auge supports Massey's temporalization of space when he states that 'all relations that are inscribed in space are also inscribed in time', and thus by throwing time into the mix of the metaphorical meaning of space, both abstract and ' Trans. by Donald Nicholson-Smith (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), for example, 13 and 85. See also Gregory, Geographical Imaginations, 402. In 'Politics and SpacelTime', in Place and the Poliiics of Identity, ed by Michael Keith and Steve Piles (London: Routledge, 1993), (145) and (155).

44 43 real space is acknowledged as being something which does not stand still. 83 From a metaphorical point of view, then, redefining travel as 'movement through space' in light of Massey's and Augé's notions of the relationship between space and time makes sense. In travelling, movement through space and time is synchronised because where and when are the most pressing concerns of any travellers' itineraiy. Whether travelling for pleasure, commuting, shopping, visiting, wandering or strolling, time factors in on the experience of travel in equal measure with space, as time determines the smooth running of a touring itinerary, or governs the possibility of occupying certain spaces at certain times. In terms of the modem holiday, for example, time is arguably the most important factor for many of us who consider not merely where we might be able to go, but perhaps more pressingly, for how long. Moreover, the relationship between time and space in any experience of travelling is intrinsically revealed by calculating velocity - it will take this amount of time to get there - and is a familiar equation whether one is considering how long will be spent on the motorway, or indeed, how far one might be able to walk before the sun goes down. In conclusion, looking at the meaning of 'travel' through a geographical lens means deconstructing the ideologies behind its traditional meanings to arrive at a different working definition of travel as 'movement through space'. In this abstracted definition, many different kinds of travelling are included: metaphorically, movement through space works as well for exploring foreign lands as it does for commuting to work, or visiting friends and neighbours just around the corner. In this new definition, the question of where (locations and places) remains a part of the travelling, but its importance recedes as 'space' is identified not simply as another word for place, but also as a metaphor for time and the relationship between space and tine. In this reconfigured meaning of space, other aspects of travelling such as movement (motion) and duration are exposed as parts of the experience of travel which are often overlooked in favour of the question of where?. In the section which follows I will consider how this new definition benefits a reading of home travels in the context of eighteenthcentury culture. Arguing that late eighteenth-century British culture was a 'travelling culture', I will consider how this culture produced home travels as literary discourse in a way which engages with the idea of 'travel' as movement through space. Augé, Non-Places, 58.

45 44 4. Culture A travelling culture and a travel writing culture: Reading the discourses of eighteenth-century home travels as travel writing Redefining travel as movement through space is a process of abstraction which has a number of consequences for the subsequent redefinition of travel writing. As 'travel' is redefined as multiple kinds of journeys, so travel writing, as the representation of movement through space in writing, becomes many different kinds of text. In the first section of this chapter I argued that eighteenth-century home travels were part of a heterogeneous culture of travel writing which included many different forms - letters, journals, books, itineraries, maps - and many different features - surveys, chorographies, topographies, fiction - within the same, loosely defined, genre. With a new working definition of travel writing, then, all of these forms and ways of writing can be included as 'travel writing' so that their differences are acknowledged, but their similarities as a mode of production are also recognised. What remains to be considered, however, is the gap between the travelling and the representation of the travelling in writing: how is movement through space written; and how, in particular, were eighteenth-century home travels produced as travel writing within this methodology? In answering these questions, and in order to forward a way of reading these kinds of texts, this section will engage with a number of factors which help to contextualise the production of home travels in eighteenth-century British culture. In the first place, I want to suggest that eighteenth-century British culture was a 'travelling culture' which, in James Clifford's meaning of the phrase, engaged with travelling in a myriad of different ways eveiyday. Within this culture, space, and one's movement through it, was consumed and produced as a number of different discourses, one of which was travel writing. In considering how home travels were produced as part of this culture, I draw on ideas forwarded by Michel de Certeau and Michel Butor about the relationship between moving and writing, in order to explain how eighteenth-century British travelling subjects produced their home travels as travel writing, and particularly as travel journals. Suggesting that these journals are evidence of a mode of production and way of writing which bears out a methodology of travel writing as representing movement through space, I will then identify what I consider the dominant discourses of this kind of writing to be. This final section of the critical and theoretical context for reading home travels thus introduces the next part of my study which puts this

46 45 methodology of reading home tours and travel narratives to work on specific examples of eighteenth-century home travels in light of the dominant discourses I have identified. Throughout all of this, it is my argument that reading such texts as the representation of movement through space makes the most of what I consider the most important and interesting, though often neglected, aspects of these texts to be. Thus the quotation from John Byng which opened this chapter echoes through every part of my study to suggest that in late eighteenth-century Britain, home travel writers like Byng had a confidence in their own texts as a way of writing and a mode of production, which it is the purpose of this section to explain. Late Eighteenth-Century Britain as a Travelling Culture To suggest that late eighteenth-century Britain was a 'travelling culture' is to apply James Clifford's idea about non-static societies to suggest that movement through space for the people who lived in Britain at this time was an important part of everyday life. As I have already detailed elsewhere in this chapter, many histories of eighteenthcentury culture identify how travelling at this time was an important concern for British people, and they focus especially on how Britons partook of the Grand Tour, voyages of exploration or trade, or Picturesque tours at home, as part of a culture which enjoyed different kinds of travelling all over the world. What these studies don't consider, however, is how movement through space affected Britons at this time as part of everyday life, how even staying at home, even staying within one's own houce, or town, or city was related in various ways to the idea of a travelling culture. In ever expanding degrees of movement, late eighteenth-century Britons were a people continually, often eccentrically, on the move. The peculiarities of fashion, for example, often dictated that people should keep constantly in motion: the habit of 'taking a turn about the room' in a London mansion, or country house; promenading around the grounds of a private or public garden (like Vauxhall); walking up and down the lengths of a Bath or Harrogate pump room; or strolling around the periphery of the Ranelagh Rotunda, as in this observation from a German tourist visiting the Chelsea attraction for the first time: {L]ike a solemn watcher of the world, I looked down on the concourse still turning round and round in circles. [... J Old and young, nobility and commoners, I saw them all crossing and recrossing in a motley swarm.m Carl Philip Moritz, 'A Walking-tour of England in 1782', in Journeys of a German in England, trans. by Reglnald Nettel (London: Eland Books. 1983), 46. Further references to this are cited parenthetically in the text. An example of people 'taking a turn about the room' is the following invitation from Miss Bingley to Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice: 'Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my

47 46 As this comment from Carl Moritz suggests, for anyone visiting an attraction such as Ranelagh, an odd commitment to perpetual motion was expected as one enjoyed the music or other entertainments laid on within the Rotunda. Similarly when visiting a public garden like Vauxhall, or the Bath pump room, a continual slow-walk was expected of those who consumed such pleasures, as if stopping to stand still would clumsily interrupt the flow of the socialising. Outside of fashionable habits such as these, however, movement rippled throughout society in ever-expanding degrees of movement. Roy Porter notes that, at this time, society was mobile for all classes as people moved from place to place in search of work or a better life: 'Turnover was rapid: "movers" outnumbered "stayers" [...] Most migration was local, creeping caterpillar-like towards the larger towns. But the brave ventured over the hills and far U away, to London, to sea, or off to the colonies'. As examples of how mobile people's lives were, Porter calculates that in the late eighteenth century, seventy percent of the population of Cardington in Bedfordshire had been born elsewhere; also that forty percent of the population of Clayworth in Nottinghamshire had changed parish in their lifetime. For those who moved in search of work, the nature of seasonal employment ensured regular movement between farm work in the countryside and other kinds of labouring in the towns or cities. For domestic servants, movement was also guaranteed as maids and footmen followed their employers from their London home to their country house, and back again, or else they moved between families when their services were no longer required, or they married, or moved on to pursue promotions. Aside from movement in search of work, movement in accordance with polite society affected the gentry and the aristocracy as those who lived in London left town each summer in favour of their country residence, or to occupy rented rooms in Bath or Brighton. Even those living outside London followed a complicated routine of socialising and visiting which ensured that the family chaise was constantly in use. Amanda Vickery's study of example, and take a turn about the room - I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude', ed. by Vivien Jones (London Penguin, 1996), 49 The 'processional spaces' of pump rooms is briefly discussed by Ann Bermingham in 'The Aesthetics of Ignorance: The Accomplished Woman in the Culture of Connoisseurship', OxfordArt Journal, 16 (1993), 3-20 (4). In English Society in the Eighteenth Century, rev. edn (London: Penguin, 1990), 38. G. E. Mingay also argues that the eighteenth century was a 'mobile' society in Land and Society in England (New York: Longman, 1994), 8. See Jean J. Hecht, The Domestic Servant Class in Eighteenth-Century England (London: Routledge, 1956) and 'Elizabeth Shackleton's Servant Information Network, ' in Amanda Vickery, The Gentleman's Daughter: Women's Lives in Georgian England (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1998), This source explains how servants moved from situation to situation at the recommendation of past employers, and how women like Elizabeth Shackleton would recommend or seek out servants by writing letters to their friends living at neighbouring estates, often across a number of counties.

48 47 Elizabeth Shackleton's visiting network in north east Lancashire and Yorkshire, for example, calculates that Shackleton's visiting schedule was not affected by her advancing age, or by her moving from the family home to a new residence in Vickery notes that Shackleton's '[ejncounters with individuals other than co-resident kin and servants jumped from a total of 150 a year in 1773, to 226 in 1780', indicating that a staggering number of ceremonious and friendly visits were made and dutifully recorded by this elderly lady. 87 Other more famous, late eighteenth-century figures such as Hester Thrale, Fanny Burney, James Boswell and John Byng, similarly led mobile lives. For the women, moving between a series of 'homes' (family, marital, second, friends') was common place, and meant that these women were often on the gq; for men like l3oswell and Byng, taking up positions in the army (or trying to), and travelling around the country for work - Boswell served as Recorder of Carlisle between 1788 and or simply moving around fulfilling duties to friends and family in other parts of the country, as Byng did, meant that many days of every year were spent in motion. That Thrale, Burney, Boswell and Byng made these kinds of movements alongside home tours carried out purely for pleasure is perhaps surprising when their lives were already a series of journeys anyway. What these examples serve to illustrate, however, is that eighteenth-century culture was not divided into those who travelled and those who didn't, where travel is identified as a pursuit which only a certain class of people do for pleasure. Noting that people of all classes led mobile lives for one reason or another contextualises the kind of eighteenth-century home travels which this thesis will consider as part of this culture of continual, and often routine, movement. For a nation on the go, then, 'home travels' is an inclusive term for all kinds of movement through space, though the home travels which are the subject of this thesis are only those that were performed by a privileged few as tours of curiosity, pleasure, or health, it is important to stress that these tours were often made into tours of pleasure to make the most of a necessary journey performed for other reasons. Furthermore, a simple equation of privileged travelling with travelling for pleasure fails to account for the fact that many of these kinds of home travels were not performed simply for the sake of pleasure, but were often arranged in order to 'get away' from home, or out of a peculiar kind of compulsion to be always on the move, or always to write about being 87 Ibid., 205 Hester Thrale's trip to North Wales in 1784 was ostensibly a tour of duty as she was required to inspect property she had recently inherited. Similarly, Fanny Burney's 'Western Tour' in 1791 was as much a visiting trip, and a tour to the seaside in search of health, as it was simply a tour of different places out of curiosity.

49 48 on the move. John Byng's habit of touring, which sometimes meant he took to the road as often as twice a year, was motivated by a desire to flee his desk job in London, and also to escape his wife's endless rounds of socialising, and his mother-in-law's eccentric London lifestyle. 89 Byng's journals, like those of Caroline Powys which detail an inordinate amount of country house visiting during her many travels, suggest that there is rather more at work in terms of a discourse of pleasure besides a simple assumption about 'going away' for fun. 9 The sheer volume of writing produced by both of these travellers indicates the possibility that rather than travelling to get away, or to satisfy a curiosity for different places, both of these subjects travelled to write - just as many authors travelled, like Dr. Syntax, in order to publish a book - and that this wnting perhaps was a kind of compulsive behaviour, rather like endlessly making lists, or keeping a personal diary. That the journals which both of these travelling subjects kept have a close relationship with other kinds of life writing at this time is significant, and is discussed in more detail later in this chapter. For now, however, its important to use the travelling habits of figures like Byng and Powys to illustrate that the kind of travelling which we most usually classify as 'touring', and therefore identify as 'pleasurable' rather than 'routine', is not necessarily a stable identification of difference. Certainly in the case of home travels, routine visits to friends and family could turn into, or be made into, a tour if one wished, just as touring the country twice a year, every year, in one life time could become a habit, routine or even a compulsion which it is now difficult to explain. Most importantly, perhaps, travelling which was not routine sometimes came out of travelling which was, and only by thinking of the late eighteenth century as a 'travelling culture' does this kind of a relationship between the routine and the 'pleasurable' begin to make sense. Late eighteenth-century Britain's identity as a 'travelling culture' was maintained during this time by significant improvements in travel and conimunications. 9' Innovations in types of carriages, and the smooth-running of 'public' Byng's relationship with his wife, Bridget, and his mother in law, the eccentric, 'lewd' and fast-living Juliana Forrest is discussed by Andrews in his introduction to The Torringion Diaries, I, xxxiv. 9 See Chloe Chard's discussion of the many discourses of 'pleasure' which engaged Grand Tourists at this time in her introduction to Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour, FL L. Beales notes that during the eighteenth century, extensive road-building was undertaken, especially following the '45, to make all parts of Britain accessible by carnage. Following the building of new roads, public transport also improved considerably: in 1740, the London to Bath, London to Bristol, and London to Dover coach services operated three return coaches a week on each route, the Dover route increasing in the summer months to run three coaches, three times a week. By the 1 780s, and especially following the introduction of John Palmer's sprung Mail Coach in 1784, the frequency of coach services such as these increased considerably as coach-drivers now felt safe to operate through the night, and were no longer prohibited from running services on a Sunday. The fhst and efficient services operated by the Mail Coach meant that it was possible to travel from London to Newcastle in 3 days, when in earlier

50 transport, occupied Britain's collective imagination at the end of the century as getting about the country safely and quickly became both more achievable, whilst, at the same time, also becoming a popular discourse of complaint and frustration. hnprovements in communications were vital to eighteenth-century British culture as the continual and efficient movement of people and goods was troped in economic discourse as a metaphor of healthy circulation. Comparing the health of the nation with medical discourse about the human body, Ava Lee Arndt suggests eighteenth-century culture understood that 'nourishment comes from circulation, or movement itself', meaning that the maintenance of a navigable system of roads, and a reliable system of public transport, was vital to maintaining social and economic health. 92 Certainly efficient communications made very basic differences to the smooth running of people's lives. Caroline Powys, for example, records in her diary how the severe winter of 1776 meant that she was forced to manage without certain provisions whilst the roads were covered with snow. Going without letters or 'any news' for ten days, the Powys' family standard of living was only recovered when 'on the fifteenth day the butcher sent over two men with a little beef and veal'. 93 Similarly, any disruption to public transport, however slight, was recorded in local newspapers with a degree of care which testifies to both a local and a wider concern for maintaining 'healthy circulation'. In one Bristol newspaper from 1770, for example, the following reasons were given for the late arrival of the post: The London Mail did not arrive so soon by several hours on Monday, owing to the mailman getting a little intoxicated on his way between Newbury and Marlborough and falling from his horse into a hedge, where he was found asleep, by means of his dog.94 As this example suggests, detailing the mailman's transgressive behaviour is not merely idle gossip or comic reportage, but most importantly is evidence of a fear that the post wouldn't get through at all. Mail coaches would often travel with an anned guard to protect the letters they carried, again exposing how the letters which they transported were both very valuable and yet also terrifyingly insecure. As news, letters of business, 49 decades it had taken at least 6. Similarly, travelling from London to Birmingham, which had taken 2 days in 1752, took only 19 hours after Palmer's Mail Coaches were so efficient that Beales suggests that people would set their watches by their arrival and departure times. From 'Travel and Communications', in Johnson's England: An Account of the Life and Manners of hisage, ed. bya. S. Turbeiville, 2vols (O,cford: Clarendon Press, 1933),!, , especially (travelling times, 140). In 'Pennies, Pounds and Peregrinations: Circulation in Eighteenth-Century Literature and Culture', a PhD thesis submitted to QMW, University of London (1999), n Passages from the Diaries ofmr Philip Lybbe Powys of Hardwick House, Oxon., AD 1756 to 1808, ed. by Emily J. Clinienson (London: Longman's, Green & Co., 1899), From Bristol Royal Mail (1770). Quoted by Beales in 'Travel and Communications', 126. tl0 ELI \UMV.J

51 50 money, and people were all carried together in these mail coaches, their prompt arrival was necessary for maintaining healthy systems of circulation which, should they be disrupted, would have had economic and social repercussions for a culture dependent upon its 'travelling' nature.95 Despite, or perhaps because of, improvements in communications, the subject of travel affected all aspects of everyday life, and maintaining a healthy system of communication was thus a matter of national security. Expectations were high about the kinds of services one could expect from efficient mail coaches, yet an increase in consumer demand for the roads also assured profiteering from the independently owned turnpike trusts which charged tolls to those travelling independently on certain roads. As using turnpikes made travelling expensive Porter notes that 'in 1774 it cost Parson Woodforde a stiff 4 8s. to cover the 100 miles from Oxford down to Castle Cary in Somerset by postchaise' - so Parliament sought to keep control of the different prices asked by the different trusts, and indeed the violent protests which sometimes occurred at the toll-gate. Anyone charged with attacking a toll-gate officer more than once could be hanged, and travel-related rioting was an all-too-frequent occurrence because of the positioning of toll-gates, where one would need to make six payments between London and Brighton, for example, but then also the same amount of payments between London and York, despite the fact that this journey is probably four times longer than the other. As the number of roads increased, so did the number of wheeled vehicles travelling on them (indeed the roads were largely built to make room for this increase in wheeled transport). After the mid-eighteenth century, virtually all wheeled vehicles were sprung, thus relieving people of an otherwise bone-shaking experience and ensuring that travelling was no longer avoided as it once had been. The arrival of the Mail Coach also meant that the once incommodious business of travel was no longer a necessary evil, but rather a dynamic business fed by consumer choice. For the first time ever perhaps, travel was made to serve the people who needed it and on their terms, so that a last minute decision to travel from the South to the North could be made one day and executed and completed within the next 48 hours. The names of Palmer's Mail Coaches hint not only at their importance, but also at the potential for order they represented: Highfliers, Defiances, Hopes, Perseverances, Regulators, Good Intents, ' Amdt also identifies how efficient communications facilitated the circulation of things, information and order via the movement of goods, circulating libraries and judges, respectively. In 'Pennies, Pounds and Peregrinations', Porter, English Society in the Eighteenth-Ceniuy, 192. Porter notes that there were 109 Turnpike Acts between 1720 and 1750 and 389 Acts between 1751 and 1772.

52 these names signal a travelling culture's refusal in the late eighteenth century to be held to ransom - sometimes literally - by the ordeal of travelling. Despite such improvements and optimistically-named carriages, travelling remained an ordeal which produced discourses of fear, frustration and complaint. In the 1770s, as more and more carriages took to the roads, and only those with the means to pay the fares on the mail coach, or the tolls of the turnpikes, occupied them, highway robbery became a dreaded, though often expected, event. Horace Walpole remarked that 'one is forced to travel, even at noon, as if one were going to battle', as the expensive privilege of moving through space became increasingly dangerous. 98 Yet in spite of the precautions someone like Walpole would take before embarking on a journey - employing an armed-guard, for example, or concealing his wealth by travelling in a plain carnage - travelling in the late eighteenth century nevertheless was increasingly concerned with the wealth of its various consumers and the differences between them. Perhaps because travel was slowly becoming available to more people - it was only id per mile to travel in the lumbering Flying Waggon - the way a person travelled suddenly came under closer scrutiny as a way of signifying social status. For one German tourist visiting England in 1782, the difference between those who travelled in style, and those who travelled on a budget, was made very obvious to him as he tried to pursue his walking tour. Finding himself hissed at on the road, and denied rooms at inns because he did not arrive in the coach yard in a carriage, Carl Philip Montz was confused and horrified to find himself treated with contempt because he travelled on foot: Now, my friend, writing to you from here, I have already undergone so many hardships as a pedestrian that I am undecided whether to continue in the manner or not. A pedestrian seems in this country to be a sort of beast of passage - stared at, pitied, suspected and shunned by everybody who meets him. So at least it has proved on my way from Richmond to Windsor. (110) 51 The names of Palmer's Mail Coaches are reported by Rosamond Bayne-Powell in Travellers in Eighteenth-Century England 18. Walpole quoted by Roy Porter in English Society in the Eighteenth Century, 17. Rosamond Bayne- Powell suggests that the prices for travel in the mid eighteenth centuly were is 6d per mile in a hired post-chaise (before tips); 2 or 3d per mile in the stagecoach (half this price if you were prepared to sit on top of the coach); and 1 d per mile in the cheapest option, the Flying Waggon, in Travellers in Eighteenth- Century England, 10 and 21. H. L. Beales reports that prices rose considerably after 1760 (141), but also quotes Arthur Young in 1767 to suggest that as travel options proliferated, even those who could afford very little were catered for: 'a country fellow, one hundred miles from London, jumps on to a coach-box in the morning, and for eight or ten shillings gets to town by night', from The Fanner's Letters to the People of England(1767). Quoted by Beaks in 'Travel and Communications', 128.

53 Overhearing himself described as a 'poor travelling creature' at an inn later in the tour, Moritz gradually comes to realise that rather than associating his walking with leisure, inn-keepers and fellow-travellers alike assume that he is walking because he can't even afford the id per mile fare on the Flying Waggon, or worse still, because he his homeless - 'all the tragedy of a man with no native place' 99 In a period, then, before walking was common as a leisure pursuit, travelling on foot when you could pay your way made little sense to a culture txying to keep up with innovations in public travel and a choice of fancy carnages.' Moritz's suspicion that he is treated with contempt as a pedestrian because walking is thought to signify his lack of wealth, is confirmed when he witnesses the reception of chaise-driving passengers au the inn at Nettlebed: While I was eating, a post-chaise drove up to the inn, and immediately the whole household started into motion to receive the distinguished guests they heard approaching. But the gentlemen got out only for a moment, called for nothing more than a couple of pots of beer and then drove on again. But if you come in a post-chaise you are treated with all possible respect! (124) For the inn-keeper, of course, customers arriving in expensive carriages are potentially bigger-spenders than those arriving on foot. Simply because carnage-drivers require the use of ostlers and stables, and because their owners and their servants will all need feeding, there is more money to be made from this kind of party if they stop for a while. Nevertheless, making an assumption about how much people might spend based on how they arrive is not the same thing as assuming that everyone who arrives on foot is homeless. Moritz's inhospitable tour of England in 1782, however, confirms that in late eighteenth-century Britain, travelling was inextricably tied up with paying to travel as movement through space is revealed as something which is little understood unless it is bought and paid for. 52 Ibid., 174 ' Walking became a legitimate and preferred mode of travel in the last years of the eighteenth century, and the early years of the nineteenth. See Rnbin Jarvis, Romantic Writing and Pedestrian Travel and Anne D Wallace, Walking, Literature and Culture: The Origins and Uses of Peripatetic in the Nineteenth Centwy, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). For an example of how people signified their wealth with a fancy carriage, John Thorpe's description of his second-hand gig in Northanger Abbey (1818) - 'curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work is as good as new, or better' - confirms the notion that carriages were status symbols at this time. Northanger Abbey, ed. by Anne Ehrenpreis (London: Penguin, 1972; repr. 1985), 67. Happily this interest in transport was not just confined to boys and their toys. Caroline Powys reports being delighted with her innovative transport in 1805: 'I drove to Mrs. Innes's in my donkey-chaise, and its being quite a new carriage in this part of the world, I gain'd the attention of every one, and children follow'd me all over the town', in Passages from the Diaries of Mrs. Philip Lybbe Powys, 365.

54 53 The Production of Movement through Space at Home Moritz's example of travelling in Britain in the late eighteenth century suggests that movement through space was produced as a discourse of consumption in line with other aspects of culture at this time. That the eighteenth century was a period in which both the desire and the ability to consume luxury goods were realised is a subject which has received scholarly attention from many critics in recent years.' ' Neil McKendrick observes that the late eighteenth century witnessed a boom in the production and consumption of goods like pottery, porcelain, furniture, textiles and wallpaper because as wages rose and the price of food fell, many more people had the money to buy not merely what they needed, but, more importantly, the things which they had come to desire.' 2 As an important part of this new consumer culture was leisure - the opportunity to buy free time - travel, and especially home touring, was a significant part of this desire to have and to enjoy. J. H. Plumb has suggested that leisure was an industry in itself by 1760 as it became increasingly possible for consumers to spend their money on the theatre, music, horse-racing, and trips to specifically built towns of pleasure, like Bath.' 3 This last example of 'leisure' is particularly important as the space of Bath has been described by Simon Varey as 'a memorial [...j to entrepreneurial capitalism', because it was built and designed to accommodate people at their leisure.' 4 In Bath, the metaphor of travel as movement through space is especially pertinent as the town itself, and, with the extended metaphor of space which is adopted in this thesis, the periods of time which people spent there, are both evidence of the production and consumption of that space, in Henri Lefebvre's, phrase as 'the space of exchange value'. Understanding that Bath was built as a kind of holiday town to which people travelled in order to take the waters and enjoy its entertainments, means that the production and consumption of travel as movement through space becomes intrinsically tied up with the production of space as property. Lefebvre explains that social space is ' ' Including The Birth of a Consumer Society: The Commercialisation of Eighteenth-Century England, ed. by Neil McKendrick, John Brewer and J H. Plumb (London: Europa, 1982), Lorna Weatherill, Consumer Behaviour and Material Culture in Britain (London: Routledge, 1988); Susan Staves, Early Modem Conceptions of Property (London: Routledge, 1995) and The Consumption of Culture: Image, Object, Text, ed by John Brewer and Ann Bermingham (London: Routledge, 1995). 102 McKendrick estimates that from 1750 to 1780 the proportion of the population with incomes of between 50 and 400 per annum increased from 15 to 25%. In 'The Consumer Revolution', in Birth of a Consumer Society, 9-33 (24). 103 j H. Plumb, 'The Commercialisation of Leisure in Eighteenth-Century England, in Birth of a Consumer Society, In Space and the Eighteenih-Century English Novel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 74

55 54 'inherent to property relationships (especially the ownership of the earth, of land) and also closely bound up with forces of production (which impose a form on that earth or land)'. 105 Thus spaces like Bath, and indeed any period of time spent there for leisure, like all the eighteenth-century home travels discussed in this thesis, are bought spaces whether those spaces are physical as in paying to rent a home or more abstract as in paying to buy leisure as both a space of exchange value (seeing a concert, or attending a ball) and a space of time; they are nevertheless part of a discourse of travel which is closely related to discourses of consumerism and property.' 6 Home traveller Richard Joseph Sulivan paused to consider why it was he felt the urge to undertake a tour of Britain in 1780, and he reasoned that travelling satisfied a basic human instinct for nomadism which had been lost since 'societies [...] became stable and resolved', and 'property usurp[ed] the place of every other consideration'.' 7 Arguing, then, that travel somehow cut through the stability which property represented, this comment by Sulivan nevertheless ties in with a related discourse of consumerism, as Sulivan makes it clear that his travelling is of no purpose, but is pure, unadulterated leisure: 'Unoccupied by science, and driven by no necessity to our career, we shall cheerfully skip along the borders of the fair field; stop where our fancy leads us to expatiate, and wander as our faculties and imagination may uphold us for the moment'.' 8 That Sulivan was able to spend five months 'skipping' about the country as he wished was not just a privilege, but perhaps more importantly, indicates that free time was a commodity, and thus a different kind of property, which he could well afford. ' 5 Lefebvre, The Production of Space, The use of 'space' in eighteenth-century discourse is related to extents of distance and extents of time with equal measure. Searching titles in the English Short Title Catalogue [on CD ROMI using the keyword 'space' ( ) reveals that space is often used in this way to indicate a period of time, as in the following examples of a pamphlet from 1753, and a chapbook from 1780: The Discoveries of John Poulter [...] Being a Full Account of the robberies he has committed, and the surprizrng tricks andfrauds he has practised for the space offive years-, and, A New Prophecy: or, an Account of a Young Girl, not above eight years of age, who being in a trance, or lay as dead for the space of 48 hours. 'Space' was also used to refer to volume or distance, as in the following example from Samuel Johnson's 'A Journey into North Wales in the Year 1773', describing the grounds at Hawkestone: 'There were from space to space seats in the rock', in Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale 's Tour in North Wales 1774, ed. by Adrian Bnstow (Ciwyd: Bridge Books, 1995), (35). Edward Casey in The Fate of Place points out that during the eighteenth century, philosophies of space gradually redefined space in contrast with place. Casey suggests that by the end of the period space was irrevocably separated from place as the latter came to represent precise locality, and space was redefined to represent something more universal and abstract (77-78). Paula R. Backscheider, in Probability, Time and Space in Eighteenth-Century Literature, (New York: AMS Press, 1979) agrees with Casey's reading of philosophical space but points out that ideas about the relativism of space forwarded by Kant at the end of the century only caine to be generally accepted in the nineteenth century, and that for the duration of the eighteenth-century the Newtonian idea of space as a container dominated scientific discourse ( ) ' 7 [Richard Joseph Sulivan], Observations Made During a Tour Through Parts of England, Scotland and Wales in a Series of Letters (London: for 1. Becket, 1780), 3. ' 8 1b,d., 5-6.

56 In eighteenth-century culture, then, movement through space, like space itself, is produced as a number of discourses which range from the idea of movement as healthy circulation, to the idea of travelling as leisure time and a kind of personal property. Linking all of these discourses is Lefebvre's idea that space is meaningless until it is produced, and that during these different processes of production, space has form imposed upon it, either through the building of roads which will help national 'circulation', or indeed the production of maps which will help people like Sulivan make Britain's roads his own as he travels the country as a pleasure-seeking tourist. 109 In Lefebvre's understanding of social space, both the acquisition of space as property, and the production of that space by imposing 'form' upon it, are different, though related, methods of owning contained areas of land. By comparison, in Simon Varey's reading of eighteenth-century space through the architecture of Bath and the novels of Henry Fielding and Samuel Richardson, it is suggested that in eighteenth-century Britain, people not only defined themselves by the spaces which they owned and protected - the contained areas of land - but also had a 'habit of spatial thinking' which extended beyond the boundaries of their homes and gardens into all aspects of life, including the way in which they read novels and wrote letters." Arguing that Bath was built to advertise and promote middle class civility and order through its imposition of form on space, Varey's reading of Bath conforms with Lefebvre's idea that the production of social space is tied in with property, but also that producing space is not merely about creating ideal homes and pleasure gardens for consumers to buy, but perhaps more importantly, is simultaneously about producing space as discourse which will promote and sustain the city in the way in which it was intended tq be used. Considering the multiplicity of writing which emerged about Bath to support its new image as a town of leisure, Varey suggests that a text such as Beau Nash's 'Rules', is an example of how literary discourse plays a part in the production of the space of the city in equal measure with its architecture. Moreover, when Varey points out that reading or writing novels, letters, and other kinds of literature about that space are social acts in the same way as designing architecture or building roads, he reminds us that space can also 55 ' Bernhard Klein has recently made a similar argument for the production of maps in early modern Britain, in Maps and the Writing of Space in Eary Mxkm England and freland (Basingstoke: Paigrave, 2001), Varey, Space and the Eighteenth-Century English Novel, 4 and Varey suggests that the habit of writing a letter to someone of superior status mimicked architectural planning and discourses of spatial decorum as the letter writer would leave a large blank space between the addressee's title and the first line of the text, in order to symbolise a respect for social hierarchy (204). Varey also suggests that reading a novel, rather than being a private act, was a social act which texts like Fielding's Tom Jones emphasised by adopting a journey motif, and thus drawing attention to 'a journey through pages that resembles that of Tom and Sophia through space' (167).

57 56 be produced as literary discourse in a way which again imposes form on the spaces which it describes. Thus in any production of space, a layering process occurs which, in the case of eighteenth-century Bath, began with the drawings of architects and town planners, and developed into the production of illustrated guides to Bath, Beau Nash's list of 'Rules', and novels such as Smollett's Hump hry Clinker and Austen's Northanger Abbey. Literary discourse was thus one of many discourses resulting from the production of the space of Bath, as it was also one of the circulating discourses which either supported or contested the real and metaphorical city as it developed over the eighteenth century. Reading Lefebvre's ideas about the production of space alongside Varey's thesis on eighteenth-century Bath clarifies how discourse, and especially literary discourse, is both an agent in producing a space like Bath, and also a narrator of the produced space itself." What this means for eighteenth-century tourists travelling at home, is that the spaces through which they travelled were already produced by the maps and guidebooks which they used to guide their way, but also that for those who wrote itineraries, journals, letters, or books about their experiences of travelling at home, these spaces were then reproduced as literary discourse as a way of narrating the experience of the journey itself. Thus movement through space was produced as travel writing by eighteenth-century home-travellers in a way which not only sought to impose order on the places which people travelled through, but also to impose order on the experience of the journey - its stops and starts, its digressions, and its duration - whici was the movement through space itself. By producing not simply space, but movement through space as literary discourse, the texts which are the result of this process of production link the act of travelling and the act of writing more intimately than they would if travel writing was defined simply as the representation of different places. By shifting the emphasis of the travelling from movement through different places to movement through space, all aspects of the travelling experience - including, for example, the spaces between the places - are plugged by the production of literary discourse which no longer simply represents points on an itinerary, but which is reconfigured to represent the entire tour or trip as well. As this shift of emphasis opens up the whole travelling experience to critical inquiry, the definition of 'space' as a period of time competes with the idea of space as a simple metaphor for place, as the time which ' Klein suggests that in the production of space as maps in early modern England, there are three conceptual stages which result in the 'cartographic transaction': space is 'measured', 'visualised' and 'nanated'. In Maps and the Writing of Space, 3.

58 people spent touring and moving from place to place is more clearly revealed as an organising principle of both the travelling and the travel writing. 57 From Life Writing to Travel Writing The relationship between time, writing and movement which late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-centuiy home tours and narratives demonstrate, bears a tangential, but nevertheless, important, relationship to different kinds of life writing which were also produced at this time. Felicity Nussbaum has suggested that the production of life writing in the eighteenth century (including diaries, commonplace books, spiritual journals, letters, and other kinds of personal memoranda) was a large and significant part of many people's lives at this time because producing these kinds of texts helped people to organise, keep track of, and understand their autobiographical selves through writing." 2 Diaries in particular reveal a relationship between writing and recording time - the habit of life writing which Stuart Sherman calls 'journalizing' - as diarists throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries recorded their lives as minutes in order to annotate lived experience, and to use their writing as a tool by which to store the details of their lives." 3 As Nussbaum and Sherman explain, then, keeping a diary in this context was an exercise in both self-analysis and self-preservation as the details of one's life were accumulated in a journal, rather like storing keepsakes in a memory box. Sherman's argument that diary-writing at this time was a habit fed by a need to control anxiety about the reliability of memory is corroborated by James Boswell's 'Hypochondriack' essays on diary writing and memory in the London Magazine. In 'On Diaries' (1783) he stated that he considered his own journalizing to be a way of preserving memories: 'I have thought my notes like portable soup, of which a little bit by being dissolved in water will make a good large dish; for their substance by being 112 Felicity Nussbaum, The Autobiographical Subject Gender and Ideology in Eighteenth-Century England (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989; repr. 1995). For further discussions of autobiography see Erving Goffinan, The Presentation of Self in Everyday L/è (Galen City, NY Doubleday, 1959), James Olney, Metaphors of Self The Meaning of Autobiography (Piinceton: Princeton University Press, 1972), Laura Marcus, Auto/Biographical Discourses (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1994) and Liz Stanley, The Autobiographical I (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995). " In Telling Time: Clocks, Diaries, and English Diurnal Form, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), especially Deidre Shauna Lynch suggests that the need to turn experience into tt' was developed from a Lockean notion of the mind as a tabula rasa, and fed by innovations in print culture, to produce a culture of copying as a way of translating and keeping experience. In The Economy of Character: Novel Market Culture, and the Business of Inner Meaning (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), especially

59 expanded in words would fill a um t4 For Boswell, recording his life in words was a form of journalistic note-taking which could be 'diluted', or expanded, to recall certain times in his life at a later date. Within this process of keeping himself 'safe', Boswell believed that there was an intimate relationship between living and recording life in writing whereby 'a man should not live more than he can record, as a farmer should not have a larger crop than he can gather in' (ibid). In this reasoning, Boswell suggests that he perceived his diary-writing to be analogous with his life as it kept pace with it, controlled it, organised it, and preserved it all at the same time. Stuart Sherman's reading of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century diaries suggests that writing the self as journalistic copy was closely related with being aware of time because the act of writing checked minutes, rather like looking at a pocket watch to note the hour, or drawing up a calendar to observe the passing of time. Travel writing, Sherman suggests, was part of this culture as 'for most of the eighteenth century it was virtually the only kind ofjournal to find its way from manuscnpt to print' as 'the diaries of stay-at-homes remained unpublished until the end of the century'."5 In Sherman's reading of eighteenth-century diary writing, then, home tours and travel narratives, whether published or not, are excluded from the history of diary writing at least until Samuel Johnson published A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland in Despite Sherman's overlooking of home tours and travel narratives, time and travelling had an intimate relationship throughout the period as the titles of home travels indicated that periods of time often framed a travelling experience and its representation in text. Jonas Hanway's A Journal of an Eight Days Journey from Portsmouth to Kingston Upon Thames (1756); Arthur Young's A Six Weeks Tour, through the Southern Counties of England and Wales (1769) and A Six Months Tour through the North of England (1770) and Thomas Quincey's A Short Tour in the Midland Counties of England (1775) are just five examples of published home travels which framed their travelling, and the representation of their travelling, in time. For Arthur Young, declaring the amount of time spent travelling was one way of assuring the credibility of his agricultural tours, as when accused of 'writing too fast' by a reader of A Six Weeks Tour (1769), he responded in his next book with details about how his writing matched the pace of his travelling: As to my Tour through the North of England, the present work, and the Six Weeks Tour, they require very little apology in the point I am speaking of at 114 The Hypochondriack: Being the Seventy Essays by the celebrated biographer, JAMES BOSWELL, appeanng in the LONDON MA GA ZJNE, from November, 1777, to August, 1783, ed. by Margeiy Bailey, 2 vols (Stanford. Stanford University Press, 1928), II, (259). 115 Sherman, Telling Time,

60 present: they cany proof in eveiy page of the time when they were written: the principal part is executed during the journey, recording intelligence on the s?ot. and at the moment; or minuting at night the transactions of the day' 6 Young's habit of 'minuting' his travelling in writing indicates how his movement through space was represented by creating a register of time and movement which was then presented to the public as an informative, authoritative travel text. Recording the 'minutes' of his journey, Young indicates both a pace of writing and a period of travelling which, when combined, resulted in a narrative which explains his journey and his method of researching at the same time."7 The representation of movement through space and time, then, had an explicit relationship in eighteenth-century Britain, not only with the production of published texts like Young's, but also with the production of all texts, whether they were intended for 'public' readership or not." 8 The production of John Byng's travel journals, for example, were couched in and f time as they both represented his personal time (his life), his time spent travelling (his leisure), his history, and his future as a name in the archives: My pleasure in touring is not confined to time; (tho' that I enjoy as much as any man) but the completion of my journal furnishes me employ for the following winter, as I then dilate my former notes; besides the expectant pleasure of an old age perusal. I will now indulge in a little hasty vanity, and satisfaction, in thinking how pleasant my tours will be to readers, an hundred years hence; if they, or the ink of them shall abide."9 As tt quotations suggest, Byng's journalizing of movement through space not only captured time, but also anticipated future enjoyment. Dilating his notes months after undertaking the travelling, Byng was able to re-live the experience and re-present the In The Farmer's Tour through the Earl of England Being the Register of a Journey through Various Counties of this Kingdom, to enquire into the State ofagriculture, &c. [...i By the Author of the Farmer's Letters, and the Tours through the North and South of England, 4 vols (London: for W. Strahan, W. Nicoll, B. Coffins, and J. Balfour, 1771),!, xv and xix. 117 A similar relationship between movement through space and time is demonstrated by the eighteenthcentury practice of including an itinerary as a calculation of miles travelled at the end of the tour. Byng composed itineraries for each of his pieces of tour writing; similarly Horace Walpole, ended his home tours with a table calculating the miles travelled between each town, and the total distance of the journey. See, for example, Byng's itineraxy for' Tour to the West 1781', The Torrington Diaries, I, 1 and 'Horace Walpole's Journals of Visits to Country Seats, &c' ed. by Paget Toynbee, The Walpole Society, XVI ( ), 9-80 (74). 118 See Laurence E. Klein, 'Gender and the Public/Private Distinction in the Eighteenth Century: Some Questions about Evidence and Analytic Procedure', Eighteenth-Century Studies, 29 (1995), " Byng, 'A Tour in the Midlands 1790', The Torringlon Diaries, II, (190) and 'A Tour in the Midlal)ds 1789', II, 1-46 (28).

61 experience in writing as he evoked and stabilised his memories for the future.' 2 As time linked the experiential self with the writing self in this way, so travelling and writing are revealed to be intimately related as journalizing was simply a process of recording a day's movements through space, whether those movements were in one's immediate locality or whether they were somewhere else or somewhere new.' 2' In late eighteenthcentury culture, journalizing travelling time was not only recommended as good practice, but was inferred to be the one aspect of life writing which was essential. As someone who recommended the keeping of a diaiy to all his friends, Samuel Johnson was never more insistent on this point than when his friends went travelling. Writing to Joseph Baretti in Milan he made it clear that his travels must not go unrecorded: 'I hope you will take care to keep an exact journal, and to register all occurrence and observations; for your friends here expect such a book of travels as has not often been seen'; to James Boswell, who was about to embark on a European tour he gave similar advice: 'I hope you continue your journal and enrich it with many observations upon the country in which you reside'.' 22 Johnson no doubt persuaded these two literary friends to keep travel journals in the hope that their journalizing would facilitate the production of a published book, but nevertheless, Johnson's advice about this kind of writing did not only concern a public sharing of knowledge about other places and particular travelling experiences, but also extended to a personal satisfaction in keeping a record of travelling time. Writing to Saunders Welch about his trip to Italy, Johnson pays particular attention to making sure that Welch's daughter keeps a journal of her travelling: Miss Nancy has doubtless kept a constant and copious journal. She must not expect to be welcome when she returns, without a great mass of information. Let her review her journal often, and set down what she finds herself to have omitted, that she may trust to memory as little as possible, for memory is soon confused by a quick succession of things; and she will grow every day less confident of the truth of her own narratives, unless she can recur to some written memorials. If she has satisfied herself with hints, instead of full representations, let her supply the deficiencies now while her memory is yet fresh, and while her father's memory may help her. If she observes this direction, she will not have travelled in vain; for she will bring In Powy's last travel journal, 'Journal of a Tour to the Isle of Wight, 1792', she makes a similar comment about journalizing and 'setting down' her tours: 'if I found it a help to memoiy in Youth, it undoubtedly must [help] when memory of course becomes treacherous'. British Libraiy, Additional MSS, 42170, [2]. 121 The etymology of 'journal', and thus 'journalizing', includes references to both the quotidian (from Ia journée), and 'itinerary' (from 'journey'). Journalizing, therefore, can be recognised as a writing practice in which periodically recording one's movements is the basis of both personal diary writing and all kinds of autobiographical travel writing. 122 To Baretti, 10th June 1761; Boswell, 8 December Both from The Letters of Samuel Johnson, I, (200) and (240), respectively.

62 home a book with which she may entertain herself to the end of her life. If it were now too late, I would advise her to note the impression which the first sight of any thing new and wonderful made upon her mind. Let her now set her thoughts down as she can recollect them; for faint as they already be, they will grow everyday fainter.'23 61 Hinting that Nancy will benefit from keeping a journal of her tour because she will 'bring home a book with which she may entertain herself to the end of her life', Johnson's advice indicates that Nancy's writing of movement through space produces a text which represents the time she spent travelling in Italy both as an immediate record of information, and also as a document which she can re-read, like Byng, for 'old-age perusal'. As Nancy is recommended to create a book which she is not expected to publish, but which she will keep, Johnson's advice complicates a simple distinction between public and 'private' life writing and travel writing by indicating that this mode of writing movement through space was not personal or secretive life writing, but was the kind of text which one would return to, offer to others to read, and leave in the family archive for the future. John Byng, for example, would read his tours aloud to his wife and family: 'I dread not the reviewers, as I shall never hazard a bookseller's window; [...] my reviewers are in my own house; and it is from Mrs B.'s assenting nod, and the (flattering) approbation of Harriet, that I receive the bays'; Caroline Powys originally produced her travel journals for her father to read: 'When we went with Mr. Jackson's family into Norfolk, my father, not being of our party, desired me to write him an account of our tour, and to be particular in my description of places or things that might give me entertainment'. 124 Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale both produced representations of movement through space which were published, Johnson's Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland (1775) and Thrale's Observations and Reflections made in the Course of a Journey through France Italy and Germany (1789), and they also produced travel journals which they kept for themselves or others, but did not destroy with other written material before their death.' 25 Dorothy Wordsworth's travel ' February 3" Ibid, III, ( ). 124 Byng, 'Ride into the West 1782', The Tomngron Diaries, I, (69); Caroline Powys, 'Norfolk Journal, 1756' in Passages from the Diaries ofmrs. Powys, 1. '' Johnson famously destroyed his personal diaries and journals before he died, excepting, of course, his 'Journal of his Tour in North Wales 1774', British Library, Additional MSS $&070.. Hester Thrale took care to organise her personal memoranda before she died and advised in a letter written to her son in 1813 that her miscellaneous journal, the Thraliana, should be given t her friend Cecilia Mostyn: 'but you may read it first, if t'will amuse You - only let it Never be printed! oh never, never, never'. As quoted by Katherine Balderston in the introduction to Thraliana: The Diary of Mrs. Hester L)nch Thrale (Later Mrs. Piozzi) , ed. by Katherine C. Balderston, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1942), I, xvi-xvii.

63 62 text, Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland AD 1803, was produced as four separate manuscripts which circulated amongst her friends and family to be read and proof-read for possible future publication; James Boswell's London Journal ( ) and Fanny Burney's 'Teignmouth Journal' and 'Western Tour', also disrupt a simple binary of public/private as these texts were sent as journal-letters to friends and family, during or after the period of travelling which they describe. In all, like the book which Johnson recommends Nancy to produce to represent her movement through space, a late eighteenth-centuiy mode of writing travel, whether at home or away, occupied a liminal space between public and private spheres whereby publication was not the only way to have one's travelling heard or read outside of the closet.'26 In a culture which engaged with the act of journalizing for both life and travelling, the production of home tours and travel narratives in late eighteenth-century Britain overlapped with the more 'private' sphere of life writing, and the public world of the travel book. In reflective mode, Byng reasoned that he had become 'a minor Pennant' by the time he had produced his second home tour in 1784, and the difference he unllerstood between his own mode of production, and published work like pennant's, was not so much about a way of writing, but was more simply a matter of degrees of circulation. Acknowledging his own rather limited public - 'reader and writer united am I' - Byng nevertheless gamely suggests that the way he writes would not be affected by the bright lights of publication: 'Whilst I knowing my works are not to be read, dash on without design; and if they were, might continue indifferent to the critics [sic] lash'.'27 The confidence which Byng has in his own way of writing is reflected in the fact that each of his tours - like those of Caroline Powys - are separately bound so that the boards of the book frame the experience of the tour and each period of travelling, and piece of travel writing, is granted a sense of autonomy which echoes with the production of a published book. It is a familiar convention of eighteenth-century publication, travel texts included, for the author to claim that their work arrived in print as if by accident, with their manuscript somehow typeset and printed outside of their control.' 28 In a parallel way, then, texts like the home tours and travel narratives of the ' For further discussion of how unpublished text was public see George L. Justice and Nathan Tinker, eds, Women's Writing and the Circulation of Ideas: Manuscripi Publication in Englan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). ' 27 By, 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', The Torringlon Diaries, I, (115). 128 Women authors were perhaps more likely to claim 'accidental' publication than men as a conventionally decorous way of defending themselves against egotism. Henrietta Pye's travel text, A Short Account of the Principle Seats and Gardens in and about Twickenham (London: [n. pub.], 1760), for example, is defensive about the value of its being published, whilst still suggesting that its publication was not her own decision: 'These little Excursions being commonly the only Travels permitted to our Sex, & the only Way we have of becoming at all acquainted with the Progress of Arts, I thought is might

64 63 late eighteenth century were produced in a writing culture which recognised the polished or autonomous nature of non-published texts which, whilst not finding their way to the bookseller's window, nevertheless were circulated amongst or read aloud to friends and family. The Discourses of a Writing/Travelling Culture The pleasure of producing a book to represent a period of time spent travelling at home was an important aspect of the writing culture which engaged individuals like Byng and Powys, but in moving towards a reading of such texts as travel writing, it is necessaiy to address how these texts caine about as a way of writing and a mode of production which relied on the employment of particular discourses to create travel writing. Most strikingly, perhaps, home tours and travel narratives of the late eighteenth-century discuss the same subjects and the same kind of detail, and though there is certainly no 'average' home tour or journey, certain travelling habits emerged which meant that tourist's journals and books would contain the same kinds of travelling experiences.'29 In the majority of journals and narratives produced at this time, subjects such as the body in motion; the business of staying at inns; the habit of visiting a contained space (principally country houses, but also mines, factories, or ruins); and the act of turning the tour or journey into a written representation of experience, fill the pages of the books which home tourists like Byng and Powys, Samuel Johnson, Hester Thrale, Dorothy Wordsworth, James Boswell and Richard Budworth all produced.' 3 Yet, despite the fact that the majority of tours and journeys are entitled with reference to the not be improper, to throw together on Paper, such Remarks as occuned to me, never intending they should appear: but the Partiality of my Friends have call'd them to Light, and obliged me to submit them to an Examination, they will so ill bear' (5). Mary Morgan's A Tour to Mi/ford Haven in the Year 1791 (London: for John Stockdale, 1795) 'found its way' into print in a simil& way, being put together from letters written to friends during her trip: 'many of these letters stand verbatim as they were written, and many more with very little alteration: this the person to whom they were addressed can testi1'. At my return, they wished me to collect, and publish them; because as I could not write to every friend at one and the same time, they all separately desired to have my Tour complete, which could not be done but by committing it to the press' (viii). 129 For details on the habits and conventions of travelling in Britain in the eighteenth century see Ian Ousby's Englishman's England. Ousby identifies that visiting literary shrines, country houses, ruins, and picturesque parts of the countiyside (especially the Lake District) were popular activities for hometourists at various stages of the eighteenth century. Though Ousby writes his social history of eighteenthcentury British tourism by reading many of the journals and travel texts produced by the tourists who performed the tours, he does not consider how travelling experience was produced as travel writing at this time. ' The exception to this kind of writing is the popular picturesque tour also produced at this time. See Malcolm Andrews, In Search of the Picturesque; tan Ousby, The Eng/ishman 's England and Zoe Kinsley,, 'The Organisation of Landscape and Travel Descriptive Representation and the Journals of Dorothy Richardson ( )' (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Manchester, 2002).

65 towns, counties or regions through which the traveller/writer moved, descriptions of villages, towns and cities do not dominate the writing of home tour journals and narratives as one might expect. Whilst places clearly offered a frame for the trip - imaged literally in the itinerary which often accompanied the representation of the tour - the production of the travelling experience as travel writing indicates that tourists wanted to represent their movement through space, or the spaces between the places on the itinerary, as a way of personalising their own experience of space, and in order to represent their own journey as travel writing born out of the journalizing conventions of life writing. As places recede from the representation of movement through space at home because the ground is familiar, and the places already known, the travelling/writing subject engages instead with the minutiae of the daily business of travelling, as Byng explains: I shall be more fearfull [sic] of describing the country I mean to visit, or to make any remarks thereon (tho ever so highly worthy of observation & animadversion) because the ground has been lately so much trod; & every particular so well brought forward by able pens and pencils. My scrawl must then confine itself to the little occurrences of the day, the distances, and such other trifling remarks on the roads or inns, as may hereafter amuse the writer in reperusal.'3' Byng's explanation for his own way of writing suggests that for him, writing movement through space was to register the minutes of his own day, and represent only those aspects of the tour which interested him. Turning away from already-written-about places in favour of 'distance' and 'trifling remarks on the roads or inns', Byng reveals that he re-conceptualises his itinerary not as a series of places, but as his movement through space which re-produces geographical space as travel writing. His writing, then, produces a particular experience of travelling by focussing on the personal movement through space which emerges from shared, geographical space; he plugs the gaps, in other words, between descriptions of places which all can see, and the experience of moving between these places which only he can experience at a particular time and place. Byng's writing thus re-claims and re-inscribes geographical space as personal space by focussing on the travelling itself, and making the itinerary the bare bones of a trip which is then fleshed-out with personal experience. Crucial to understanding how movement through space was represented in writing as a process of re-inscription is the intimate relationship that exists between the 64 '' From 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', 17w Torrington Diaries, I, (116).

66 65 act of travelling and the act of writing, in both an eighteenth-centuiy and a modem theoretical context. In theories of travel writing, as also in some theories of space, travelling is writing because, in Certeau's reasoning, '[e]veiy story is a travel story - a spatial practice' because every experience is always about some degree of movement through space. 132 Furthermore, Certeau's theory of how people operate in planned or urban spaces suggests that the movements which people make as they walk through the streets, or occupy certain places in a city, are narratives which become 'networks of moving, intersecting writings' and 'compose a manifold story that has neither author nor spectator'; in Certeau's suggestion, movement itself writes space, though not in any conscious act of representation on the part of the 'walker' him or herself.' 33 For any tourist to embark on a tour or a journey, then, the act of travelling - walking, taking a carriage, riding a horse, etc. - means that the traveller occupies the space of a track, a road, a village, a town, or a field in a way which, after Certeau, writes space simply because he or she leaves a trail. On a further level of signification, Michel Butor's theories about the relationship between travel and writing - a relationship which he conceptualises as 'iterology', or a science 'strictly tied to literature, concerned with human travel' - suggest that representing travel in writing is always already inscribed in the act of travelling because 'to travel, at least in a certain manner, is to write (first of all because to travel is to read), and to write is to travel'.' 34 In Butor's theory, most acts of travel are already inscribed with writing because text guides our way in the form of maps, guide books, tickets, passports, road-signs, etc., and because we read and reinscribe each of these things with writing as we sign travellers' cheques, make a reservation at a hotel, or create our own itinerary en route. In this way, then, the paraphernalia of travelling is associated with writing long before the tourist even considers sending a postcard or keeping a journal, and Butor infers that because travelling is intrinsically a process of re-inscnption, then the relationship between travel and the representation of movement through space is intimately bound.'35 '32 Certeau, TheFracticeofEwrydayLfe, '33 mid., MIchel Butor, 'Travel and Writing', Mosaic, Vifi (1974), 1-16 (5 and 2, respectively). This essay is also published in Temperamental Journeys: Essays on the Modern Literature of Travel ed. by Michael Kowalewski (Athens USA: University of Georgia Press, 1992), Steve Clark's recent essay '"Bang at its Moral Centre": Ideologies of Genre in Butor, Fussell and Raban', Studies in Travel Writing 4, (2000), , has criticised Butor's notion of 'iterology' as being too abstract, 'there is an entire omission of geographical differentiation', which fails to account for important political differences (111). Butor also does not consider how travel as a process of inscription is only workable for the literate, but nevertheless his abstraction of a potential relationship between travel and writing is, I think, a good starting point from which to think about how travel is written, before considering the complex and pressing concerns of socio-political differences which overlay his idea of 'iterology'.

67 66 Understanding from Certeau and Butor that movement through space is inherently a process of inscription and re-inscription which is then represented by writing, Johnson's advice to Nancy Welch, as discussed earlier, reveals that however intimate this relationship was understood to be, there was still anxiety about the ability of the traveller to faithfully represent their travelling in text. Johnson's advice to Nancy suggested that writing might supplant memory, and therefore that keeping a journal would relieve pressure on her to remember what, 'confused by a quick succession of things', she might otherwise have struggled to recall. What Johnson suggests here is that movement and memory are somehow at odds with each other, indeed that movement perhaps stimulates forgetfulness because in the act of travelling, one has a heightened awareness of the need to take notice of what is going on along the way, and yet being on the move, is less able to stop and linger, or look carefully. This sense of anxiety about the ability to see or experience everything whilst simultaneously keeping to an itinerary is a common discourse of eighteenth-century travel writing, and one which is most often assuaged by a traveller's claim to be 'writing on the spot' at any given time or place.136 Suggesting that a traveller aims to capture the moment in writing - as Johnson recommends that Nancy 'note[s] the impression which anything new or wonderful made upon her mind' - is a way of grasping something before it is gone, and indicating that one has also had the sense to notice that something is worth capturing in the first place. Besides this anxiety about forgetting, however, a discourse of intimacy between writing and travelling is noted as writing is the means by which things won't be forgotten, so its status as a mere tool of the travelling experience is elevated to being a symbol of hope, where everything rests on the written itinerary and the potential for representation within the blank journal which was carried with the tourist wherever he or she went.'37 Movement through space and writing, then, are intimately related in late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives, and this relationship is acknowledged and pondered over by tourists until it becomes one of this kind of writing's most recurring discourses. The relationship between moving through space and writing movement through space is negotiated in a variety of ways in these texts as the travelling/writing subjects engage with a number of issues which make sense of the 136 A convention which is perhaps most famously satirised in Sterne's A Sentimental Journey when Yonck breaks off from writing his preface when someone looks into his carriage and interrupts him. Ed b3y Ian Jack (Oxford: Oxford UniversIty Press, 1968; repr. 1991), 13 '7 Malcolm Andrews in The Search for the Picturesque illustrates one eighteenth-century travelling journal, 'a [...] lavish, purpose-built volume, published with that title printed on its cover in London 1789 and used that year for a tour in Scotland. The tourist was meant to use a whole two-page opening at one time. Two narrow columns were provided for recording dates and place-names, and two broad ones for "Observations, etc" and "Omissions"' (73).

68 act of representing the tour or the journey. In the first instance, writing is revealed to be closely related to both being in motion and drawing to a halt: movement stimulates writing in Johnson's 'Journal of his Tour in North Wales 1774' as the more that he is able to see, the more he writes; yet in Byng's travel narratives, many hours spent at inns, the boredom of sheltering from the rain, or waiting to be joined by a companion, all stimulate him to write prolifically about the time he spends not moving forward, but staying put. For Byng especially, writing is not merely something which he dutifully produces in order to remember and record his tour, writing is also a companion, or a hobby, which assuages boredom and relieves him of the awkwardness he feels when he so often dines alone: '[Port wine], and my writing have been my supports; and a support or supporters are wanted by a man who travells alone, and in untoward weather'.'38 Adding that through his habit of writing at inns en route, he wishes to 'quietly to digest my thoughts, and my food', Byng reveals that writing is like eating, being both a routine part of the travelling experience, and an opportunity to relish and chew-over the words which he chooses in order to represent all aspects of his movement through space.139 As well as recording motion, or indulging a stop-over, representing movement through space for late eighteenth-century home tourists also included conskeration of the relationship between writing and looking, writing and performance, and writing and disclosure. Since looking at different towns and places, or sites of interest, was the reason why many tourists took to the road in the first place, learning to write in a way which represented the way in which they had looked became a pressing concern. For Caroline Powys, a compulsion for visiting countiy houses demanded a commitment to both pareful observing and dutiful recording, and she learned to write in a way which represented and, to an extent, mimicked the way she viewed these particular spaces. Alternating between note-taking and prose-writing, country house tourists like Powys could represent the contained space of the house, and the things within it, in a way which mapped space chorographically, and produced a textual description of the space as it was consumed by the observer. Writing as performance is revealed in detailed and informative home tours like those produced by Arthur Young and Thomas Pennant which authoritatively assess the nation's agriculture or antiquity, but performance also emerges in differently public tours and travel narratives, as tourists such as Powys strive to please their family with their elegant writing and their well-formed opinions of the things they have seen. 67 'A Tour to the North 1792', The Tomngton Diaries, ifi, (96). 'A Tour in the Midlands 1789', The Torringlon Diaries, IV, (131).

69 68 Travelling in order to write is a feature of home tours and travel narratives as frequent trips to different parts of the country provided an opportunity to practise the kind of journalizing which was expected of most tourists. Writing in this way, and engaging with conventions of travel writing, tourists like Po'ys put themselves under 'public' scrutiny, and at the same time also developed their own style through experimentation, and by adding personal touches to their narratives. For Powys, repeated, perhaps even compulsive, 'descnptioning' was carried out in order to perfect an accomplished style: 'If the rusticity of a dull pen like a piece of rough marble may be polish'd by exercise, then (as I've scribbled o'er much paper), may I in time perhaps have the honorary title of an expert journalist. [Here am I now commencing my fourth essay on our Summer Rambles'.'4 Her many descriptions of country houses which comprise her series of tours were both an exercise in, and a display of, a developing talent for literary description and careful, informed travel writing. For John Byng, perfonnance was perhaps less of an accomplishment and more of an experiment as throughout his tourwriting career, Byng self-consciously observed his own writing style and sought ways to define it against other kinds of writing, to carve out his own particular niche. Hoping to write in a way which was 'sufficiently simple, or varied with anecdotes' rather than being 'embarrassed with pomposity', Byng's style of writing was both constantly changing and eternally self-conscious because, like Caroline Powys, he adjusted his literary performance to fit a certain narrative persona and impress his immediate and hoped-for readership.'4' Literary perfonnance in late eighteenth-century home tours and narratives is also matched by a performance of the self. For many, writing movement through space was also a kind of disclosure, as the relationship between travel writing and life writing was exploited in order to self-consciously observe the self as a traveller and travel writer. Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale, for example, both incorporated details about their bodies into their travel texts in ways which indicated how travel writing was related to life writing, particularly when the self and the body in motion finds its state of health put to the test. Disclosure also occurs when travellers like Dorothy Wordsworth in her Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland, and Joseph Budworth in his A Fortnight 's Ramble to the Lakes, use their writing to forward opinions about the places they visit and the people they meet, and also to create a persuasive or likeable narrative self. Though Wordsworth claimed that travel writing was not her preferred genre - 'I think '4 Caroline Powys, 'Plymouth Journal, 1760', BL, Additional MSS, 42165, 1 '4 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', The Torringlon Diaries, I, (186).

70 69 journals of Tours except as far as one is interested in the travellers very umnteresting things. Wretched wretched writing! I can hardly read it myself' - both her text, and Budworth's, because they nevertheless are travel writing, have an intrinsically 'public' agenda, which lends a claim for authority to their opinions which are then either supported or undermined by acts of disclosure which bring the personal self into the narrative.' 42 In the case of Wordsworth, creating a sensitive and sympathetic persona by disclosing her own prejudices and sympathies, gives force to her argument that the people of the Scottish Highlands are hospitable despite their poverty; for Budworth, making a personal opinion about a woman he observed in the Lake District public, undermines his authority as a responsible reporter and lends a fictional edge to his text which sits uncomfortably with the fact that the woman he chose to describe, was actually real. As travelling/writing home tourists made a claim for the personal in representing movement through space, travelling was affirmed as an experience which engaged not simply with the politics of location, or the observations of different peoples and different places, but also with the details and the minutes of every day. In adopting a self-conscious attitude to the habit of writing the self in motion, tourists travelling about Britain in the late eighteenth-century opened up the spaces between the points of their itineraries and produced the daily experience of moving from place to place (or staying put for a while) as a literary discourse which drew on the joumalizing conventions of life writing, as much as it made the most of an intimate, though often complex, relationship between travelling and writing. Not fazed by travelling on beaten paths and over familiar ground, late eighteenth-century travellers produced texts which reinscribed space with their own marks, opinions and experiences, and also which captured time by representing the duration of the tour, or the period of travelling time, reclaiming these details as experiences, as much as the things they saw and the places they visited. In re-conceiving travelling, then, as movement through space, British travellers in the late eighteenth-century made the personal and routine matter by turning what they did and experienced into the discourses of their writing. The remaining four chapters of this study thus investigate further some of these discourses to focus in on 142 Quoted by Carol Kyros Walker in the introduction to Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland AD 1803 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997),

71 how movement through the space of home in the late eighteenth-century produced travel writing. 70

72 Chapter Two 71 Bodies, Health and Motion Discourses of Movement in Samuel Johnson's 'A Journey into North Wales in the year 1774' and Hester Thrale's 'Journal of a Tour in Wales with Dr. Johnson' Reading travel writing as the representation of movement through space means recognising that, in the first instance, travelling is about movement: making a decision to go, rather than stay, and then putting the body in motion in order to get there. James Clifford's rethinking of the ideology of travel in 'Traveling Cultures' highlights that 'getting there' is a neglected point of interest in the experience and writing of travel; similarly, James Duncan has noted that 'critical readings [often] fail to register the production of travel writing by corporeal subjects moving through material landscapes') For many late eighteenth-century home travellers, however, 'getting there' was one aspect of a tour or a journey that was not ignored in the production of travel writing. In the first place, many travellers were in the habit of producing an itinerary, which, because it detailed where they had been, and how far they had travelled during their journey, immediately filled the space between places and sites of interest by acknowledging how 'getting there' was calculable and definable as miles-travelled. 2 As itineraries such as these reckoned distance, the spaces through which people moved to reach different places were opened up to expose both the ground which was covered, and, when compared with the diurnal register of the journal, the time spent on the move or 'getting there'. In the production of itineraries, then, there is evidence that in the late eighteenth-century home tour, there were no gaps in either the experience of travelling or the experience of representing travelling, because in the production of space as literary discourse, each mile and minute was accounted for and written up in order to capture the whole experience of the journey. 'Clifford, 'Traveling Cultures', in Cultural Studies, ed. by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson and Paula A. Treichier (New York: Routledge, 1992), (100) and Writes of Passage: Reading Travel Writing, ed. by James Duncan and Derek Gregory (London: Routledge, 1999), 5. 2 John Byng's itineraries, like those also produced by Horace Walpole in his visits to country houses, for example, calculate the distance travelled between each place or town, and tally the total distance travelled throughout the trip at the bottom of the page. See Byng's itinerary for his 'Tour to the West', in The Torrzngton Diaries: Containing the Tours through England and Wales by the Hon. John Byng (Later F/1h Viscount Torringlon) Between the Years 1781 and 1794, ed. by C. Bniyn Andrews, 4 vols (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, ), 1, 1-65 (1-2) and Horace Walpole's tour from London to Bugden and back, in 'Horace Walpole's Journals of Visits to Country Seats, &c., ed. by Paget Toynbee, The Wa/pole Society, XVI ( ), 9-80 (74).

73 As so-called 'gaps' between places or sites of interest were filled in the calculation of distance and the production of travel writing, movement through space is exposed as a feature of late-eighteenth-century home travelling which mattered for those who chose to represent their movement through space in writing. Mathematically, tct is calculated by dividing the distance travelled by the time it took to get there, and in the home tours produced by Hester Thrale and Samuel Johnson, who travelled together in North Wales in 1774, movement itself, and specifically the motion which their bodies experienced when moving from place to place, signified as a force which was represented in more detail than a simple reckoning of distance in their itinerary. For Johnson and Thrale, observing their bodies in motion in their journals reveals a discourse which suggested that motion should maintain good personal health, and, at the same time, act as a stimulus for writing their narratives. Thrale's first entry in her 'Journal of a Tour in Wales with Dr. Johnson' illustrates just how far both 'getting there' and movement mattered to her state of mind, and to her narrative: On Tuesday, 5th July, 1774, I began my journey through Wales. We set out from Streatham in our coach and four post horses, accompanied by Mr. Johnson and our eldest daughter [...] In the afternoon we drove on to Dunstable, where we spent the night, after a day in which nothing else had been learned, seen, done or known, but the passing through a space of 40 miles from home with emotions perpetually changing and perpetually strong, every sign, every bush, every stone almost, reminding me of times long past but not forgotten;3 This entry suggests that 'getting there' as 'a day in which nothing else had been learned, seen, done or known, but the passing through a space of 40 miles from home', was a kind of blank which signified mostly for the fact that ground was covered between London and Dunstable. Yet despite Thrale's suggestion that this movement through space failed to stimulate her empirical senses (seeing, learning, doing), she produces this gap as a period of time, which stimulated both her memory and her imagination. Using signs, stones, and bushes as triggers for recollection, Thrale's narrative suggests that motion and movement had an impact on her mind and body, as if with every turn of the carriage wheel, a memory was released as Thrale moved ever closer towards North Wales, and the part of the country in which she had spent her childhood. Filling a blank space of 'nothing' with the details of her mind and a register of her emotional state, 72 Hester Thrale, 'Journal of a Tour in Wales with Dr. Johnson', in Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale 's Tour in Wales 1774, ed. by Adrian Bristow (Ciwyd. Bridge Books, 1995), (89); subsequent page numbers from this edition are cited parenthetically in the text. Thrale's journal was first published in 1910 as Doctor Johnson and Mrs. Thrale: Including Mrs. Thrale 's Unpublished Journal of the Welsh Tour Made in 1774, ed. by A. M. Broadley (London: Bodley Head, 1910) For further details of the MSS see James Clifford's biography, Hester Lynch Piozzi (Mrs. Thrale), 2" edn (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1952), 464.

74 73 then, Thrale produces the space of 40 miles as meaningful because this period of time and this stretch of road reminded her of 'times long past but not forgotten'. As something which other travellers might otherwise not acknowledge, Thrale represents 40 miles of road, and rewrites that space by inscribing her own memories upon it. Like one of Michel de Certeau's 'walkers', then, the road from London to Dunstable is reinscribed and marked with Thrale's memories and her text, to expose how gaps between places, or an experience of 'getting there', can signify for the traveller who produces his or her experience or movement through space as travel writing.4 For Thrale, being on the move in the family carriage stimulated memoiy because the road was familiar, and the journey one she knew well, but for many home tourists in the late eighteenth century, movement in travelling signified not only for the emotions which a familiar road might provoke, but in terms of a discourse of the body and good health which recommended travelling, and particularly motion, as both life-sustaining and health-improving. That travellers and travel writers in the eighteenth-century understood a relationship between travel and health is a subject which has already received scholarly attention, particularly in relation to the searches for health detailed in Henry Fielding's The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon (1755) and Tobias Smollett's Travels through France and Italy (l77l). More recently, Brian Dolan has considered how women travelling on the Grand Tour used the warmer climates of France and Italy to cure various ills, including insanity, by making the most of a change of scenery and sea-air, and understanding how the 'medical geography' and 'climatology' of Europe associated particular places with particular benefits to health. 6 However, whilst these studies focus on the relationship between travel and health in terms of geographical displacement, they do not consider how motion, as an abstracted version of a series of geographical displacements, is related both to health and the body when produced as travel writing. In the journals produced by Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale, during a three month tour to Wales and back in 1774, a discourse of the body in motion as a healthy body is both supported and challenged by their respective experiences of being on the move and watching how their own bodies responded to the experience of travelling. In these journals, details of the travellers' bodies upstage and upset the more ' See The Practice of Evei'yday Life, trans by Steven Randall (Berkeley: University of Los Angeles Press, 1984; repr. 1988), 'See for example, Terence Bowers, 'Tropes of Nationhood: Body, Body Politic, and Nation-State in Fielding's Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon', LH, 62 (1995), and Aileen Douglas, '"Matter out of Place": Travels through France and Itaay', in Uneasy Sensations: Smolleti and the Body (Chicago and London: Chicago University Press, 1995), 'Bijan Dolan, Ladies of the Grand Tour (London: Harper Coffins, 2001), (158).

75 74 conventional narrative of things seen and places visited to suggest that in these experiences of travelling and travel writing, Thrale and Johnson were veiy aware of how their bodies functioned when on the move, and, perhaps more importantly, they understood how observing and recording their bodies might also function within the text of their travel narratives. In considering the relationship between movement through space and bodies, health and motion, this chapter will compare two travel narratives to suggest that motion, the body, and travel writing are intimately related as discourses of home tours. For Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale, travelling in Wales over ground which either they knew, or were disappointed or bored by, provoked observations about their own or others' bodies and personal health, to suggest that travel and travel writing phyed a part in making sense of their bodies and keeping them healthy. For Johnson, movement through space stimulated observation, good health and writing in a way that confirmed medical discourse about the benefits of motion and travel for health. During a lull in the pace of the tour whilst the party visited Thrale's family at Llewenny, Johnson found that a lack of motion caused his writing to lapse and his health to worsen, thus suggesting that in the representation of movement through space, motion, writing and good health supported each other as discourses of travel. For Hester Thrale, a more complex relationship between bodies, health and motion is negotiated as she debates how far travel is beneficial to the female body by comparing her own personal health with that of her sickly daughter and her recently ill mother. As a narrative which engages emotionally with the idea of female bodies in motion, Thrale's text employs a rhetorical strategy for persuading herself and other readers of her journal that medical discourse which supports travelling for health is a gendered discourse which gives inconsistent advice to women. In both Johnson and Thrale's journals, moreover, the relationship between the travel text and journalizing is not dichotomised, as they both suggest that writing themselves into their travel narratives was nothing more than acknpwledging that in every act of travel, the travelling and writing subject is always a body n motion, wherever and however they are travelling. Johnson's Motions, Medical Discourse and Movement through Space Samuel Johnson's tour to North Wales in 1774 with Henry and Hester Thrale was the second journey he had made with this party, having made a "little tour to Kent" for the benefit of his health in 1768, and having also spent time at the Thrale's seaside house in

76 75 Brighton in l769. The year before his Welsh tour, Johnson had made his famous journey to the Hebrides with James Boswell, and during his travels in Wales, the Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland was being prepared for publication at the press. His Welsh journal, therefore, was his second piece of travel writing, and the only journal that was found amongst his papers when he died. 8 The fact that Johnson took measures to prevent his personal diaries and journals from falling into othrs' hands after his death makes the 'Journey into North Wales in the Year 1774' all the more extraordinary, as in this travel text, details about Johnson's personal health, in particular his entries which record every occasion on which he had a bowel movement, reveal intimate details about Johnson's body and his interest in monitoring and recording what came out of it.9 In the Welsh journal, Johnson's observations of his body's motions, and the effect of motion on his body, occur principally when the progress of the tour reached a halt in Liewenny for three weeks, and his health began to concern him. Between July 28th and August 18th 1774, not only was the Thrale carriage and the progress of the tour suspended, but effectively, the tour had reached its destination, at Llewenny, and the point at which the party would begin their return journey. Having been touring since Jy 5th the party had wound their way to North Wales vlaasenes of locations which included Lichfield, where Johnson was able to see friends in his home-town, and introduce Thrale (who was by now already compiling her Anecdotes of Johnson) to his birth-place, Chatsworth House, Dovedale and Ashbourne, the home of Johnson's friend Dr. Taylor, where the party had stayed for ten days between July 10th and 2Øth Whilst at Ashboume, the party visited friends of Dr. Taylor, and also made an eçcursion to Hawkstone House, before resuming the tour north via Buxton, Macclesfield, Thrale as reported by Clifford in Hester Lynch Piozzi (Mrs. Thrale), Johnson destroyed most of his personal journals before he died, including the 'missing' Scottish journal from which A Journey in the Western Islands was composed, and his French journal, which was produced following his tour in France with the Thrales in 1775, and partly reproduced in Boswell's Life. See Adrian Bristow's introduction to Dr Johnson & Mrs Thrale 's Tour in North Wales 1774, Boswell reports in the Lfe that Johnson thought a person's journals ought to be private, and burned alter one's death by a trustworthy friend, and he did not think that Johnson kept any journal of his tour in Wales at a11 'I do not find that he kept any journal or notes of what he saw there' See Life of Johnson, ed. by R. W. Chapman (Oxford. Oxford University Press, 1953; repr. 1980), 307 and 568 The Welsh journal was first published as A Diaiy of a Journey into North Wales, in the Year 1774; by Samuel Johnson, LL.D. Edited with Illustrative Notes by it Duppa LL.B.(London: For Robert Jennings, 1816). Bristow reports that Hester Thrale helped with this publication (19), and Duppa justifies publishing such a 'fragment' as it would contribute to a more comprehensive biography of Johnson to 'fill up that chasm in the Life of Johnson, which his biographer was unable to supply' (x). In this edition, however, some of the detail of Johnson's health is excised from the text, see below. The manuscript is kept at the British Library: 'Journal of his Tour in North Wales 1774', British Library, Additional Manuscripts, tzo-io.

77 Combermere and Chester. As soon as the party entered Wales on July 28th, then, the tour North ended, and arriving at Liewenny, in fact, brought to a halt a month's worth of energetic travelling, during which time the party had travelled over 200 miles in total, and had made daily sight-seeing trips en route. During this busy touring period, Johnson's movements through space do not cause him to notice his body's motions, excepting a quiet Sunday spent near Dovedale, which provokes the first detail of Johnson's bowel movements: 'Sunday. Morning at Church. Afternoon at Mr. Dyot's. Kcz'. 10 At the beginning of August, when the family settle for three weeks at Liewenny and venture out less, Johnson begins a series of entries about his health, and notes further details of his bowel movements: on August 3fl, a footnote to a description of the ironworks at Holywell produces: 'I had kao the day before, and had some of the effects this morning' (41); the following day, rather than noting what his body evacuates, he reports what he struggles to consume: 'I could not drink this day either coffee or tea after dinner. I know not when I missed before' (42). Observing what goes in, and comes out of his body during this time, on August 5th Johnson self-prescribes an emetic to in order to stimulate a vomit: Last night my sleep was remarkably quiet. little flatus. I know not whether by fatigue in walking, or by forbearance of tea. I gave [up} the Ipecacuanha.Vin.Emet had failed, so had tartar Emet. The Ipec. did but little. (42) The following day, disappointed by the ineffectiveness of the emetic, he withdraws into the house at Llewenny to read, and records in his journal, 'ka0. 8p.', in a triumphant note which means he experienced a 'convulsive evacuation' (42). For the next few days, and having recorded only a 'moderate' bowel movement on the 7th (43), he ventures outdoors only to visit church and the Lloyd family at a nearby town, and his diary ceases altogether for three days between August 1 1th and 13th resuming again on the 14th this day, he writes that he managed to eat a little meat and enjoyed 'a motion achieved without taking a purge' (44), but that, following another bowel motion on the 15th, he suffered from the effects of unpredictable motions in the body, recording: 'Imbecillitas genuum non sine aliquantulo dolons inter ambulandum, quem a prandio magis sensi', or 'A weakness of the knees, not without some pain in walking, which I feel increased after 76 ' Adrian Bristow notes that 'ka8' is an abbreviation for 'ka0apatç', and is Johnson's shorthand for recording a bowel motion See 'A Journey into North Wales in the Year 1774' in Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale 's Tour in North Wales 1774, (61, n 30 and 33). Subsequent page numbers from this edition are cited parenthetically in the text Duppa, in his edition of the text, includes these references but does not translate them, explaining that '[tjhroughout this Diary, when Johnson is obliged to turn his thought to the state of his health, he always puts his private memoranda in the learned languages; as if to throw a slight veil over those ills which he would willingly have hid from himself, 91.

78 77 I have dined' (44)." The diaiy ceases again at this point until the party leave Liewenny on the 18th, and subsequent references to his bowel motions only occur on this day, having had 'a flatulent night' (46), and in the penultimate entry of his journal, on September 24th, when the party arrive at Oxford to visit friends for three days, and Johnson records 'KaO' (56). In the text of the Welsh journal, Johnson's entries vary from brief notes of his daily movements, for example: '7 [July]. To Mrs. Porters, to the Cathedral. To Mrs. AstonsTo Mr. Greens. Mr. Green's Museum was much admired, and Mr. Newton's China 1to paragraph-long descriptions of things seen, including comparatively long passages describing caverns at Dovedale, Lord Scarsdale's new house at Kedleston, and the landscaped gardens of Hawkstone House. Immediately it is apparent that the quantity of writing that Johnson produced reflected both how much he did on any given day, and also how much he deemed worthy of reporting, as details of visits to his or the Thrales' friends are kept to a minimum, whilst visits to important, impressive or interesting sights like Chatsworth, or a silk mill, are given more verbose description. Furthermore, whilst Johnson's touring schedule correlates with the amount of writing he produced, his being on the move also has an effect on his bodily motions and his personal health. During his time confined at Llewenny, engaging only in local visits to friends or trips to church, Johnson's body-watching is most apparent, and his register of bowel movements, emetics, and purges indicates that his body needed watching during this period because he found it necessary to monitor his body's natural motions, or administer remedies to himself to encourage his body to work more effectively. Either Johnson chose to fill the time he spent staying at Llewenny with a period of self-observation, or else there was a more precise relationship between the need to body-watch when he was confmed in one place because, without the exercise of daily, stimulating travelling, his body stopped working as efficiently as it had done in the days when he was on the move. Johnson's Welsh journal certainly seems to suggest that the motion of travelling, and the movements and motions of his body were in step with each other during his tour to North Wales. Noticing a need to record bowel movements only when his body was not in travelling motion, suggests that there is a discourse at work, which relates movement through space with good health, and stasis, or confinement, with the need for medical assistance in order to uphold or restore good health. In eighteenth-century medical discourse, Johnson's evident understanding that his body may need closer am using Bristow's translations of Latin and Greek, from his notes to 'A Journey into North Wales in the Year 1774', 74.

79 observation when not on the move, tallies with medical advice which suggested that travelling was beneficial for health. Johnson himself recommended a 'long journey' to his friend John Perkins in order to 'restore' health and 'prolong' life, and writing to him in 1782, Johnson recommends that he observe the following rules: 1. Turn all care out of your head as soon as you mount the chaise. 2. Do not think about frugality; your health is worth more than it can cost. 3. Do not continue any day's journey to fatigue. 4. Take now and then a day's rest. 5. Get a smart sea-sickness, if you can. 6. Cast away all anxiety, and keep your mind easy. This last direction is the principal; with an unquiet mind, neither exercise, nor diet, nor physick, can be of much use.'2 Here, Johnson's six-point plan recommends travel as something that will encourage motion, exercise, and rest to mend and fortify the body. Recommending that Perkins get a 'smart sea-sickness', reveals a particular understanding that the motion of a boat would stimulate a purge in order to cleanse the body, or relieve it of any blockages. In an age still reeling from William Harvey's discovery in the previous century of the circulation of the blood, medical advice such as this suggests that travel, and particularly the motion of travel, presented an opportunity to increase bodily movements and internal motions with physical movement through space. Being on the move, be it in a boat, or a carriage, or riding a horse, was though to be particularly beneficial for stimulating the internal workings of the body, as this passage from The General Practise of Physic (1751) suggests: Motion or Exercise increases the Circulation of the Blood, attenuates and divides the Fluids, and promotes a regular Perspiration, as well as a due Secretion of all the Huinours; for it accelerates the animal Spirits, and facilitates their Distribution into all the Fibres of the Body, which strengthens the Parts, creates an Appetite, and helps Digestion. Whence it arises that those who accustom themselves to Exercise, are generally very robust, and seldom subject to Diseases. But immoderate Exercise dissipates the Spirits, weakens he Body, destroys the Elasticity of the Fibres, and exhausts the fluid Parts of the Blood. Exercise may be said to be either active or passive; the active is walking, hunting, dancing, playing at Bowls, and the like; as also speaking, and other Labour of the Body and Mind. The passive is riding in a Cart, Coach, on Horseback, or in any other Manner. Exercise may be continued to a Beginning of Weariness, and ought to be used before Dinner, in a pure light Air. For this Reason Journeys, and going into the Country contribute greatly to preserve and re-establish Health Quoted by Boswell in Life of Johnson, The letter is dated July 28, Richard Brookes, The General Practice of Physic: Extracted Chiefly from the Writings of the Most Celebrated Practi cal Physicians [etc], 2 vols (London: for I Newbery, 1751), I, lxxiv.

80 79 The 'passive' exercises associated with travel, then, are recommended in order to motivate the fibres of the body to stimulate appetite and aid digestion. The impressive home traveller John Wesley commented that 'I must be on horseback for life, If I would be healthy', and horse-riding and carriage-riding were particularly recommended by physicians because the rhythmic movement of either form of transport would gently encourage the internal motions of the body without over-exertion.' 4 Physician George Cheyne in An Essay on Regimen (3th edition 1753), corroborated the notion that travelrelated exercise was beneficial, offering the following aphorism: Aph. 25. RIDEING is the best of all Exercises to get Health, and to promote the Digestions, especially in nervous Distempers, where the Abdomen and the Meseraic Glands are principally affected: But Walking is best to preserve Health already got, because it is the most natural and the most universal Promoter of all the Excretions.'5 As these kinds of exercise were understood to encourage the internal workings of the body to run smoothly, it is therefore inferred that being unable to put one's body in motion in this way, might cause the body's internal workings to relax into inactivity. However, where movement through space to inspire motion was not possible, the alternative was a self-induced purge. George Cheyne recommended, 'NEXT to Rideing, [sic] is either a Vomit, or Fasting almost to Faintness', suggesting that when Johnson recommended a 'smart sea-sickness' to John Perkins he was conforming with a contemporary notion that 'morbid particles' needed to be regularly expelled from the body, either by the sweating or motion which exercise promoted, or, if not, by inducing a vomit to purge the stomach and invigorate internal working order (lxv). Roy Porter explains that in the eighteenth-century, '[p]eople purged and vomited themselves, rather as this century they take aspirin for everyday aches and pains' because such actions 'presumably had a cleansing effect, upon both body and mind, and seif-dosers were relieved to see evidence of their 'working'.16 Having a healthy appetite and a regularity of bowel movements to discharge 'morbid particles', then, identified 'working', and Johnson's habit of monitoring and recording what came out of his body makes sense as a responsible practice that would ' 4 Wesley quoted by Roy Porter in The Greatest Benefit tomankrnd: A Medical History of Humanity from Antiquity to Present (London: Harper Collins, 1997), 267. In An Essay on Regimen. Together with Five Discourses, Medical, Moral and Philosophical [etc.], 3 edition (London: for Dan. Browne and others, 1753), lxv. 16 Dorothy Porter and Roy Porter, Patient's Progress: Doctors and Doctoring in Eighteenth-Century England (Padstow: Polity Press, 1989), 39.

81 keep a check on his body and how it was performing day by day.' 7 Observing bowel motions, vomits and purges, and noting their regularity, was a common feature of early modem and eighteenth-century culture, which is illustrated by the diaries of Elias Ashmole at the end of the seventeenth century, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's journals and travel journals at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In Ashmole's diary, which was published in 1717, and again in the same year that Johnson visited Wales, daily records of his movements about town and the countiy, combine with notes about his state of health, and in particular his bowel movements and habit of taking purges.' 8 On 26th June, 1656, for example, Ashmole records: 'I fell sick, and had a great Looseness'; again on 8th August, 1676, 'I fell ill of a Looseness, and had above Twenty Stools'.' 9 On one occasion, Ashmole records how knowing the habits and problems of his own body, he was forced to give assistance to its motions: June 4. Being hard bound in my Body I was Five Hours before I could go to Stool, and suffered much torment. 9. I purged with Pills. 13. I went abroad again, Thanks be to God. (67-68) In these entries, Ashmole's need to expel 'morbid particles' in order to feel better and resume his daily business, indicates just how significantly his body's motions (or lack of) interrupted his routine and affected his daily life. Being forced to withdraw, as Johnson does in Liewenny on 5th August, in order to medicate and wait for a purgative to work, in part explains why such details are worth recording: firstly so it is possible to note how long a certain medication takes to 'work'; and secondly, because in order to keep healthy, it was necessary to take time out to attend to one's body. In 1803, Coleridge is still following a pattern of observing, medicating and noting his body's health and motions when he writes: Jalap instead for breakfast, Ipecacuanha for one's Dinner, Glauber's Salts in hot water for Tea, & the whole together in their several metempyschoses, 80 ' In his introduction to The Journal of a Voyage in Lisbon (London: Penguin, 1996), Henry Fielding is also very explicit about what is put into, and what is taken out of his body, as he records those occasions on which he was 'tapped' to remove excess water, of the Life of that Learned Anti quaiy, Elias Ashmole, Erq Drawn up by himself by way of a Diary (London. by Charles Bunnan for J. Roberts, 1717). A second version was published as The Lives of those Eminent Antiquaries Elias Ashmole [...} and Mr. William Lilly, written by themselves (London: for T. Davies, 1774). C. H. Josten has noted that Ashmole's diary was a 'private memorandum', not intended for publication, but put together as an aide-memoire for an autobiography which was not written. See Elias Ashmole ( ): His Autobiographical and Historical Notes, his Correspondence, and Other Contempora,y Sources Relating to his Life and Work, ed. by C. H. Josten, 5 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), 1, 4. ' Ashmole, Memoirs of the Life of[...] Elias Ashmole (1717), 33 and 55. Subsequent references to this edition are cited parenthetically in the text.

82 after having passed back again thro' the Mouth, or onwards thro' the Bowels, in a grand Mawwallop for one's Supper.2 In this, an entry in Coleridge's travel journal produced during his tour in Scotland in 1803, the routine of medicating himself in order to maintain healthy bodily motion, is comically described as tedious cycle that replaces a normal routine of eating breakfast or supper. Coleridge seems to suggest here, not without some irony, that having got into the habit of self-medication, normal patterns of things going into, and coming out of the body, have been disrupted by administering emetics and purgatives in the first place. Nevertheless, what his and Ashmole's diaries illustrate is that body-watching and noting its motions, or lack of, was a part of daily life throughout the eighteenth century, and was worth recording in order to look after or improve personal health. In Johnson's Welsh journal, observing what came out of his body as he travelled, reveals that movement through space and bodily motion were related in medical discourse to suggest that motion itself was life sustaining. For Johnson, being on the move seemed to improve his health. On July 16th, a long walk inspecting caverns at Dovedale improved his recurring problems with deafness: 'I thought that the heat and exercise mended my hearing. I bore the fatigue of the walk, which was very laborious without inconvenience' (33); and on August 3l1, a little exercise strolling around an ironworks improved his respiration: 'I had better breath as I walked further' (41). As exercise mended his hearing and breathing, so keeping to a busy travelling schedule kept problems with his internal motion, if not in check, at least out of his journal. It is certainly the case that Johnson's bowels only make an appearance, as it were, when the stimulation of travelling abates, and he finds he has nothing else to see or to write about. In eighteenth-century medical discourse, which recommended the benefits of travelling for health, the stimulation of being on the move was indeed a strong reason to recommend taking a tour, or going on a long journey. A change of scenery, air and climate were also significant factors in persuading people to travel. In an period which observed Hippocrates' theory of the four humours even in the later decades, putting bodies with certain kinds of constitutions into different climates, was reasoned to be one way of altering, improving, or testing their healtll 2' Indeed, travelling for the sake of a From The Notebooks of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ed. by Kathleen Coburn, 4 vols (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1957), I, entry 1547 (notebook 21, entry 267),j50. Cobum notes that Jalap and Cllauber's Salts were purgatives taken for their laxative effects, and Ipecacuanha was an emetic, taken to induce a vomit. 'Mawwallop' was Coleridge's preferred word for vomiting. 21 Pat Rogers has suggested that Johnson agreed to undertake the tour to Scotland with Boswell in order to come to temis with the strength and limits of his own body. Rogers argues that the trip was deliberately chosen in opposition to Hippocrates theory of the four humours, to 'test his stamina and push his body to

83 change of sceneiy was recommended because to move the body into a different climate and air made the constitution more adaptable, and prevented it relaxing into one formation of humours. James Makittrick Adair, for example, in, Medical Cautions, for the Consideration of Invalids (1786), recommended travelling from Britain to Nice, Naples or Lisbon for the winter, or 'as many invalids are unable to incur the expence of such excursions, there is no other alternative [...] than to change their residence in this country according to the changes of season'. 22 The Med/dna Gymnast/ca also recommended seeking out different air because, as air varies from place to place, travelling and riding is especially good for experiencing 'a variety of airs' within the space of one journey.23 As variation of air and climate recommended travelling from place to place in search of good health, equally the changing scenery through the carriage window was understood to be another reason to choose travelling for its therapeutic benefits. Adair suggested that 'the journey and diversity of objects, may contribute to amuse the mind', and that this change in sensory experience (sight, sound, smell) can be very effective. He summarised: There is so intimate a connection between mind and body, that they mutually influence each other; and hence it is that bodily diseases are either exasperated or alleviated by the state of the mind. It is therefore of the utmost importance, that the mind of the invalid be sustained by hope, and cheered by diversity of amusement; and that every serious avocation and painful passion be industriously avoided. It is for this reason that change of place has been so much recommended to invalids.24 Notably, Adair recommended a 'change of place' for the improvement of health without specifring which place, or which climate, suggesting that movement through space was beneficial irrespective of where a person happened to be. In eighteenth-centuiy Britain, then, medical discourse recommended the benefits of movement for health. Furthermore, however, 'movement through space' was also a metaphor for personal and social good health at this time. Indeed, the idea that travel and motion were good for the body originated in a culture which believed movement to be a panacea for many bodily ills. In the first instance, the ruling principle of the body's healthy 'working' during this period was motion. William Harvey's theory of the circulation of the blood, for example, is one metaphor of the age, which valued motion 82 the limits' in a bleak and wintry climate. See Johnson and Boswell: The Transit of Caledonia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 10-29(27). 22 (Bath: by K Cruttwell, 1786), 95. Francis Fuller, Methcina G)mnastica: Or, Every Man his own Physician, 9th edn (London: for W. Nonis, 1777), In Medical Cautions for the Consideration of Invalids, 95 and

84 as life-giving and sustaining. 25 Adair, in his later An Essay on Regimen (1799), proved that even at the close of the century, motion continued to be the ruling principle of good health: Life consists in motion, death in a cessation of it. The living body is a machine consisting of many organs and tubes by which thousands, or rather millioias of motions are constantly performed, whether we are awake or asleep, in motion or at rest. Those who are acquainted with the workmanship of machines invented by men, know that an apparently trifling irregularity, or impediment, in one part, may disturb the equal motion of the whole, e.g. a watch. This is precisely the case in the body of man. These veiy numerous motions of organs, muscles and tubes, may be too strong or too weak, too quick or too slow, either in the whole body, or m particular parts; and if this irregularity continues for any time, health must at least be injured, or may be totally lost. Regular exercise tends to prevent these irregularities, by promoting equal and steady motion through the whole machine.26 As Adair proposed here, putting the body into motion through exercise or travel, would benefit motion within the body because it would mimic the idea of internal bodily movement, thus calibrating life-style with physiology. Describing the body as a 'machine', Adair also makes reference to developing technologies like clockwork, or processes of manufacture, which relied on things 'working' so long as men were attentive to operating such 'machines' correctly. In Johnson's Welsh journal, the notion of his body as a machine is corroborated by his interest in how it, and manufacturing processes which he observes, both work. At a silk mill in Derby, Johnson notices 'a particular manner of propagating motion from a horizontal to a vertical wheel' (33-34); and at an iron works in Holywell, where he saw water powering a machine for making iron bars, Johnson was intrigued by how such things work: 'I then saw wire drawn,, and gave a shilling. I have enlarged my notions. Though not being able to see the movements, and having not time to peep closely', he emerges from the factory fascinated but disappointed (41). Nevertheless, observing the motions, or 'workings' of new machines is similar to observing his own body; in both cases, motion is necessary for working, as it is also evidence of working. For Johnson, looking hard to see how iron was made was not dissimilar to observing and noting with what degree of regularity, and A. L. Arndt's thesis, Pennies, Pounds and Peregrrnations: Circulation in Eighteenth-Century Literature and Culture (University of London, 1999), suggests that Harvey's discovery of the circulation of the blood became a metaphor for eighteenth-century culture, which believed that circulation and movement were life-giving. Arndt suggests that this metaphor extended to the idea of circulating trade, money, goods and letters as sustaining the financial and intellectual health of the nation, James M. Adair, An Essay on Regimen, for the Preservation of Health, especially of the Indolent, Studious, Delicate and Invalid (Air: for the author, 1799),

85 84 with what assistance, his own (waste) products were produced from day to day. In perhaps an unlikely comparison, curiosity, motion in the body, and motion in a machine, are revealed to be things which inspire a fascination with motion, and, crucially, a desire to know how this kind of force makes things work. Understanding that motion was a life force for both the internal workings of the body, and the body moving through space, was further corroborated in eighteenthcentury culture by the opposite notion that stasis or immobility was life threatening. Where space was contained or static, for example, eighteenth-century medical discourse displayed anxiety about the ramifications that lack of physical movement or movement of air could have on one's health. Populous cities, gaols, hospitals, and ships were known to be places, which, because contained and overcrowded, were detrimental to the health of those who lived within them. By contrast, a fast ride in a carriage through the countryside, a swim in the sea, or an invigorating walk, were health-promoting because in these situations there was respect for spatial decorum, and an opportunity to enjoy moving air, fresh water and flexing limbs. Air and water, in fact, were understood as vivifying elements, the antithesis of confined space, being continually moving, lifegiving essentials. However, once these substances were contained in a space, their vivilying elements were quickly lost in their confinement. Medical discourse at this time often describes both air and water as 'elastic' substances, which, when pure and uncontaminated, are not just essential for sustaining life, but also have the ability to improve life in the body by attacking illness and reviving good health. Brookes in The General Practice of Physic (1751) describes air as 'a fluid elastic Substance which surrounds us on all Sides, which penetrates our Bodies, and yet so fine, that it escapes our Sight'. Adding that, at best, air should be 'pure and sweet, void of all bad Exhalations, neither too hot, nor cold, nor dry, nor moist', the possibility for air to be health giving was famously exploited by Benjamin Franklin who practised a daily ritual of air bathing by sitting naked in front of an open window. 27 Similarly, water, according to Tobias Smollett's Essay on the External Use of Waler (1752), has an 'elastic spirit' which can often bring 'extraordinary cures [...] by the mechanical effects of simple Water upon the human body'. 2 Water, of course, can also be taken internally, either by drinking mineral water at a spa, or even by drinking sea water. A Dissertation on the use of Sea Water in the Diseases of the Glands (1752) recommended drinking sea-water as a 27 The General Practice of Physic, I, lxvi. For details of Franklin's bathing habits see Porter, The Greatest Benefit to Mankind, Tobias Smollett, An Ersay on the External Use of Waler. In a Lelier to Dr. [etc] (London: for M. Cooper. 1752), 3.

86 way of inducing a purge, and as a cure for a host of complaints from diabetes to leprosy. 29 Nevertheless, an understanding of the elasticity of air and water meant that both substances were also constantly prone to change. Air that was trapped and confined, for example, was known to become contaminated, and water that was not allowed to flow, would become stagnant and putrid. Adair's Medical Cautions, for the Consideration of Invalids (1786) warned that confined air was 'noxious air', particularly when contained in a space populated by people: [T]he breath and perspiration of the human body taint the air we breathe so much, that it is generally supposed that each person destroys the vivifying principle of a gallon of air in a minute.30 Moreover, the effects of such impure air on the body could be unpleasant: 'The person who remains for some time in foul air becomes uneasy and languid, with head-ach, difficulty of breathing, sense of oppression about the heart, cold sweating, fainting, &c. '(33). Confinement, containment or stasis of vivifying elements like air and water, then, was understood to have detrimental effects on one's health. 3' The urgent quest to prevent gaol fever at this time testifies that medical discourse accepted the problems a lack of motion could place on the body, as it also accepted that trapped air, breathed by many, was the cause of disease. Thomas Day's Some Considerations on the Different Ways of Removing Confined and Infectious Air; and the means adopted with remarks on the contagion in Maidstone Gaol (1784), suggested that not only was gaol fever caused by truly confined, noxious (and criminal?) air, but also that the inactivity of the inmates - 'immersed in the noxious effluvia of their own bodies' - would further contribute to the stagnation of the immobile bodies in a confined space. 32 Day suggests that domestic homes learn from the problems of disease in gaols by keeping their sitting rooms and shared spaces well-ventilated by introducing a 'tube' into the space which pipes fresh air in from outside. By introducing such a device to disrupt stale air, Day makes the following observation: It [...] is well known to most people in the world, that motion communicated to the air prevents its corruption and carries off foul vapours which rise from the earth, from stagnant waters, 85 By Richard Russell, trans (London by W. Owen, 1752), on purging, The fourth edition of the text (1760) was appended by An Account of the Nature, Properties, and Uses of all the remarkable Mineral Walers in Great Britain. 3 Adair, Medical Cautions, Roy Porter notes that trapped air was known as 'miasmata', and was thought to cause the 'ague' See Disease, Medicine and society in Englan , 2 edn (London: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 26. for the Author, [1784] X 18.

87 86 and also which have been observed to rise from noxious plants and trees in general;33 Suggesting that movement within and about air or water would prevent stagnation and limit the spread of mild ill-health, or Life-threatening fever, Day suggested that Maidstone Gaol be cleaned with lime and water; have fresh air periodically let in; that bad air should be purified by blasting gunpowder; and that the prisoners should be exercised and put to work to prevent inactivity within an already confined space. In the home, the installation of Day's 'tube' would allow a 'sufficient supply of fresh air' to always circulate within the room in order to prevent stagnation; similarly, in social situations, James Adair suggested that confined air be alleviated by the introduction of gentle waves of fresh, moving air; or, better still, that buildings be designed to encourage motion in the air at all times, without the necessity of a 'tube' or similar device.34 The prevention of stagnant water, however, was a trickier issue. The fashion at this time for visiting spa towns to partake of, and bathe in, the mineral waters, was one which both confirmed an idea of an elastic and mineral substance as a vivifying force, and yet also generated anxiety that large numbers of tourists flocking to test the waters for themselves would in fact overcrowd and overuse the medicinal spas. Adair's advice about overcrowded and ventilated rooms was based on Bath, and he suggested that confinement in the warm and crowded rooms of society not only encouraged disease and ill-health, but in fact did so wilfully as fashionable people hoped to become fashionably diseased in order to justify spending more time at the spa, self-medicating. 35 Matthew Bramble's visit to Bath in The Expedition of Humphry Clinker (1771) makes use of the overcrowding of the supposedly health-giving King's bath, by drawing attention to how a concentration of sick people immersed in water that is not free-flowing, is actually the antithesis of a discourse of health which relies upon motion for preventing illness. Writing to his physician, Dr. Lewis, Bramble explains: Two days ago, I went into the King's Bath, by the advice of our friend Ch-, in order to clear the strainer of the skin, for the benefit of a free perspiration; and the first object that saluted my eye, was a child full of scrophulous ulcers, carried in the arms of one of the guides, under the very nose of the bathers [...] Suppose the matter of those ulcers, floating on the water, comes into contact with my skin, when the pores are all open, I would ask you what must be the consequence?36 33 Ibd, 19. Day's advice concerning the introduction of a 'tube' is detailed in the appendix, iii-iv. ' See Adair, Medical Cautions, in which he recommends that both public rooms and private houses promote 'free and constant circulation of air in every apartment' by constantly keeping a part of the room orn to the elements, rather than occasionally airing the space when the air becomes stagnant, Ibid., Tobias Smollett, The Expedition of Humphry Clinker, ed. by Angus Ross (London: Penguin, 1967, repr. 1985), 75.

88 87 Smollett's satire, here, that concentrating a solution to poor health in waters which do not run free, corroborates his idea that sea-bathing is, in fact, more likely to bring good health than a fashionable spa because, unlike the King's Bath, the expansiveness, constant motion, and sheer un-contained-ness of the sea makes sense in a culture which knows motion is life-giving, and stagnation is life-threatening. For a culture which depended upon motion to secure good health, the fight against the inevitability of over-crowding and confined spaces made for anxious times. When John Wesley stated 'I must be on horseback for life, if I would be healthy', he was expressing a degree of anxiety about what he knew to be good for his health (travelling and exercise), versus what, in fact, he knew to be manageable in any lifetime. The 'must' of his statement suggests either a giddy optimism, or else reads as something of an nervous mantra which Wesley repeated to himself as a disciple of medical discourse which sought solutions in motion. Like Adair's fear of 'fashionable' diseases, a culture which was bombarded with medical discourses recommending a regimen of body-watching, self-medication, and motion-driven lives, was a culture anxiously chasing answers to medical problems, quite literally, by keeping moving. Visiting London in 1782, the German tourist Carl Philip Moritz was shocked to witness the bizarre promenading behaviour of Londoners at Ranelagh pleasure gardens, and, observing the same strolling ritual as Moritz, Smollett's Matthew Bramble is aware of the oddness of an activity which mixes fashion and medical discourse without perhaps understanding why: What are the amusements of Ranelagh? One half of the company are following the other's tails, in an eternal circle; like so many blind asses in an olive-mill, where they can neither discourse, distinguish, nor be distinguished;37 As Bramble suggests here, there is a kind of madness to the eternal motion of people visiting Ranelagh, as their movements are compared to those of shackled beasts pressing olives in a mill. Smollett's point, however, is that Londoners do not have to be slaves to a grindstone, if only they had the sense to realise the oddity of their actions. Nevertheless, his satire is telling in that it points to a culture so anxious about the body and so wrapped in a discourse of medicine which promotes motion for good health, that not only does visiting Ranelagh makes sense, but so too does taking a turn about the room to refresh the air, installing one of Thomas Day's 'tubes' in the sitting room, enjoying a bath of air nakeçi on a balcony, taking a purge, taking exercise in a carriage, or embarking on an 37 1b1d, 120.

89 88 exhausting tour of the country to test and flex one's body. Aiming towards a lifestyle of continual movement in search of good health, then, is simply to want the discourse which promotes such a lifestyle to be right. Yet as Bramble suggests, the anxiety that such discourse must be right is what keeps a culture routinely, perpetually, and nrvous1y on the move. Ironically, a discourse which promoted movement for health may actually have produced a culture so consumed with anxiety about preserving the body from illhealth that it became something of a culture pathologically incapable of keeping still; a culture, in fact, which no longer knew whether the movements it kept making were of any benefit to anyone at all. Making the Body Legible: Representing its Movements throu gh Space in Writing In Johnson's Welsh journal - as in Hester Thrale's journal, which is discussed in more detail below - writing about the body moving through space meant making sense of medical discourse which promoted motion as essential for sustaining or improving the body and good health. By writing the body into travel writing, or rather, writing travel as a report on the body in motion, this process of producing one's body as writing, was a way of making legible that which was unpredictable and, to au extent, unknowable. Roy Porter has suggested that the 'sickness culture' of eighteenth-century Britain encouraged body watching because individuals did not rely on doctors to identify their ailments, but instead preferred self-diagnosis and self-medication. Explaining that '[t]he diaries of eighteenth-century patients show that they often disregarded their physician's advice, and discharged bossy practitioners', Porter cites Samuel Johnson as one example of a patient who, refusing his doctor's advice, demanded to be bled because he thought it was necessary, and that others like him would often trust their own diagnosis over their physician's: '[patients] felt no compunction about shopping around for second and third opinions, and made free use of quack and unorthodox remedies as well, following a try-anything philosophy that gave no automatic privilege to regular medicine'. 38 Within this culture of self-diagnosis, individuals like Johnson and Thrale used their journals to make sense of how their bodies worked by annotating their lives with details of how their bodies responded to stimuli like travelling, and by noting what they put into them, and, perhaps more importantly, what came out of them. Johnson's observations of his bowel movements were to him an indication that his body was working, or, if it was not, were a register of his own course of action for stimulating 38 Porter, Disease, Medicine and Society in EngIana , 31.

90 89 normal working order. By scrutinising what caine out of his body, Johnson (like Ashmole and Coleridge) used his bowel motions as signs which represented both the body's internal working, and his attention towards ensuring that everything was kept in working order. Thus, observing bowel motions was the first act of representation, and noting these observations in a journal was the second; in both cases, the act of representing the body was a matter of supplanting the mysteries of its internal working with material evidence in order to create a narrative of 'working' by producing both a 'stool' (or a vomit), and a textual register of kinds of motions, complete with dates and times. Both the waste products and the journal, then, were produced out of, but separate from, the body, in order to make legible what could not otherwise be seen and was only vaguely understood. Representing the body by both examining and noting its production of waste indicates that there was a need for Johnson, and others like him, to know, understand, control and make readable physical matter, because it also held personal, moral and social significance. Aileen Douglas' study, Uneasy Sensations: Smollett and the Body (1995), suggests that the eighteenth century was a period that desired to make sense of the body in all of these ways, notably by making the personal body a social body, and reconciling its physical existence with social usefulness and moral meaning. In the late eighteenth century, advances in medicine were offset with a culture of sensibility that sought to understand that bodies of men and women were more than just simply matter. Douglas summaries that this discourse of sensibility found meaning in physical matter by putting the soul back into the body: 'Bodies can never be mere bodies because what they feel, and the ways in which they react, always bear testimony to their implication in social and moral life". 39 Making physical bodies social bodies meant not only recognising that physical matter reflected a person's role in society, but also that being in control of one's health and body signified as good practice because preventing disease and keeping track of illness turned the unpredictability of the body into knowledge which could be shared with others. 4 Eighteenth-century medical discourse promoted this kind of personal responsibility in the form of guides to health (most explicitly, perhaps, Francis Fuller's Medicina Gymnasrica; or, Every Man his own Physician), and, as Michel Foucault has argued in 'The Politics of Health in the Eighteenth Century', this discourse operated as 'noso-politics' which 'figure[d] as [...] the health of all as a (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), Douglas quotes David Hume's Treatise of Human Nature to suggest that eighteenth-century culture matched physical matter with social roles by differentiating between men and women's bodies, and the bodies of people from different classes, 20.

91 priority for all', by encouraging good health practice to begin at home.4' Foucault observes that persuading people to have personal responsibility for their health generated a culture of health (like Porter's 'sickness culture'), which made a personal regime public, so that 'the healthy, clean, fit body' and 'a purified, cleansed aid aerated domestic space' gradually became the norm to which people were expected to conform (173). As an urge to understand one's own body was endorsed by a culture that made personal bodies social bodies, keeping a record of aches and pains made sense as part of an attentive and careful regimen of personal health. Writing down the fluctuations, movements and changes of the body meant that a person was able to observe the body as he or she would observe the self in a journal or diary, noticing changes, or keeping a register of self-dosing so that a narrative could develop about one's journey through good or bad health. Aside from using the journal as a notebook of varying health, writing the body was also a way of communicating to others the details of one's health as a pre-emptive response to 'how are you?'. Fanny Burney's journals, for example, indicate that reports of her health were given as personal memoranda, journal-letters, and to-thc-point bulletins, which were posted to her sister whenever they were apart. Burney's most famous record of her body, the description of her mastectomy which was performed in 1812, ran to twelve pages and was intended to be read by sister Hefty, and indeed all the family, and came complete with a covering note warning: 'Respect this & beware not to injure it!!!, 42 Douglas notes that such a frank description of the body is evidence that in late eighteenth-century Britain, people were prepared to make the body a subject of their writing lives. 43 Similarly in Burney's 'Western Tour' of 1791, a journal-letter sent to her sister reports that writing the body was also an acceptable part of people's travelling and travel-writing lives. Describing her 'tour for health' in terms of the effect of motion on the body, Burney gives the following account: I found the constant motion very fatiguing, though our stages were short, & our proceedings slow. I have found myself still weaker that I had suspected, for when I cannot rest at will, I become languid & sunk to a degree not merely irksome, but painful. However, as to my general progress, it is certainly very promising, though less rapid, & more uncertain c variable than my buoyant expectations. Particulars, however, I shall leave for my Michel Foucault, 'The Politics of Health in the Eighteenth Century', in Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Writings , ed. by Cohn Gordon (Hemel Hempstead: The Harvester Press, 1980), (168). 42 See Kate Chisholm, Fanny Burney: Her Life (London: Vintage, 1998), 313, n Douglas, Uneasy Sensations, xiv-xv

92 Letters by the post, & let my Health, therefore, be out of the question in this detaii. Hoping that this journey would improve her health - having a 'buoyant' expectation signifies both a hope of improvement, and a faith in motion - Burney reports that she found the motion of the carriage tiring rather than invigorating, but more importantly, she begins her entry for this day (August 9th) by swiftly dealing with the details of her own body in motion, matching the beginning of a new stage of the tour, with a firstthings-first record of her own body as it is jolted into movement once more. Reporting her body in this way, Burney shares her experiment in travelling for health with her sister, just as, for herself, she adopts a responsible, attentive attitude to the signs of change in her body by carefully observing and noting the details of her health. The Welsh journals of Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale, then, make legible the body in motion, by using the their travels as a period of time in which to notice how the body responded to motion, which medical discourse at this time believed to be beneficial. In Johnson's very short and scanty journal, the narrative of his motions overshadows his other movements not least because of the intrusion of such personal details, but perhaps more significantly, because he writes very little at all about his three-month long Welsh tour. In the previous chapter I noted that Johnson was disappointed by what he saw during his Welsh tour, writing 'I have seen nothing, because there is nothing to be seen', to his friend John Taylor following his trip. 45 Not having anything to stimulate his senses ('seen nothing') might in some way explain why firstly his journal is so short and patchy, and secondly, why he turns his observing eye onto his body instead. Certainly, it was understood that there was a relationship between the body and sensory stimulation in eighteenth-century culture; G. J. Barker-Benfield notes, for example, that physician George Cheyne believed that sensory stimulation worked to keep the body healthy as "feeling is nothing but the Impulse, Motion, or Action of Bodies, gently or violently impressing the Extremities or Sides of the Nerves, of the Skin, or other Parts of the Body' which, by receiving sensory stimulation, 'convey this Motion to the sentient Principle in the Brain, or the Musician." As sensory stimulation made the motions of one's 'psychoperceptual' machine work 91 In The Journals and Letiers of Fanny Burney (Madame D'Arblay), ed by Joyce Hemlow, 12 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, ), I , (26). Hemlow states in her notes that the 'short bulletins of health sent by post were seldom preserved'. See Chapter One, 22. G. J. Barker-Benfield quoting from George Cheyne's English Malady (1733), in The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-Century Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992; repr. 1996), 8.

93 efficiently, lack of stimulation would cause this system to break down, and in this state the body was more prone to disease and ill health. For Johnson, a lack of things to see and do in Wales, particularly during the weeks when he was staying with Thrale's relatives at Liewenny, coincides with a lack of things to write about and a period of intense body watching. Perhaps because Johnson had nothing to stimulate either his external body (through motion) or his internal, feeling body, the problems with his 'working' were triggered. As I have already discussed in the first chapter of this study, travelling was expected to provoke sensoiy stimulation and, in a culture ofjoumalizing, much writing; and though it was more difficult to produce writing where what was available to observe was familiar and not new or different, it was nevertheless expected that people find things to write about nonetheless. For Johnson, finding things to write about when travelling in Wales meant refocusing his attention away from the people and manners of this part of the country, towards his own body moving through space, and its evidence of internal motion and regular movements. Importantly, Johnson's decision to write about his bowel movements was not necessarily a decision to abandon travel writing, but was, in fact, a decision to focus instead on the question of motion and its relationship with travelling and bodily health. Moreover, Johnson believed that journal writing in general was most useful when one was young and inexperienced, so that the journal worked like a mirror in which a young man or woman could check his or her reflection; but then in later years, a journal was less necessary as "once a man has settled his opinions, there is seldom much to be set down". 47 Thus, Johnson's lack of writing in his Welsh journal was not necessarily the product of a lack of travelling stimulation, but was just as likely to be the product of a lack of need to journalize his life. Producing a travel journal of their tour in Wales, then, Johnson and Thrale focussed on their bodies moving through space as part of a discourse of travel which understood motion to be a metaphor for good health. Furthermore, their journals also integrated a narrative of the body into a narrative of travel in order to represent the fact that all travelling essentially begins with putting the body in motion. For Johnson, introducing his bowel movements into his travel journal conveyed a rather decorous approach to disclosure as his bodily details were partially hidden by Classical language, which, ironically, also leant an air of drama and importance to the details he was Boswell, Life, 1203; quoting Johnson in March 1783.

94 93 describing. 48 For Thrale, however, the details of her and her daughter's bodies in motion are not intrusions or veiled comments in her text, but are woven into the narrative of the tour to create a story of a woman and her daughter on the move through territory that evokes memories of childhood and loss. Recently, Theresa A. Dougal has suggested that Thrale explored the relationship between the private diary and the travel journal in producing her travel narratives, arguing that though '[tjhe travel narrative and diary genres are inherently different from one another in that, strictly defined, the first addresses a potential audience of many while the second addresses an audience of one or an intimate few', Thrale was nevertheless 'tantalized by the close association between the two genres', and chose to exploit their similarities in the production of her Welsh journal. 49 Dougal suggests that for Thrale, 'the activity of travelling, especially over familiar turf; provides almost an excuse for [her] to comfort herself with the kind of writing which comes most naturally to her, that is most intimately rewarding' (2OO). Certainly, Thrale's journal includes detail which one might identi& as 'private' because it concerns her own and her daughter's bodies; Thrale discovers she is pregnant and records suffering with morning sickness towards the end of the tour, and her daughter, Queeney, is plagued by a persistent cough and often seems to be threatened by a cold. However, rather than argue, with Dougal, that the personal intrudes into the more 'public' narrative of the journey because Thrale reverts from writing a travel journal into writing a private diary, this chapter will suggest that it is neither the familiar landscape, nor the want of her usual private journals which brings Thrale's body into her text, but rather a 'narrative occasion', in Andrew Hassam's words, which persuades Thrale to produce a fluent narrative of her Welsh tour and her body's movement through space.5' In the Life Boswell reports that Johnson believed journals were private and should therefore not be shared with a public readership. Commenting on Dr. Rutty's Spiritual Diary and Soliloquies (1777), Johnson suggests that people who published this kind of personal detail were 'egotists' who fell into four camps, from the 'grace and dignity' of Julius Caesar's 'transactions' to "the journalists temporal and spiritual: Elias Ashmole, William Lilly, George Whitfield, John Wesley, and a thousand other old women and fhnatick writers of memoirs and meditations" (853). Horace Walpole also referred to the publishing of private journals in pejorative terms. On reading the Memoirs of Thomas Hollis in 1780 he declared that this text was 'very near as anile as Ashmole's' (though he himself owned two copies of Ashmole's diary) See Walpole to William Mason, Friday April 7th 1780 in The Yale Edition of Horace Walpole 's Correspondence, ed. by W. S. Lewis, 48 vols (London and New Haven: Yale University Press, ), XXIX, 19. Theresa A. Dougal, '"Strange Farrago of Public, Private Follies": Piozzi, Diary, and the Travel Narrative', The Age of Johnson: A Scholarly Annual, 10 (1999), (196 and 214, respectively). 5 Dougal compares Thrale's travel journals with her other journalizing, especially her Thral,ana, 'lhmily book' and other commonplace books in which Thrale would write the personal details of herself and her family when not on the road, See Hassam, '"As I Write": Narrative Occasions and the Quest for SeIf.Presence in the Travel Diary', Ariel, 21 (1990),

95 To understand Thrale's Welsh journal in terms of a discourse of the body in motion, reading how her own, her daughter's and her mother's bodies were affected by being on the move is necessary for identifying how Thrale portrays female bodies struggling to enjoy the benefits of motion, via travel, for health. In the first instance, Thrale's journal, in contrast with Johnson's, suggests that female bodies do not respond to being on the move in terms of the contemporary discourse of medicine which recommended movement for restoring or sustaining good health. For Queeney in particular, Thrale records being on the move as provoking signs of a cold, and putting her daughter's life in serious danger. On the second day of the tour, for example, as the party headed towards Lichfield for the night, Thrale fleared that Queeney would exacerbate her condition with the exertion of travelling: Mr. Thrale suggested the expedient of their being put in a post chaise, and the apparent preference of their convenience to mine, who had expressed my desire of shortening the journey [...] The clock struck 12 at Lichfield soon after we got in, and I had many feelings for Quceney which I was forced to suppress, as I was often told how little it signified whether she catch'd cold or no. She accordingly escaped with a slight coldi and a sore eye. 52 Having been shouted-down by the rest of the party in favour of further travelling, Thrale reports that her daughter's cough then set in for a number of weeks at the beginning of the tour. On the 9th July, leaving Lichfield, Thrale ites that 'Queeney breaks my heart and my head with her cough. I am scarce able to endure it'; and a few days later, whilst the party stay with Dr. Taylor at Ashbourne, she records feeding Queeney a Scot's pill to 'carry off the cough' which has still not abated (9 1-92). Returning to Ashbourne after a few days of hectic touring, Thrale records feeling relief that the tour is halted so she 'can nurse my Niggey, whose cough seems to have gained new strength', at an en route 'home, so we now call Ashbourne' (93). Sitting up all night on the 14th to attend to her daughter's cough, Thrale is reminded of her other children who have died from illnesses with symptoms similar to those from which Queeney suffers, but happily reports that by the 16th, her eldest daughter finally shows signs of improvement (despite having 'a slight touch of the worms'). 53 With Queeney enjoying good health once the party are in Thrale, 'Journal of a Tour in Wales with Dr. Johnson', 90; subsequent page numbers from this edition will be referenced parenthetically in the text. Six months before the Welsh tour, Thrale's four-year old daughter, Lucy Elizabeth died, having suffered from symptoms similar to Queeney's. By July 1774, Thrale had already lost four children since her marriage to Henry Thrale in 1763: Frances died in 1756 at four days old; her third child Anna Maria died in 1770 aged two; and in 1772, her sixth child, Penelope, died the same day she was born. In her lifetime, Thrale gave birth to twelve children in fourteen years, only four of whom (including Queeney) survived to adulthood. See Clifford, Hesler Lynch Piozzi (Mrs. Thrale).

96 95 Wales and staying with Thrale's relatives at Liewenny, in August preparations for beginning the return leg of the tour provoke Thrale to worry once again about her daughter's health, and how she will fare when back on the road. On 13th August, Thrale notices ominously that Queeney 'had a touch of the headache, and looked heavy about the eyes' and despite administering a Scot's pill which 'worked her this morn', the following day the 'weight over [her] eyes' persisted causing Thrale to worry that it was the beginning of something more sinister than a cold (109). Two days before they leave Liewenny, Thrale administers 'physick' to Queeney, and is unable to decide whether it is this purgative or an earlier ride on a horse which made her 'better tonight for some reason or other' (110); the next day, her anxieties increase as she notices that Queeney is feverish, and prone to being unwell in the middle of the day, a pattern which she explains mimicked the illness of her daughter Lucy, who died in June that year. As the register of Queeney's cold symptoms suggests that heir health worsened when the party were on the move, so moving through space stimulated Thrale to consider that travelling was not beneficial for everyone in the same way. On 23' August, as the party headed towards Bodfel over a bumpy road, Thrale recalls when her sick mother made the same journey and how 'every rough road I feel reminds me of the pain with which she passed these mountains, which I am now crossing for pleasure' (114). Comparing her tour of pleasure with the fact that every jolt of the carriage was agony for her mother travelling just before she died from breast cancer, Thrale's narrative of movement through space suggests again that the motion of a carnage, which was recommended by Adair in Medical Cautions, for the Consideration of Invalids (1786) as being therapeutic, was not necessarily advice which could be applied to sick children or terminally ill women. Just as Fanny Burney in her 'Western Tour' found the motion of the carriage 'fatiguing', and not health-improving, so Thrale's journal suggests that movement through space is tiring, slow and often damaging to women's health. By the second week of September, Thrale reports that Queeney's cold has returned, and, as she is eager to get her daughter home as quickly as possible, she responds impatiently to the planned visiting schedule which delays their progress towards London (121). As the tour lurches on, in these last weeks Thrale's journal entries are noticeably shorter, as worries about Queeney's ill health stymie her interest in reporting what she sees and does, and her own signs of early pregnancy occasionally keep her indoors and prevent her from attending to her journal as often as she would like. Recording bouts of nausea from 14th September until the end of the tour, Thrale spends the 15th 'within' to be 'careful of myself and my child', and reports on the 19th

97 96 she is 'too sick for relation or enquiry', being forced to retire early rather than spend the evening in company ( ). Finally, and as the tour draws to a close, finding she is nauseous not only in the morning but all day, an odd day without sickness on the 24th is recorded as having given her the opportunity to '[make] up my Journal instead of going to bed', as Thrale makes it clear that journalizing her movement through space was not possible whilst she suffered from ill health (125). Suggesting that neither herself, her mother, nor her daughter benefited from medical discourse which recommended movement through space for good health, Thrale's Welsh journal seems to suggest that by contrast, women, children and invalids have bodies whose health could be jeopardised or traumatised by the motion of travelling. In mid-eighteenth-century medical discourse, women's bodies were identified to be biologically weaker than men's, and so less capable of physical exercise. Physician George Cheyne suggested that women's nerves in particular were finer and weaker than men's, and thus lacking the "Force, Strength, Vigour and Activity" which a pursuit such as travelling might require. TM Similarly in The Ladies Dispensatory: or, Every Woman her own Physician (1740), a woman's weaker state was explained as being a result of a lack of 'Heat and Firmness which is the Characteristick of Man, and which enables him to digest and evacuate his Nutriment in due Time and Proportion', all of which consequently made a woman's body more prone to ill health or disease because it was weaker and less capable of being exercised.55 Medical discourse's suggestion that women's bodies were weaker was not simply a matter of biology, however, but also a matter of culture as women in mid-eighteenthcentury Britain were accused of encouraging their bodies' nerves and fibres to relax into inactivity because they led indolent lives. Cheyne, for example, noted that women's bodies were similar to the bodies of male intellectuals who led sedentary lifestyles, and whilst, in his case studies, he recommended exercise to all of the men in order to brace up their constitutions, as Barker-Benfield has noted, for the women, exercise was only recommended to one, and to a second "on occasion". A woman's double-bind of having a biologically and culturally weaker body in mid eighteenth-century medical discourse was alleviated, however, as the century progressed and exercise was more regularly recommended for all by health manuals. The French physician, Dr. Tissot, for example, in Advice to the People in General, with '4 Barker-Benfield quoting from Cheyne's English Malady (1733), in The Culture of Sensibility, 24. ' From Women in the Eighteenth-Century: Constructions of Femininity, ed. by Vivien Jones (London: Routledge, 1990; repr. 1997), (83). ' In The Culture of Sensibility, 25.

98 Regard to their Health (1765), agreed that women were biologically and culturally weaker than men, but did not, however, support a notion that their bodies should be kept in a weakened, unexercised state. Reasoning that they were more prone to illness as 'they are usually employed in managing Household Business, and such light sedentary Work, as afford them less Exercise and Motion', Tissot adds that this inactivity makes their bodies more prone to c$rtss: [As][t]hey stir about but little, whence their natural Tendency to Weakness increases from Habit, and thence becomes morbid and sickly. Their Blood circulates imperfectly; its Qualities become impaired; the Humours tend to a pretty general Stagnation; and none of the vital Functions are completely discharged.57 Recommending that women learn from childhood to take regular exercise and be more active, Tissot added that indolent and un-exercised women were less likely to menstruate frequently, and, as they were then unable to discharge blood, ran the risk of building up harmful toxins in their bodies because their languid constitutions were not strong enough to expel such 'morbid matter' on a regular basis.58 As women were encouraged to regularly put their body into motion in order to secure good health, pregnant women were also recommended to continue being active for as long as possible during pregnancy. Whilst Thrale recorded that she spent September 15th indoors so as to be careful of herself and child, staying within was not necessarily something which medical discourse recoimnended she should do for the duration of her pregnancy In Martha Mears' late eighteenth-century advice manual, The Pupil ofnature; or Candid Advice to the Fair Sex (1797), pregnant women were warned to 'avoid all excesses of the table' and 'resist the soft allurements of lazy unnerving indulgence', by taking regular exercise. 59 Similarly, women's diaries and letters of the late eighteenth-century suggest that many women agreed with Mears' statement that '[a] State of pregnancy has too generally been considered as a state of indisposition or diesase', and so sought an active pregnancy (94). Amanda Vickery reports, for example, that Betty Ramsden determined to "waddle about" till she was "such a monster in size" that she was forced to take to her bed, but that other women reported being 'practically immobilized', unable even to walk around the garden, by the third trimester 97 5 "9Tissot, Advice to the People in General, with Regard to their Health trans. by J. Kirkpatrick (London: for T. Becket and P. A. De Hondt, 1765), Ibid., 355. The importance of maintaining regular menstruation was often compared with the habit of blood-letting which eighteenth-century medical discourse recommended in order to remove harmful toxins from the blood, and to help keep the four humours in a state of balance. See Porter, Disease, Medicine and Society in England, 25. ' In Jones, ed., Women in the Eighteenth-Century, (96).

99 of pregnancy. 6 With different experiences for different women, medical discourse could only offer general advice and warn against over-indulgence and complete inactivity because a woman was pregnant. Only where there was an increased risk of miscarriage following a strain did Tissot advise that women should keep still for several days, without speaking, in order to regain their strength (366). As medical discourse in late eighteenth-century Britain especially recommended exercise for women because they were more prone to languid constitutions, Hester Thrale's narrative of women and children forced to travel when they didn't want to, or even made sick by travelling, seems to suggest some resistance to the advice meted out by medical discourse. Yet, despite the fact that Thrale's journal often recorcs moments of despair as the men of the party choose to press on, or stick to a busy visiting schedule, whilst she herself, or her daughter, needed to rest, there is io single narrative in the text which suggests that Thrale was making a case for women's bodies as being fundamentally different, or less capable of physical exercise, than men's. Certainly, concerns about Queeney's health are raised when the party are on the road, and not whilst they are enjoying a period of rest at Liewenny, but despite this evident relationship between movement and ill-health, Thrale's journal suggests that that the body, and particularly the body in motion, was not something which medical discourse had yet successfully made legible, but, in fact, was a surprising, and often unpredictable, thing. In the Welsh journal, several reports of the body's inpredictabi1ity or illegibility confirm the suggestion that Thrale was unsure about the benefits or otherwise of motion on the female body. A trip to 11am Gardens, for example, reveals that Thrale's daughter was rather more robust than she had realised so far: The day was warm and wet, so my poor Queeney soaked her feet completely up to her mid-leg [...] We got them quite dry again tpo or very near, and I half flattered myself she had not increased her cold, but the night told another story. She waked at 2 o'clock and coughed till 3, again at 5 o'clock and coughed till 6. She kept up her spirits, however, and her general health, eat [sic], and ran, and laughed as usual, and was impatient for tomorrow's adventures (92). Staying at a 'wretched inn' at Edensor on the 12th July, Thrale is similarly surprised to note that 'Hetty had the best night she has experienced since her cold', and was not the least bit disturbed by the 'rude, drunken' people who were carousing at the inn into the night (92). Having been threatened with a renewal of her cold on 15th August, Thrale Amanda Vickery, The Genileman 's Daughter: Women's Lives in Georgian Britain (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998),

100 records that her daughter's pattern of ill-health is now nothing short of a mystery as, the following day, 'Queeney rose in such spirits that I fretted at myself for fretting about her'; adding, 'I wish I knew what ailed her', Thrale dispenses salts to cool her, in an almost futile gesture to make some sense of her illness (110). As for her own health, despite the nausea from which she suffered for whole days at a time towards the end of the tour, Thrale's morning sickness is often described as nothing more than an irritation which gets in the way of normal business. Visiting Chirk Castle with Johnson on 7th September, Thrale describes meeting a 'ridiculous Chaplain whose conversation with Mr. Johnson made me ready to burst with laughing, though I was as sick as possible, but so I am every day and all day long' (120). Despite her persistent nausea, she also joins in with the rounds of visiting with the rest of the party, walking up a steep hill in Shrewsbury on the 10th, seeing Worcester cathedral and a china manufactory on the 14th, and riding out on horseback on the 8th and 22', as the party make their way towards London, following a hectic schedule of sightseeing. As Thrale's narrative of bodies in motion and health fails with any certainty to either confirm or contest medical discourse which recommended travel for health, the question remains of how her own, her daughter's, and her mother's bodies are woven into the narrative of the Welsh tour, and for what effect? Certainly, the text is a narrative of women either suffering or coping stoically with unpredictable health, often in the face of rather disdainful opinion from the men of the party. As the party head towards Lichfield in the early days of the tour, for example, Thrale notes that it is 'Mr. Thrale's' and Johnson's 'appararent preference of their convenience to mine', which convinces them to press on, rather than stay and watch Queeney's health (90). Similarly, as the party prepare to leave Llewenny, Thrale records how her husband, Henry, does not share her concerns for Queeney's health: 'to be sure every body does wonder why I think her sick, but so it was with Lucy. All the World thought her well but me, and I was right, God help me' (111). Elsewhere in the text, Hester Thrale makes it clear that as a mother canng for her daughter and unborn child, she is often alone in her worries, and finds she receives no support from Henry Thrale or Johnson. Anxious for news from home about the health of her other children, Thrale reports that she was forced to 'come into my own room to cry', as neither the rest of her party, nor her hostess Mrs. Cotton, can understand why she is so upset. When she finally receives letters from Streatham, Thrale learns that all is not as well as she would like, and again, that she woulçl have to bear this worry alone: 99

101 Queeney has a weight over her eyes agaan today. I hear Harry has a black eye, and Ralph cuts his teeth with pain, but I have nobody to tell how it vexes me. Mr. Thrale will not be conversed with by me on any subject, as a friend, comforter, or adviser [...] My present Companions have too much philosophy for me. One cannot disburthen one's mind to people who are watchful to cavil, or acute to contradict before the sentence is finished (109). Finding that Henry Thrale and Johnson will only debate Thrale's worries to suggest solutions or ideas where she herself seeks comfort, Thrale realises that '[e]very day more and more do I feel the loss of my Mother', as another woman with whom she could share her worries, and be comforted: '[T]is so melancholy a thing to have nobody one can speak to about one's clothes, or one's child, or one's health, or what comes uppermost. Nobody but Gentlemen, before whom one must suppress everything except the mere formalities of conversation and by whom everything is to be commended or censured. Here my paper is blistered with tears for the loss of my companion, my fellow traveller, my Mother, my friend, my attendant, who packed my trunks and eased all my cares, while her conversation enlivened one's mind and her observations on everything were thought well of by the wisest. I hoped, and very vainly hoped that wandering about the World would lessen my longing after her, but who now have I to chat with on the Road? (95) Longing for a female travelling companion with whom she could share the concerns of being on the road, Thrale identifies that 'one's child, or one's health' may come uppermost in a tour, even if the rest of the party choose to pnontise fast travelling or hectic sightseeing. Thrale's despondent cry that she has no one to 'chat with' any more, consolidates the sense that in puttmg her daughter's health before anything else, and writing it into her journal at every opportunity, she chose to pnontise an observation of the body in motion when and where it was necessary. Producing a narrative which suggests that in travelling, the bodies and health of one's family and oneself are equally as important as sightseeing, visiting, and recording observations of people and places, Thrale's Welsh journal contradicts the notion that private details creep into the journal as if by accident, or, indeed, are at odds with more accepted notions of travel writing. Creating a text, which, in part, focuses on the details of female bodies in motion, Thrale's journal simply observes and notes her and other's bodies as they move through space, alongside everything else she sees and chooses to write about during the tour. Aside from a refusal to ignore personal or private details in the recording of movement through space, Thrale's journal also offers a seductive narrative of the difficulties faced by a worried, wearied mother, who is unsupported by the rest of her family. Far from being merely a private record of travelling which blends 100

102 private diary-writing with travel writing, Thrale's journal makes travelling personal by creating 'narrative occasions' which identify that travelling and recording travel impact first and foremost on the body and mind of the travelling subject. Marie E. McAllister has argued that 'Thrale's constructions of male-female difference are highly deliberate - and effective - rhetorical constructions', which portray the journal's author as a woman who 'observes and reflects, [...] communicates and nurtures', where men only reason or question.6' Yet, aside from creating a persona of a woman alone, who is ignored by her party and chastised for her worries about her daughter, Thrale's journal also operates a persuasive self-referentiality which suggests that whilst she finds herself unable to communicate with her fellow passengers, her journal is a place in which she writes her experience, communicates a battle with medical discourse, and projects herself as an impassioned, sensitive, and caring woman who worries about her family even as she is also capable of making detailed observation of the Welsh people and countryside. 62 In the above quotation, where Thrale longs to be able to talk to her mother, her reference to her journal - '[h]ere my paper is blistered with tears for the loss of my companion' - draws attention to how writing is her support, replacing a conversation she wishes she could have with her mother perhaps, but also highlighting a moment in the act of writing travel which brings personal details to the fore of the narrative, not merely as acts of disclosure, but also as 'narrative occasions' which collapse the boundaries between writer and persona. A similar moment occurs during a long night spent watching Queeney sleep: [H]ere I am sitting to my journal by my daughter's bedside trying to flatter myself that her cough mends. This is Thursday, 14th July, 1774 (93). This example of writing to the moment highlights that, in Andrew Hassam's words, 'language enables [the] subject to inhabit space at a particular moment', as Thrale draws attention to the act of writing as a conversation between herself and her journal, and herself as a narrative persona, and the implied reader of the journal. 63 By projecting herself into her text in this way, Thrale's narrative of bodies in motion argues that health is not something which can be predicted, and so must be closely watched and McMi 'Gender, Myth and Recompense: Hester Thrale's Journal of a Tour in Wales', The Age of Johnson: A Scholarly Annual, 6 (1993), (270 and 271, respectively). 62 Whilst McAllister identifies that there is a narrative at work in the Welsh journal, she still suggests that the inclusion of Thrale's personal details were unintentional: 'If Thrale had been in a position to look objectively at the journal in which she was documenting her frustration, she would have found much to renew seif-esteent' Ibid., 275. Hassarn, '"As I Write": Narrative Occasions and the Quest for Self-Presence in the Travel Diary', 35.

103 carefully recorded, whatever else one might be doing in the daily business of travelling. By making herself 'an object of consciousness' in her text, Thrale simultaneously portrays herself as a heroine of her own journey and her own tale, and as a woman who registers that travelling is about corporeal bodies moving through space, just as travel writiig is also about corporeal bodies recording movement, and all aspects of the journey which matter (ii* Conclusions In all, concerns about bodies, health and motion in these home tours suggest that there existed a culture at this time which recognised a relationship between movement through space and the body, where the travelling subject's body in motion earnestly wanted the experience of travel to be meaningful in terms of a regimen of healthy living and selfimprovement. In the belief that, as Brian Dolan has suggested, 'from the doctor's point of view, it often did not matter where patients travelled, just as long as they were travelling', home tours were as good an opportunity as any to put the body in motion in order to test medical discourse which suggested that one's health should feel the benefit of such activity by stimulating one's muscles, fibres, nerves and organs into working efficiently. TM As medical discourse used a metaphor of motion as a signifier of all that was life-giving, engaging the body in travel was a useful way of testing and flexing it in the hope of experimenting with health-improving options, and proving to oneself that such an opportunity had been engaged with as a meaningful attempt at self-improvement. However, as the travel journals of Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale suggest, a culture that sought solutions in motion was a culture which anxiously chased legibility of the body where, in fact, legibility was not always attainable. As Johnson's journal proves, travelling subjects wanted to make sense of their bodies in motion, and as he observed his body's abjections in order to note and record evidence of internal working, so others, like Thrale and Fanny Bumey, brought their bodies into their narratives in order to represent their experience of being corporeal subjects on the move. Thrale's journal, in fact, proves that the female body had a rather more equivocal relationship with motion, and that writing the body was not always a case of careful annotation or experiment, but also an anxious record of uncertainty where bodies are unpredictable, and often illegible things, which support and contest medical discourse in equal measure. The fact that her mother's cancer was a disease which the motion of a bumpy carriage could not put right 64 Dolan,Ladies of the Grand Tour, 151.

104 103 was enough to persuade Thrale that bodies in motion were sometimes bodies in pain, and in need of rest as well as motion in order to procure good health. As records of bodies moving through space in late eighteenth-centuiy Britain, the Welsh journals of Johnson and Thrale provide evidence that in the production of moveient through space as travel writing, the spaces between the places of a tour were produced as literary discourse with the same care and attention as towns and cities, country houses and factories, and other sites of interest along the way. The Welsh journals of Johnson and Thrale represent a culture equivocating about the role which medical discourse played in their lives, but their journals are also records which represent the time they spent either engaging with, or despairing of, medical discourse, making them textual documents which represent a space of time in which the travelling subject's body was as much the business of travel as the places through which they were travelling, and the changing view from the carnage window. By making movement a discourse of their narratives, Johnson and Thrale reference both the corporeality of travelling, and the relevance of the body as a subject of travel writing. For Johnson, putting his body into his narrative signified that travelling was an opportunity to experiment with medical discourse and annotate one's movement through space with details of bodily motions and points of health; for Thrale, writing her and her daughter's bodies into her experience of travelling was a 'narrative occasion' which turned her journil into her companion, her testimony of care and attention, and the story of her journey through Wales in For both, writing their bodies into their home tours signified that as a mode of writing in late eighteenth-century Britain, bodies in motion were a subject which travellers did not ignore in either the experience, or the production of movement through space as literary discourse.

105 104 Chapter Three Stopping and Putting Up 'Long Tags' and 'Inn Pleasures' in John Byng's Tours, , and Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland (1803) In Michel Butor's essay 'Travel and Writing', he asks 'is the journey composed of stopping-places?' With this question, Butor suggests that reading travel writing, or thinking about the relationship between the act of travelling and the act of writing, should also include considering the journey in terms of its rhythm of stops and starts, or the 'scansion' of its periods of movement and points of rest.' Similarly, as home tours and travel narratives are read in terms of 'movement through space', aspects of the travelling are opened up and brought to the fore of critical inquiry by focussing on the times when the travelling subject and the progress of the tour drew to a halt. By revising the metaphorical meaning of 'space' as something not merely travelled to but also travelled through, the stops and starts of the travelling subject, as much as their periods of motion or movement, are exposed as features which were produced as travel writing by tourists journalizing their experiences of being on the road. In eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives, and as I discuss in further detail in chapter four, stopping in order to see and experience a new place or a site of interest often engaged the home tourist in a prolific bout of journalizing; at the same time, however, a more basic need to stop engaged many home tourists in producing their narratives to represent the rhythm of travelling, often as nothing more than a series of places to rest, as being on the move was articulated as a wearying 'long tag' from inn to inn. In eighteenth-century home travelling culture, being on the move made frequent stopping inevitable as changing carriages, re-shoeing horses, resting aching or saddlesore bodies, or needing to eat and sleep, punctuated every tourist's travelling day. Tourists' narratives suggest that a tour or a journey of a few days or more would develop a certain rhythm whereby the daylight hours of each day were spent sightseeing or moving from place to place, whilst the night hours were spent staying with family and friends, or, more typically resting in the shelter of an inn. In terms of a tour's 'scansion', then, each day was paced so that a suitable resting place might be reached by nightfall, and timing was crucial as drawing to a halt too early would waste good travelling time, whilst arriving at an inn too late meant risking going without a bed 'Butor, 'Travel and Writing', Mosaic, 8 (1974), 1-16 (12).

106 105 should the inn be full or disinclined to admit guests at too late an hour. 2 As eighteenthcentury home tours and travel narratives testify, mistiming the pace of each travelling day, then, meant that tourists could find that they faced an unlit ride to the next town, or a night spent camped under the stars. As even in the summer months the British weather could not be relied upon for clemency, and as camping was not generally an option for the traveller seeking pleasure in touring, a journey's stops and starts were carefully calibrated to match the needs of real people, and their horses, moving through space. To an extent, planning a tour or a journey at this time meant organising movement around a need to stop as much as a need to see certain places or visit certain sites. As a wearied traveller is never a good traveller, putting stopping first made sense for travellers who wished to get the most out of their travelling experiences. Aside from recognising how home tours and travel narratives reflect the rhythm of travelling and represent the need to stop, where travellers spent their stopping-time also signifies as a prominent discourse of late eighteenth-century travel writing. Perhaps because the need to stop was so acute, inns, as contained spaces that both embodied and traded upon a traveller's need to stop, are frequently subjects of home tours and travel narratives at this time. As a space that catered for the need to stop when on the road, the inn as a subject of travel writing identifies that movement through space is also, necessarily, a series of experiences of spaces which exist for moving people; spaces which, because the traveller generally only stays there because they need to stop, are liminal and temporary - a home from home on the road, though perhaps only for one night. In late eighteenth-century Britain, inns were also spaces which exploited liminality and temporality, satisfying a traveller's essential needs (food, water, shelter), whilst also expecting, in many cases, that travellers shared their need for such things with other travellers, often by eating in a communal dining room, and sometimes by occupying the same sleeping quarters. Moreover, the close-quarters, or intimacy of the inn, competed with the inn as a space of commerce, where satisfying the essential and intimate needs of travellers in exchange for money, meant trading on travellers' needs, sometimes by refusing to supply certain requirements if a tourist could not, or would not pay. As a contained space, then, the inn features prominently in late eighteenthcentury home tours as a subject which engaged travellers' attention every time they 2 Hester Thrale describes the anxiety which pacing a tour could create as her party chose to press on to Lichfield during a late night journey, rather than stop earlier in the evening in order to rest. See Chapter Two, 94.

107 needed to stop. In John Byng's fifteen home tours, produced between 1781 and 1794, and, by comparison, in Dorothy Wordsworth's retrospective travel narrative, Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland ( ), both the need to stop, and the places at which these tourists decided to stop, dominate the narratives as a subject of interest. For John Byng, in fact, making inns a subject was a matter of authonal intention: In my mind (and here self, and vanity break forth) I think that few tours are sufficiently simple, or varied with anecdotes; but are generally so embarrassed with pomposity, as to perplex every reader, and render every road intricate: I rather wish to taste the inn pleasures, and the natural walk of life, (with Fielding); and, sometimes, to find diversion, (with Swift), in the conversation of waggoners, and hostlers; instead of grand poetical painting, and formal classical allusions.3 For Dorothy Wordsworth, who travelled in sparsely populated areas of Scotland, often on foot, producing a travel text which foregrounds personal experience of movement through space, as much as it describes people and places, represents the fact that finding a place to stay after each day's walking was always a priority. 4 Furthermore, as Byng determined to make his tour writing 'sufficiently simple' by recording his experience of 'inn pleasures', he refers to discourses that recur in both his and Wordsworth's texts in relation to both the need to stop, and the contained space of the inn. Firstly, in hoping for pleasure, Byng refers to a discourse of enjoyment and satisfaction long associated with travelling in terms of moving through space and making observations, but also in terms of sampling inns, and paying attention to the detail of inns, as part of that travelling and travel writing experience. Secondly, Byng's expectation of pleasure, framed by this first 106 John Byng, 'A Tour in North Wales 1784', in The Torringlon Diaries: Containing the Tours through England and Wales of the Hon. John Byng (Later Fifth Viscount Torrington) Between the Years 1781 and 1794, ed. by C. Bruyn Andrews, 4 vols (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, ), I, (186). Hereafter Byng's Tours from this edition will be cited by title as ID [Torrington Diaries]. ' Dorothy Wordsworth's tour to Scotland was undertaken in 1803, for six weeks, with her brother and Coleridge in both an Irish Jaunting car (an open two-wheeled cart drawn by a horse), and on foot. Her journal was not written at the time of the tour, but was composed on her return, in three stretches between December 1803 and April After composition, it was circulated amongst the Wordsworth's circle of friends, including Catherine Clarkson and Sara Hutchinson who both made copies of the text in their own hands. In 1822 Dorothy Wordsworth considered publication, and a manuscript survives of a revised version in preparation for the press. However, this project fell through and the text was not published until 'Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland AD 1803' exists in manuscript in 5 versions, and in published book as 3 editions. The first published version edited by J C. Shairp (Edinburgh: Edmonston and Douglas, 1874) divides the text into sections which represent the weeks of the tour. The second edition, by William Knight (1897) is essentially a reprint of the Shairp edition. The third edition by E. de Selincourt is part of his two volume Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth (London: Macmillan, 1941), I, This version re-configures the text into three parts, using version B of the Dove Cottage MSS, which was Dorothy Wordsworth's own second copy of the text A third version of the Shairp edition is also published with an introduction by Carol Kyros Walker (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997). The introduction to the E. de Sélincourt edition explains the manuscript histoty of the text, I, viixiv; I am using the E. de Selincourt edition in this chapter.

108 107 discourse, is nevertheless not guaranteed, and on the flip side of such expectation is a subsidiary discourse of the potential for disappointment and dissatisfaction, which, however disagreeable at the time of travelling, could be recorded in the journal or narrative to represent the traveller's ability to distinguish a good inn from a bad one, or to supply the traveller-writer with an exercise in criticism for his or her narrative. Thirdly, in compiling a narrative about inns which conveys either pleasure or dissatisfaction, the reader (obliquely referred to in the passage above) is offered a discourse of experience, advice and/or warning (whether or not there ever is a reader other than the writer him or herself) to compare with other accounts, or to equip them for future touring. 5 Finally, Byng's allusions to Henry Fielding and Jonathan SWift place writing inns not solely within a genre of writing travel, but within a genre of writing fiction, where inns are used as a trope for destabilisation which depends upon the fact that inns are spaces of public, yet also intimate, action, and as such mean that they are predictably unpredictable, certain only as spaces where anything could happen. 6 By relating his tours to fiction he has read, Byng either hopes that he will be given the opportunity on his tour to engage with the idea that life is sometimes like a novel, or else, an borrow from the fictional discourses of writing inns to furnish his narrative with similar action or comedy. That this fictional discourse is often dependent for comedy upon issues of class and gender is especially pertinent and is discussed further in the final part of this chapter. In representing the contained space of the inn, then, these four discourses are discussed in light of the home tours and travel narratives produced by John Byng and Dorothy Wordsworth. Recommendations for staying at particular inns were not uncommon in published tours of this period, and it was not unusual for tourists, both of home and abroad, to make their experience of staying at inns a feature of their travel texts. 7 In the travel narratives produced by John Byng and Dorothy Wordsworth, Andrew Hassarn has also considered the travel journal's 'double self-consciousness' in '"As I Write": Narrative Occasions and the Quest for Self-Presence in the Travel Diary', Ariel, 21(1990), (37). 6 The relationship between eighteenth-century travel writing and fiction has already been much discussed, principally in Percy Ci. Adam's, Travellers and Travel Liars: (New York: Dover Publications mc, 1962) and Travel Literature and the Evolution of the Novel (Kentucky: Kentucky University Press, 1983), and more recently in Jean Viviés, English Travel Narratives in the Eighteenth Century: Exploring Genres (Aldershot Ashgate, 2002). Thomas Pennant occasionally refers to good and bad inns in his home tours, for example, the 'comfortable inn' at Cynfael in A Tour In Wales 1700 [1773], 2 vols (London: by Henry Hughes, 1778), II, 128; similarly, Mariana Starke, in her appendix to Letters from Italy, 2 vols (London for K. Phillips, 1800), lists, among other things the best inns and lodging houses for an Italian tour Perhaps most famously, Tobias Smollett describes the unpleasantness of French and Italian inns in Travels through France and Itaiy (1766), particularly the dirty Italian inns described in letter XXXIV, which, as Terence Bowers has pointed out, associate poor cleanliness with a disorderly body politic. See 'Reconstituting the National Body in Smollett's Travels through France and Italy', Eighteenth-Century 21(1997), 1-25.

109 108 however, representing the need to stop, and describing places of rest, particularly inns, are more than just minor details of their travelling experiences: for Byng, inns provide an opportunity to flex his critical acumen, to adopt splenetic or comic personae, and to compose a discourse about economic progress which is suspicious of the inn as a place of business; for Wordsworth, inns - and in particular Scottish inns - are an opportunity to write a narrative about the domestic habits of rural people and rustic simplicity, as a discourse of difference in terms of time and geography, and also an opportunity to write herself into her text, as a traveller engaging with the domestic details of travelling, such as the business of getting fed and finding shelter. Both travellers make the need to stop, and the contained space of the inn, a subject and a trope of their narratives, paying due attention to their journalizing of travelling time by recording all aspects of movement through space, including the rhythms of the travelling day as much as the movement of their own bodies. By bringing such domestic details to the fore of their narratives alongside, or even in place of sightseeing or descriptions of manners and customs, tourists like Byng and Wordsworth, in James Buzard's words, 'travel eveiy step of the way', by producing all of these steps (and, indeed, the moments when they were able to put their feet up) as travel writing which represents their time spent moving through space.8 Reprçsenting a Need or Desire to Stop Crucial to understanding the need to stop as represented in John Byng's Tours and Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour, is a discourse of inevitability which gave the touring day a rhythm of stops and starts: hoping and planning to stop, having to stop, or not being able to stop, being three regular features of an average day's touring. Stopping was rhythmical mostly to satisfy a need to eat and sleep at particular times of the day, though in times of more laborious travelling, each day was sometimes nothing more than a 'long tag' between the inn where one ate breakfast, and the inn where one could put up for the night. 9 Aside from a grumbling stomach, tourists often had to stop, or needed to stay stopped, for a number of reasons which intemipted the touring day; bad weather, ill-health, loneliness, an injured horse, waiting for letters, or expecting to meet someone, were all reasons to stop again sooner than planned, or stay at the inn for Buzard, The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature, and the Ways to Culture, (Oxford Clarendon Press, 1993), 34. Byng writes: 'At Nettlebed we put up after a long tag of twenty miles at the Red Lion', in 'A Ride Taken in 1785', TD, I, ( ).

110 longer than intended. Home tours and journeys thus fell into a rhythm of routine stops and starts, and it was expected that plans to make visits, or go sightseeing, would be fitted in and around the more mundane business of resting, getting fed, or meeting up with other members of the party taking a different route. However, accepting that the act of travelling would always present one or another reasons to stop did not mean that the business of stopping was without its frustrations. One of the most common discourses of eighteenth-century home tours was the expectation of being able to stop, and then finding this expectation thwarted by unaccommodating inn-keepers. Arriving expectantly at an inn and then being turned away was a common, though much moanedabout occurrence: at Barmouth in 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', Byng and his travelling partner were forced to 'ramble on the sands' after being denied room at a busy inn: 'We had the mortification of finding the inn quite full no beds for ourselves, or any place for our horses'.' Similarly, pressing on to an inn further along his itineraty, Byng is angry to find his efficient travelling un-rewarded: My intention was to have stop'd at Alresford (20 miles from Farnham) [...] but on arrival there, finding it was only seven miles to Winton, and thinking that pushing forward might save a day in my journey, I pass'd boldly by the Star, (a promising looking inn); and tho' I saw the evening change, and black clouds arise, was rash enough to proceed [...] On den I went to my misery, when I could have been snug and comfortable, at Airesford, for I had not got two miles, e'r the rain and wind drove me into repentance; but then it was too late to return [...] Wet and tired, I put up at the George Inn [...] [where] no civil treatment cou'd be got.1' In eighteenth-century home travelling culture, a traveller's need to stop was represented in tour journals and narratives of figures like Byng and Wordsworth, and was also supported by legal discourse which, throughout the period, debated the use and purpose of the inn space as somewhere which accommodated the traveller's need to rest and eat when on the road. In The Publican Protected [18001, for example, a 'Gentleman of the Middle Temple' clarified that: The ancient, true, and principal use of Inns, Ale-houses, Victualling-Houses, was for receiving, relieving, and lodging of way-faring people travelling from place to place, and for such supply of the wants of such people as are not able by greater quantities to make their provision of victuals.' id, 1, (152). I am retaining Byng's original spelling and punctuation (as transcribed by C. Bruyn Andrews' edition). ' 'Ride into the West', TV, I, (77-78). 12 The Publican Protected: Containing all the Laws relating to Publicans, Inn, and Livery Stable-Keepers [...] By a Gentleman of the Middle Temple (London: by W. Glindon, [1800]), 1.

111 As the inn or ale-house existed in order to accommodate a traveller's need to stop, legal discourse supported a traveller's needs by insisting that such a space must always be accommodating, or could face prosecution if it refused to admit a traveller on any other grounds than that it was full or that the traveller could not pay: [J]f a person who keeps a common inn, refuse, without a reasonable excuse, either to receive a traveller as a guest into his house, or to find him victuals or lodging, upon his tendering a reasonable price for the same, he is not only liable to render damages for the injury, in an action on the case, at the suit of the party aggrieved, but also may be indicted and fined at the suit of the king.'3 The needs of t( ttrlike Byng, then, were recognised and represented by law in the shape of the inn. That an inn-keeper risked a fine for refusing the services of lis inn to a traveller suggests that legal discourse recognised the traveller's right to roam without also being denied some of the more basic comforts of home, and in particular the right to shelter when on the road. However, as Byng suggested above, pacing a routine of stopping and starting to fit in with available or good inns was often fraught with difficulty, and he describes his arrival at the dismal George Inn as a punishment for pressing on when he should have been grateful to stop seven miles earlier. Legal discourse that insisted on a traveller's right to stop did not, however, accommodate a traveller's hopes and desires for stopping, for it was not merely the traveller's needs which were expected to be met at an inn, but also his or her desires for comfort. In order to avoid disappointment in full or, more specifically, bad inns, in his later tours, Byng employed his servant Tom Bush as a pacesetter and inn-inspector, establishing a routine whereby Tom travelled ahead of him to secure inns for the night and air his master's sheets in anticipation of his arrival. In 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', for example, Byng explains: '1 detach'd him forward to prepare for me, & my horses, proper accomodations [sic] at night'.' 4 This way, Byng was able to reduce those factors which made a tour unpredictable by investigating all the inns of a particular town, and calibrating his stopping requirements with the availability of places to stop. Whilst tourists like Byng aimed to reduce the disappointment of finding a need to stop unmet by sending a servant ahead of them, one aspect of travelling which could not be so easily controlled was the weather. Especially for tounsts travelling on foot or horseback, the inclemency of th British weather could often make the need to stop 110 ' 3 1b:d, 6. '4rm, 1, (117).

112 sudden and more acute than at any other time. Aiming to reach Newport, for example, Byng's plans were disrupted by the rain: 'but e'er I had gone three miles, a violent shower drove me into a small public house, The New Inn at Poulmick, for shelter." 5 In need of shelter from the storm, the quality of the place stopped-at is of little importance for travellers. In the final leg of the same tour, Byng reasons at Broadway: 'Most inns will do during the summers heat' (319), and accepting this degree of necessity means that he entered inns or other places of shelter, which normally would have been avoided in the careful process of choosing a place to stop. Earlier m this tour, and not being within reach of an inn, Byng is driven into a 'poor cottage' by a storm where he 'remain'd half an hour, talking to the old cottager' (254). With the need to stop being sudden and immediate, Byng was forced to knock on the door of a private house in the hope of a kind offer of shelter, and he records his need to stop as an occasion when, being forced to find shelter somewhere other than at an inn, the narrative of his tour represents encounters with kind strangers like the 'old cottager' who let him in, and entertain him whilst he waits for the storm to pass. This kind of serendipitous encounter is also a 'narrative occasion' which suggests that anything can happen in an activity such as travelling, as both routine and sudden needs to stop can change the course of the travelling, and its representation in text, by adding a moment of drama to the traveller's day and the narrative he or she later produces.'6 Byng's minor experiences of the expectations and disappointments of stopping are amplified in Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland. In this text, the business of finding shelter in a sparsely populated country makes the need to stop a more serious concern than in Byng's inter-county travels. In the early stages of the tour in Scotland, Wordsworth describes her party's initial concern that because Scotland is already established as a site of tourist interest, they may fmd problems in securing shelter not because of a lack of inns, but because of over-crowding. At Hamilton, she writes: At the inn they hesitated about being able to give us beds, the house being brim-full - lights at every window. We were rather alarmed for our accommodations during the rest of the tour, supposing the house to be filled with tourists; but they were in general only regular travellers; for out of the main road from town to town we saw scarcely a carriage, and the inns were empty 'A Tour in South Wales 1787', TD, (275). 16 See Hassam, '"As I Write": Narrative Occasions and the Quest for Self-Presence in the Travel Diary'. 17 Dorothy Wordsworth, 'Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland AD. 1803' in Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, ed. by E. de Sélincourt, 2 vols (London: Macmillan, 1941), 1, (229). Further references to this edition will be cited parenthetically in the text.

113 112 Differentiating between 'tourists', as those who move through space in a large party and with a fleet of carriages, and 'travellers', as those who are going about their daily business or, like herself, travel light and without pomp or ceremony, Wordsworth expresses relief that the inns are emptier than she first thought. However, further into the tour, as the party move beyond Loch Kettenne and into the Trossachs, they are warned that they can no longer expect to find inns, but instead will find it necessaiy to seek alternative shelter. During the parts of the tour when the party are travelling in less populated parts of Scotland, the need to stop becomes a drama which tests the party's endurance. Initially, Wordsworth expresses optimism, declaring an intention 'to venture, and throw ourselves upon the hospitality of some cottager or gentleman', and taking with them 'a couple of fowls' (258), to put them on until they find a family willing to offer them more food and shelter. As the party venture forth, however, the text suggests that, despite expectations of a long tag to the next place of rest, and a declaration of fortitude, the need to stop overwhelms them: '[we] sate down completely tired, and hopeless as to the rest of our journey. C. [Coleridge] and I were faint with hunger, and could go no further till we had refreshed ourselves' (263). Walking in barren, sparsely populated terrain, as night falls, the first sign of any shelter brings 'great joy' as it is reported that the party noticed 'a light before [them]', hanging in the sky, and signalling both their longing and relief at the hope of shelter (324). In less barren terrain, Wordsworthtext resumes a less dramatic tone and represents a familiar rhythm of moving towards shelter, though often with a sense of impatience. Knowing how far must be travelled between inns, Wordsworth's text represents how moving through space was calculated and produced as a long tag which indicates not only the extent of that space, but also the laborious nature of the party's travelling: 'We had about eleven miles to travel before we came to our lodging' (340), is recollected as they head towards Loch Dochart. Calculating how far must be travelled before they can stop, then, Dorothy Wordsworth writes an early nineteenth-century version of 'are we there yet?', and records that needing to stop drove the travelling day and was consequently represented in a traveller's journal or narrative as part of their movement through space. Shelter and the need to rest, however, were not the only reasons to stop and put up at an inn or a similar place of shelter in an eighteenth-century home tour. One reason for the sort of legal discourse discussed above concerning inns, was to distinguish them from ale-houses which, whilst offering similar services in terms of food and shelter, were not distinctly traveller's spaces, existing in order that a person could stay for a

114 113 while and then move on. The difference between an inn and an ale-house was not clearcut, and as The Publican Protected suggested, 'every Inn is not an Alehouse, nor is every Alehouse an Inn; yet if an Inn uses common selling of ale, it is then also an Alehouse, and if an Alehouse lodges and entertains travellers, it is also an inn'.' 8 The problem inherent in distinguishing between one public house and the other, of course, was less a matter of legality than morality. Offering basic food and shelter to itinerant customers meant meeting the needs of travellers, but trading alcohol instead of, or as well as, providing shelter meant that ale-houses and inns also catered for desires in a way which might encourage patrons to linger. Desire, or perhaps 'appetite', is another discourse of stopping which recurs in Byng and Wordsworth's travel texts, usually in the form of a desire for alcohol, warmth, company, relaxation and, in particular, food. Byng's journals record that his appetite was impressive, and his text regularly details the good and bad meals he was presented with when touring. At Caerphilly, in 'A Tour in South Wales 1787', Byng describes how he and his travelling partner Mr. Osborn increased the speed of their travelling to meet the demands of their hungry stomachs: 'our keen appetites hasten'd us back to a small public house (call'd New Bridge) on the rivers bank'; after a small wait, their desires here were met: 'we gave a loose to our appetites, and eat, and drank greedily, of Welsh ale, and of oaten cakes (the first we had seen) and of slices of their ham'.' 9 Similar descriptions of good meals recur in the journals: at Knutsford in 1790 he enjoyed 'a diversity of viands for supper, [...] spitchcock'd eel, cold fowl, cold lamb, tarts, and custards', and at Altrincham, 'a sirloin of 1st beef, potatoes, cold pigeon-pye, and cheesecakes'. 2 Synchronisrng his appetite to match the activities of the day, at Wansford Bridge, Byng describes how a full stomach signified an end to that day's travelling: 'Some good cold roasted beef closed the day, and the orifices of my stomach'. 2' Byng's appetite for plentiful food, then, set the pace of his travelling because a twang of hunger or a desire for a glass of beer dictated his course, and even, sometimes, altered his itinerary as his needs or desires forced him to retire earlier than expected, or take a diversion to an inn which was recommended for good food. Whilst Byng sought satisfaction for his appetite during his touring, and carefully recorded his failures and successes in finding good food at the right time, in contrast, Wordsworth's appetite for food was recorded less as a desire for what could be enjoyed 18 The Publican Prolected, TD,!, (256). 20 'ATourintheMidlands 1790', 7D,H, (174 and 177). 21 'A Tour into Lincolnshire 1791', ID, II, (327).

115 at the inn, as having a basic need for some food kindly met. At Taynuilt, for example, Wordsworth describes how the tired, cold and wet party enjoy their breakfast: It rejoiced me to see the kind looks on the landlady's face, and that she was willing to put herself in a bustle for our comfort; we had a good fire presently, and breakfast was set out - eggs, preserved gooseberries, excellent cream, cheese and butter, but no wheat bread, and the oaten cakes were so hard I could not chew them.22 Here, the list of good foods offered to the party is matched by the 'kind looks' of the landlady who 'bustles' to ensure that her guests do not leave with empty stomachs. Despite Wordsworth's finding the oatcakes impossible to eat, the quality of the food offered to her is not disparaged in light of the good hospitality she and her party received. By contrast, however, an inattentive landlady at the King's House in Glen Coe, is described for all her faults of hospitality, and Wordsworth suggests that this woman's miserly hospitality is matched by her poor food. Having made the party wait for three-quarters of an hour in a cold room, the landlady is reported as saying that she has 'no eggs, no milk, no potatoes, no loaf bread', but, as they are forced to stay the night, eventually she offers them 'a shoulder of mutton so hard that it was impossible to chew the little flesh that might be scraped off the bones' (334). By comparison, when Byng found his appetite unsatisfied during a tour, it was as much the bad food itself, as the poor hospitality of those who sold it, which received his criticism. For Byng, good food was fuel for good travelling; in his 'Tour of the North 1792', for example, the energetic start he made to his tour was matched by the fact he had his voracious appetite satisfied at a good inn: I had for dinner [...] a boil'd fowl, greens, rst. beef, Yorkshire pudding, asparagus, tarts, and custards! [... I when I ate like a parson, or a farmer, (Swift could not decide who was the better eater,), and so greedily at first, that I only eyed, and threaten'd the tarts, and custards.23 However, a month into the tour, a series of disappointing meals at inns provokes Byng to suggest that a lack of decent food to eat is ruining his travelling: 'I felt veiy hungry; having had nothing eatable before me for several days! - I want not dainties; some good cold meat, or a tolerable mutton chop, are all I seek for; but, lately, I have neither found tolerable bread, and cheese' (116). As Byng finds that his travelling spint flags without good food, he suggests that his ability to move through space is determined by the food that is offered to him en route. During this tour to the 'North', in fact, a lack of good 114 'Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland', Journals (308). ID, III, (7).

116 food in the inns of Manchester causes him to declare that the city is a 'dog hole', for failing to meet his travelling needs and desires (116). Finding himself 'very hungry', Byng's narrative of his time in Manchester is almost entirely concerned with his inability to satisfy not merely his hearty appetite, but also a need for something to fuel his movement through space. For both Byng and Wordsworth, then, having their appetites satisfie4 at an inn signified pleasure in stopping. For Byng, however, finding an inn that offered good food often meant privileging stopping over further travelling, as he allowed himself to enjoy his 'inn pleasures' without any tiring travelling in between. In Lincoinshire, for example, a good inn at Folkingham had him musing: 'A stay even like this, makes one to dislike a change; for the bed begins to fit'. 24 Similarly, starting his 'Tour of the North 1792', Byng found himself spending three days at the same inn at Biggleswade: 'Why there is a good inn, with good coffee, and good wine? Stay then'. 25 Finding pleasure at the inn, and satisfying appetite was not, however, the only reason to tour, and Byng always managed to rally himself to get back into the saddle; but eighteenth-century culture was aware that confusing a need to stop with a desire to stay stopped, might lead to the inn being misused. 26 Contemporary advice manuals for inn-keepers, in fact, warned against allowing the inn to be anything other than a place which customers passed through. The Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, for example, published an advice book for inn-keepers in 1769 which gave practical advice for both the real, and the metaphorical (life) traveller. Pointing out that an inn was intended 'to refresh and nourish the bodies of Men', it warned: [T]hat Travellers may consider, that with regard to their spiritual as well as their temporal Condition, they are but Sojourners, seeking another Country; not to be diverted from, not left hindered in their Progress, by the necessary Stops which they make upon the Road:27 Even home tourists knew that seeking 'another country' meant not succumbing to the pleasures of food and wine for too long in one place, and so, like Byng, they balanced their desire to stop with their need to stop in order to maintain progress in both their tours, and their lives. However, knowing this, but also wanting to experience pleasure in 'A Tour into Lincolnshire 1792', ID, II, (338) 23 Ti), III, (9). 26 The liminality of the inn as a space in which those without a home might linger was also warned against in The Vagrancy Act of 1744 (17 Geo. II., c. 5) which cautioned those found 'Wandering abroad and lodging in Ale-Houses, Barns, Out-houses, or in the open Air, not giving a good account of themselves'. Heniy Fielding makes reference to this act in The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, ed by Tom Keymer (London: Penguin, 1996), ["Thomas Negus], The Public-Housekeeper's Monitor: Being a Serious Admonition to the 4fasters and Mistresses of those Commonly called Public Houses (London: for John Rivington, 1769), vi.

117 116 touring and stopping, travellers like Byng and Wordsworth set a rhythm to their movement through space which included the need and the desire to find food and rest when on the road. As their journals and narratives suggest, stopping was an integral part of their travelling, and recording or reflecting on how often, where and how one stopped was also important for reflecting every step of one's movements, and every minute of the travelling experience. Putting Up: Representing the S pace of the Inn Aside from representing a need or a desire to stop, the tours of Byng and Wordsworth also engage with the contained space of the inn itself. Recently, inns - or in modem terminology, hotels - have been a focus of ethnographic, sociological and philosophical interest. James Clifford has considered how these spaces foster 'encounters between people to some degree away from home', and are spaces of transience or liminality, and also of escape or 'transforming encounter'. 28 By contrast, Marc Auge has declared the modem hotel a 'non-place', as a space which is temporary, solitary and experienced only by people role-playing as customers and not individuals. 29 Augé suggests that these 'non-places' do, however, offer comfort to the traveller who, being in a foreign place, is grateful for the anonymous and familiar space of the hotel; and in The Art of Travel, Alain de Botton confirms this, by finding pleasure in the facilities of a familiar hotel chain, and, indeed, considering how these spaces are 'unexpectedly poetic' because of their liminality and temporality.30 In eighteenth-centuiy travelling culture, the contained space of the inn had the same sense of liminality, temporality and the potential for 'transforming encounter' that modern hotels and motels have, but, unlike their modem equivalents, they were not yet spaces with uniform services and facilities. The social history of late eighteenth-century inns suggests that these spaces were often unpredictable, problematically public or private, and commercial; their development at this time suggests an anxious progression from being a space of hospitality, to a space of profit, instability and excess. Most innhistorians agree that in Britain, inns originated in the fourteenth century from a need to provide shelter for pilgrims, and that most of these inns were built by monks when their 28 Clifford, 'Traveling Cultures' in Cultural Studies, ed. by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson and Paula A Treichier (New York: Routledge, 1992), (105) Marc Augé, Non-Places: Introductions to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, trans. by John Howe (London: Verso, 1995; repr. 2000), 78-79, 94 and b,d, 106; de Botton, The Art of Travel (London: Hamish Hamilton, 2002), which discusses how Baudeiaire and Edward Hopper produced such spaces as art, (32)

118 117 monasteries could not contain the quantity of pilgrims who wanted to visit a particular religious shrine. 3' Following this, inns grew in size and expanded their facilities to keep up with the development of the wheeled carriage which enabled people to travel further afield and more frequently. The suppression of the monasteries in the sixteenth century meant that inns were built to replace the hospitality formerly offered to travellers by monks, and by the seventeenth century, inns had become much more elaborate spaces with private bedrooms, separate eating areas for guests, and stable-yards used by travelling players for the staging of plays. 32 Thus by 1700 inns were already established as public and private spaces, as a temporary home for travellers staying in private bedrooms, and as a communal area in which local people would gather for entertaimnent. Whether the inn was situated on a main road out of London, the centre of a provincial town, or a lonely country road, its function as a public house for strangers and locals was the same (even the most isolated inn would be an ale-house for a nearby farmer). By the eighteenth century, however, historians suggest that inns underwent their most significant period of transformation. During this time, inns were built specifically to manage the mail-coaches which sped up and down the country delivering letters and people; A. E. Richardson cites the passing of the 1755 Turnpike Act as a significant date for inns, as it precipitated a vastly increased amount of road building, which consequently required more, bigger and better inns to accommodate an increased number of mail passengers. 33 Inns built or adapted specifically to manage mail coaches were known as coaching inns, and as such were places where passengers alighted from the coach to rest and take refreshment whilst the coach's horses were changed. As the use of these inns was governed by the arrival and departure of the mail coaches, these inns were constantly busy receiving and dispatching stopping-off guests, keeping time with the movements of the mail-carriages, which ran to a strict timetable. As well as mail coaches, large coaching inns were also expected to accept people travelling independently, perhaps arriving with their own phaetons and horses, though often coach passengers and independent travellers were kept apart inside the inn, with a separate space set aside for coach passengers stopping to eat. The larger and newer coaching inns 31 Social histories of inns include: William Addison, The Old Roads of England (London: Batsford, 1980); Rosamond Bayne-Powell, Travellers in Eighieenth-Centiiry England (London: John Murray, 1951); Thomas Burke, Travel in Englandfrom Pilgrim and Pack-Horse to Light Car and Plane (London: Batsford, 1942); and A. E. Richardson, The Old Inns of England, 6th edn (London: Batsford, 1952). Addison provides the example of how the New Inn at Gloucester was built by monks for two hundred ilgnms visiting the shrine of Edward II (121). 2 Ricdson, The Old Inns of England, 8 and Addison, The Old Roads of England Richardson, The Old Inns of England, 17.

119 118 were well equipped to put up many guests, and had separate bedrooms and eating rooms built for that purpose. 34 Those inns which were not part of the mail route, however, were often forced to adapt themselves to take in passengers travelling on the less prestigious 'flying waggon', for, as the legal discourse discussed earlier made clear, to turn away travellers in need of food or shelter was illegal. 35 What that meant, however, was that coaching inns were exclusively catering to what they knew to be a regular and profitable clientele, whilst the other inns were forced to take in customers whom they knew (because of the kind of transport they arrived in) could not afford to spend as much as the wealthier coach passengers. Nevertheless, as coaching inns were expected to pnontise customers travelling by coach, they were less likely to be able to accommodate independent travellers, so ironically, people travelling in their own carriages, and therefore probably wealthier still than coach passengers, were more likely to put up at a non-coaching inn, a public house or an alehouse, where they would find themselves eating or sleeping under the same roof as flying waggon passengers. What this meant, then, was that inns in eighteenth-century Britain did not have a stable hierarchy based on the wealth or social status of their customers, as potentially, nobility or gentry could mix with less affluent tradesmen or workers in the same space. That the classes mixed in this way under one roof where it was not uncommon for bedrooms to be shared, or for drunken guests to stumble into the wrong room by mistake, was to be certain that in such a space truly anything might happen (and often did). 36 Consequently, trying to reconcile an inn's public duty (an open door) with its private services (somewhere for people to sleep, eat, wash, dress, etc.), meant that the contained space of the smaller inn or alehouse was potentially unstable and unpredictable. One predictable aspect of all inns, however, was their need to make a profit. As a commercial space established to make its owner a living, the eighteenth-century inn walked a fine line between a discourse of hospitality which demanded that no man be turned away, and yet also made certain that all men could, in fact, pay their way. As Felicity Heal has argued, early modern notions of hospitality, which stipulated that a traveller or uninvited guest should always be offered some shelter and sustenance for no return, had been replaced in the eighteenth century, with the need to accommodate many more travellers, by initiating commercial hospitality at the inn. 37 That a person could make money by opening up his or her house to receive paying guests was then calibrated 4 See Richardson, The Old Inns of England, See Bayne-Powell, Travellers in Eighteenth-Century England, Bayne-Powell suggests that strangers often shared rooms even at good inns (43). 37 Felicity Heal, Hospitality in Early Modern England (Oxford. Clarendon Press, 1990), 389.

120 with older notions of (free) hospitality, by the practice that many inns adopted in the penod of not charging for lodging. In John Byng's travel journals, inn-bills are pasted into the pages of his books or else copied-out in his own hand, and most show charges for everything else which could be consumed at an inn, but only very rarely with a charge for lodging. 38 In 'A Tour in South Wales 1797', for examp'e, Byng copies into his journal the details of a well-priced inn, The White Hart, at Broadway: Tea 09 A chicken &c. 2 0 Tart (apricot) 02 Liquors 2 3 Breakfast 0 9 Similarly, a pasted-in bill from the Cross Foxes at Mallwyd, is a prmted bill which has spaces for such charges as tobacco, 'Washing', postage, 'Servants Earting and Ale' and 'Horses Hay and Corn', as well as the more usual 'Eating' and tea and coffee, but still no charge for lodging. 40 Whilst there are exceptions to this in Byng's journals (he's charged 2 shillings for 'lodging' at the New Inn at Winchelsea in 1788), it is overwhelmingly more common to read an inn-bill that does not detail any such charge. 4' Seemingly, then, even within the commercial space of the urn, a landlord or lady agreed in principle to open their house to any traveller requiring shelter. Thus, in this period of proto-tourism, a bed was not considered part of the aiew economy of hospitality, but instead was part of a much older code of conduct which believed that turning away anyone in need of shelter was immoral. Despite a principle of hospitality, however, records of travellers' experiences at inns frequently exhibit a tension between old hospitality and new commercialism when a traveller is refused room at an inn because he or she gives the appearance of having little money. Carl Moritz, for example, describes being turned away from an inn at Windsor because he arrives on foot, and therefore without any carriage or horse to signify his degree of wealth or social status. Asking for a bedroom, he is told 'that they had no intention of putting me up for the night' because 'it was not convement'.42 Similarly, in his 'Tour to North Wales 1793', Byng witnesses the excitement which is generated amongst the staff of an inn at Corwen when a visibly wealthy party arrives 119 In the edition of Byng's tours which I ant using for this chapter, the inn bills are represented by facsimile copies inserted into the text. 72), 1, (320). 4 In 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', TD, I, (139). 'A Tour into Sussex', ID, I, (357). 42 Caii Philip Montz, 'A Walking-tour of England in 1782', in Journeys of a German in England, trans. by Reginald Nettel (London: Eland Books, 1983), 114.

121 120 complete with carriages, their own cook, own wines, and unifonned valets. Feeling rather overshadowed, Byng writes about how he finds himself ignored by the inn staff as 'all the attentions must be bestowed upon the green and red and gold valets, and upon my Ladys [sic] Femme de Chambre'. 43 The irritation which M1 and Byng express represents the superficiality of the inn staff who would only recognise wealth and social status in terms of conspicuous consumption. What is most significant however, is that in not charging for lodging, inn-keepers were forced to make a decision about which guests to admit on the basis of how much money such guests were capable of spending on other services and goods at the inn. Thus a traveller arriving on foot, like Ccrl Mor, j z., had no need of stables or an ostler, nor did he require anything for a servant, and so his bill would have consisted only of what food and drink he consumed himself. Notably, Byng, who for the most part arrived with his own horse and servant, was almost never denied room at an inn, because the way he travelled signified not only the expectation of a reasonable bill, but also the assumption that he would be able to pay for what he ordered. In the commercial space of the inn, then, a legacy of an old code of conduct concerning hospitality actually made the inn less accessible for all than if one paid a flat rate for a room up front. In aiming to keep its function as a profit-making space less obvious by not charging a guest. for shelter, the inn actually succeeded in refining its commercial skills by charging a guest for everything else consumed within, billing for such 'luxuries' as a fire or rushlights, in order to turn a profit In representing the contained space of the inn, then, the home tours and narratives of Byng and Wordsworth detail this contained space in a number of discourses, which include considering the inn as an economic space, and also as an unpredictable space in which anything can happen. As an economic space, issues of hospitality and commercial enterprise concern the travellers; as an unpredictable space, the question of how inns might present 'narrative occasions' for their texts is raised as both travellers use what happens at the inn as tropes for their narrative reporting of their tours. For both writers, recording the finer details of inn spaces clarifies how every step and every minute of their tours were carefully reported in order to represent their movement through space (and moments of stasis), but also to produce their texts as narratives, debates, or even guides. Andrew Hassam's reading of Paul Carter's seminal study of travel writing, The Road to Botany Bay, suggests that travel journals in particular do not only record movement through space, but more particularly represent m, ifi, (248).

122 121 'moments of stasis, moments when the traveller can actually put pen to paper'. When Hassam states that 'the travel diary gives us a record of stopping places', he suggests that the self-referentiality of the journal form often records those moments when "writing itself was possible", as much as the things which travellers saw or experienced. 45 For tourists representing their time spent at inns, both their experiences of contained space, and their self-conscious occupation of that space, come together to represent their time spent at and within the inn. In Byng's case, his writing often was performed at the inn, as he digested his thoughts and his food at the same time. For both him and Wordsworth, however, details of stopping were not only recorded in the stopped moment, but were also reviewed and recollected at another time, long after the tour was over. Stopping, then, was not merely something that brought about the writing, but was also something mused over and worked into their texts in order tq create a faithful and informative, or interesting and amusing, report on travelling. In the first place, writing about being stopped enabled Byng and Wordsworth to produce texts that engaged with the subjects of hospitality and commerce, and allowed them to compose travel narratives that aired their opinions on these topics, and projected their narrative personae as travellers moving through different kinds of space. For Wordsworth, fmding genuine hospitality untainted by commerce brought much pleasure, and enabled her to compose a narrative about the difference between commercial inn spaces and more genuinely hospitable spaces; for Byng, pleasure was found both in the detail of good value, and also in the detail of over-charging, as from the latter, he composed a narrative about the evils of industrialisation, or else played-out a role as a splenetic or melancholic traveller, and narrator of his experiences. Moreover, in recording the details of the contained space of inns as commercial or hospitable spaces, both Byng and Wordsworth use the smallest points of their experience to express opinion and appear knowledgeable about the things they discuss. Noticing things, and recording their experience of being stopped in detail, equips them with empirical authority, and puts them in a position to be able to represent themselves in their narratives as reasonable critics partaking of a debate about putting up at inns. It also means that being attentive to the details of experience enables a more delicate negotiation between the discourses of expectation and disappointment, as the travellerwriter becomes used to certain things, and learns how to avoid bad experience. Hassain, "As I Write": Narrative Occasions and the Quest for Self-Presence in the Travel Diary', 33. Hassani quoting Paul Carter in The Road to Botany Bay: An Essay in Spatial Histoty (London: Faber, 1987), 140 (Hassam, 33).

123 122 Furthermore, detail, as evidence of experience, enables Byng and Wordsworth to become advisors, either in reality (to other readers), but also in fantasy (to themselves), whereby they can write their experience as example and/or warning. Being attentive to the detail of inns, and recording such things in a travel narrative, then, could be something of an anxiety for eighteenth-centuiy home-tourists. On the one hand, as Johnson's advice to Miss Nancy confirmed, all detail of the travelling experience was encouraged when compiling a journal, and in the published book market, careful detail about art and antiquities, husbandry, or towns and cities was universally praised. 46 On the other hand, other kinds of detail were quickly condemned. Arthur Young, for example, found himself in the position of having to defend his decision to include details about country houses and gardens within his narrative about farming; Tobias Smollett was much criticised for his xenophobic attention to detail concerning French food, inns and coach-drivers and, as Charles Batten has observed, reviewers were generally displeased with any travel narrative which appeared too focused on trivial or personal detail, describing such texts as 'circumstantial' or 'egotistical'.' Nevertheless, as tourists writing journals and narratives not necessarily for publication, but for themselves, or a differently public kind of audience, Byng and Wordsworth were able to either break with, r ignore, convention, and could claim, like Young, to be both faithful to recording the minutes of their tours, whilst also wanting to make the tour generally interesting to their chosen and imagined audience. 48 For Wordsworth, deciding to write about time spent at inns and their respective degrees of hospitality enabled her to produce a personal narrative about Scottish people and culture as she experienced it first hand. Thus detail about a meal eaten at an inn in Lanark relates the rusticity of the food, with an imagined sense of Scottish simplicity: 'The landlord set the first dish upon the table, as is common in England, and we were well waited upon. The first dish was true Scottish - a boiled sheep's head, with the hair See Chapter One, Thomas Pennant, as one of the most widely read and praised home tourists of the period, was always attentive to such details in his narratives, describing towns, buildings, inns, roads, and even soil, in his tours. Arthur Young defends his decision to include details of country houses in his preface to A Six Weeks Tour, through the Southern Counties of England and Wales [...] In Several Letters 10 a Friend By the Author of the Farmer's Letters, 2 " edition (London for W Strahan, 1769), 2 For criticism of Tobias Smollett's Travels throu gh France and Italy, and more general criticism about detail in narrative see Tobias Smollett: The Critical Heritage, ed by Lionel Kelly (London and New York Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987), and Charles Batten in Pleasurable Instruction: Form and Convention in Eighteenth- Centuiy Travel Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), Young explains that his writing was carried out as 'minuting at night the transactions of the day', and that his audience, many of whom had written him letters praising or offering constructive criticism about his previous tours, were generally pleased with what he chose to include or exclude See The Farmer's Tour through the East of England, 4 vols (London. for W. Strahan, and others, 1771), I, xix and xi-xv

124 singed off' (225). When the party were turned away from an inn at Arrochar because the landlord said it was full, English cynicism was happily dashed by Scottish honesty: '[we] had the satisfaction of seeing that our landlord had not told us an untruth concerning the expected company; for just before our departure we saw [...] a coach with four horses, another carriage, and two or three men on horseback' ( ). Equally, being granted shelter in a Scottish house when there was no inn nearby, satisfied Wordsworth's imagined sense of a culture more in tune with older notions of hospitality than modern ideas about commercial hospitality. In passages that describe in considerable detail the attentive hospitality of hosts who are not inn-keepers, Wordsworth takes pleasure in highlighting how these people are nevertheless keen to please their guests. At a ferryman's house on the edge of the Trossachs, for example, the ferryman's wife's hospitable gestures are carefully represented: [W]henever we asked her for anything it seemed a fresh pleasure to her that she had it for us; sh always answered with a sort of softening down of the Scotch exclamation, 'Hoot!' 'Ho! yes, ye'il get that,' and heid to her cupboard in the spence (270). Carefully reproducing the brogue of her kind landlady, Wordsworth represents this experience of finding shelter as particularly amenable and particularly Scottish; as the landlady's way of speaking refers directly to supplying travellers with all they need - 'yes, ye'll get that' - Wordworth's representation of this experience suggests that good hospitality is inherent in Scottish culture because it is also evident in the idiom of the Scottish language. For Byng, however, attention to detail about hospitality and commerce at the inn is less sympathetic. Always travelling with an eye on the purse strings, Byng's detail focuses largely on cost. The fact that he kept or copied the details of inn bills, and later included them in his journals, suggests not only that he became acutely aware of what charges were reasonable, and what were not, but also that these details were information which was worth collating and holding on to. The notion of a 'reasonable' charge at the inn, in fact, was something worth debating. As I suggested earlier, as inn-keepers often made a living from those things consumed at the inn, and not from the renting of rooms, in principle it made sense to hike up the price of food and drink in order to make a better living. However, the law checked such a potential for excessive profit making as innkçepers were warned always to admit a stranger and to 'find him victuals or lodging, upon his tendering a reasonable price for the same'. As The Publican Protected explained: 123

125 [H]is gain or livelihood does not arise from buying and selling in the merchandize, but greatly from the use of his house, furniture, attendance, and the like; and though he may have hay, corn and victuals, to sell again at a profit, yet that no more makes him a trader, than a schoolmaster or other person is, who keeps a boarding-house.49 Thus, anything sold at the inn to travellers was not termed, in legal discourse at least, as a commodity, but rather as something like a commodity. Evidently, even in 1800, an early modern code of hospitality remained at the inn, because this contained space was still understood to be a private space opened up for public use, and the traveller in need of food and shelter remained a guest of the landlord, charged only for those things which he needed, and not those which the landlord chose to proffer. Whilst it was understood that an inn-keeper had a living to make, it was less acceptable that he make too good a living from selling such necessary commodities as food, fire and beverages, or charging for 'extras' without the patron's knowledge. 5 Furthermore, the suggestion that a 'reasonable charging' be made hints at a tourist's right to debate charges if they thought that they had been unfair; relying on eighteenth-century discourses of 'reason', the assessment of what might be deemed 'reasonable' would fall into the hands of the more educated party, which in most stand-offs between a landlord and tourist, would be the latter. For John Byng, coming upon an inn that effectively trod a careful line between hospitality and commerce by charging reasonably, gave him great pleasure, just as finding an inn that overcharged, enabled him to put his 'reason' and debating skills into operation. In Byng's 'Tour to North Wales in 1784', for example, he frequently records detail of reasonable charges made at inns. At the Bull in Bala, the inn bill is pasted into his journal, and he carefully records how much food was got for his money: 'Our charge this morning was exceedingly cheap, as you may perceive; for dinner, we had a roasted loyn of veal, peas, & tarts; and at supper there was a veal-pye, 12 eggs, & tarts. (l'his I insert for wonder of posterity).' 5' Similarly, in his 'Tour in the Midlands 1789', the bill from an inn near Leicester enables Byng to record another example of reasonable charging. Of his landlord, he writes: Tho' in my hostes house at Leicester we never heard him, or his hostler singing psalms [...] yet we had good reason to be contente4 with his civility, his wine, and his bill; two gemmen living 3 days in a grand inn The Pub/wan Protected, 6 and 3. 5 Heniy Fielding describes being charged separately for things, which he believed were basic provisions, at an inn in Ryde. See The Journal of a Tour to Lisbon, D, I, (146).

126 with their 3 horses in the stable, for 3 guineas, cannot be supposed to make the fortune of the inn keeper.52 Here, Byng makes direct reference to how a landlord could make a reasonable profit by carefully balancing commerce and hospitality, and he jokes that, though such a notion may be thought to be nostalgic, this landlord knew his place as a provider of service, not trade. By contrast, however, a tour to the North in 1792 provided Byng with an opportunity of recording the detail of overcharging. In this tour he was able, like Dorothy Wordsworth, to use recorded detail in order to compose a narrative about his experience, and in particular, to use the experience he has from staying at inns as a metaphor for the growth of trade and beginnings of industrialisation in the North. Receiving another bad meal at Doncaster, Byng records that he 'long'd to be able to kick the landlord, to whom [he] complain'd in vain'; and further into the tour at Skipton, Byng complains that: 'My bill seem'd here to be extravagant; [...] but the people never see the same travellers twice, so they care not.' 53 At Rochdale, on the return leg of the tour, he draws together a narrative about landlords who don't heed complaints, inns which overcharge, and the growth of trade in the north: 'In places, where wealth is procured, it is, ignorantly spent; for the upstart man of riches knows no better: the inns therefore are bad, dear, and presumptious [sic]' (117). In this narrative, then, Byng suggests that because trade is concerned with profit, any sense of reasonable charging is anathema, and because an individual is more concerned with profit than hospitality, a traveller's plea for reasonable charging will only fall on deaf ears. Byng's detailed evidence of high charges, poor service, and uncaring inn-keepers, then, is the factual data he needs to write his dislike of trade into his travel journal as social commentary, and debate the question of 'reasonable charging', if not with the landlord at the time, at least with his journal, scribbling furiously in his inn room, or revisiting his annoyance at a later date. Detailing the bad things that happen to him at inns, and given his legal right to debate 'reasonable charging', John Byng's journals suggest just how much he relished the opportunity to play the part of inn critic. Whilst his tour of the north in 1792 allowed for a more serious narrative about the evils of trade, his next tour to North Wales in the following year has no such serious agenda, but still Byng sets himself up to expect the worst and make the most of describing how disappointing bad inns can be. In terms of W II, (94). 'A Tour of the North 1792', TD, III, (28 and 104).

127 recording such detail, noting how good or bad things were on the road enabled tourists like I3yng and Wordsworth to compose narratives about his or her experience which also addressed discourses of expectation and disappointment. In the early days of Byng's touring, he was inclined to set his expectations rather higher than in his later tours, and indeed at various times, posed as a specialist inn critic, enjoying those times when a reputed inn turned out to be bad. In later tours, however, Byng seemeçl less able to enjoy having his hopes about good inns dashed, and so spent more time staying at, and moving between, inns which he knew would serve him well. In considering how Byng makes the inn a critical trope, I will compare his early and his later tours, but first I want to look at Wordsworth's Recollections to see how expectation and disappointment is dealt with more generally in her narrative about Scottish hospitality. As suggested earlier in this chapter, Wordsworth's narrative about Scottish hospitality regularly employs a satisfied discourse of Scottish kindness whenever she records how she and her party sought and found shelter during their tour. What her text also records, however, is a very definite sense of an expectation of difference which, when not met, is not merely disappointing, but is also rather shocking. Making their way towards Lake Ketterine, for example, the party begin to have their expectations about the ruggedness of the Scottish landscape - no doubt raised by what had already been described and illustrated in books - more and more frequently met. Their expectations about the beauty and size of Loch Lomond, for example, had been surpassed ('What I had heard of Loch Lomond [...] had given me no idea of anything like what we beheld') (252), and similarly on viewing the famous Cobbler, she writes: 'We called out in one voice, 'That's what we wanted!" (256). As these reports of expectations happily met suggest, even before the party left their Cumberland home, the Scottish tour already existed in the imaginations of Wordsworth and ler fellow travellers. Being increasingly satisfied with the romantic landscape, Wordsworth then goes on to describe how the party had similarly to negotiate their expectations of Scottish inns. Just over a week into their tour, at Drumlanngg, she remembers: We passed a decent-looking inn, the Hopetoun Anns; but the house of Mrs. Otto, a widow, had been recommended to us with high encomiums. We did not then understand Scotch inns, and were not quite satisfied with our accommodations, but all the things were smoothed over by degrees; we had a fire lighted in our dirty parlour, tea came after a reasonable waiting, and the fire with the gentle aid of twilight, burnished up the room unto a cheerful comfort. (209) Teaching themselves to expect less from Scottish inns in terms of cleanliness and comfort, the party's experience of Scottish hospitality and kindness, however, causes 126

128 them to recalibrate their expectations of inns, and to hope for kind attention, if not good food and clean rooms. When this more nostalgic version of hospitality is not offered, however, Wordsworth describes how her and the party's expectations are more soundly dashed than they would have been had their expectations been less. Wordsworth records with great disappointment, for example, occasions where her experience of hospitality was ruined by an unreasonable charge. At Inveraiy, the landlady of a small public-house had been attentive to the party's requests for porridge, and was initially described as 'so kind and cheerful [sic]', before the party ask her for the bill: [W]e asked the woman what we should pay her, and were not a little surprised when she answered, 'Three shillings'. Our horse had had a sixpenny feed of miserable corn, not worth threepence; the rest of the charge was for skimmed milk, oat-bread, porridge, and blue milk cheese: we told her it was far too much; and, giving her half a crown, departed. ( ) As her first experience of commerce intruding upon nostalgic hospitality, Wordsworth reasons that the woman's overcharging here was not so much greed, as a lack of experience in fixing charges for parties travelling for pleasure: 'no doubt she concluded we were rich, and that what was a small gain to her could be no great loss to us' (303). Later in the tour, however, Wordsworth does not attempt to explain or manage similar disappointment. At Loch Dochart, commerce again interrupts Wordsworth's narrative about Scottish hospitality when the landlord and lady of a good inn make them an 'unreasonable charge' in the morning, and Wordsworth petulantly adds: 'N.B. The travellers in the morning had spoken highly of this inn', which only served to make her disappointment more acute (341). The final insult, however, is at Blair on the return leg of the trip. Here, the landlady of an inn refuses to even offer them a room, and this action causes Wordsworth to record not merely disappointment, but total incredulity and disgust: 'the woman refused to lodge us, in a most inhuman manner, giving no other reason than that she would not do it' (354). No explanations are offered in the narrative for this refusal, suggesting that Wordsworth's recollection of the tour included remembering that the party eventually came to expect less from Scottish hospitality. In Recollections, then, notions about Scottish hospitality being somehow different from a more commercial code of hospitality, caused Wordsworth to describe in detail the hopes and expectations of her party as either being met in accordance with their collective imagination of what Scottish hospitality ought to be like, or being thoroughly dashed when this romantic notion was questioned. Because they expect more, then, and had pre-constructed a discourse of difference which they hoped to see confirmed, their disappointment is then more acute. Wordsworth's descnptioms of being 127

129 128 disgruntled, shocked, and disgusted by a lack of hospitality expose the party's hopes as an imaginative geography that is corrected by experience, and recorded either as pleasure in having such things realised, or as a series of notable disappointments. By comparison, Byng's tour journals suggest less of a sense of expectation underpinned by imaginative geography than that of Wordsworth. Whilst he hopes for 'inn pleasures', Byng seems reasonably satisfied to negotiate a dichotomy of hope and disappointment by trusting his imagination less, and instead making full use of his empirical resources when on the road. In the early days of his touring, Byng's journals suggest that he rather enjoyed testing inns, both bad and good, because whatever he found within enabled him to test his own ability of knowing what an inn ought to be like. In his early journals, Byng's descriptions about time spent at inns allows him to play the role of the enquinng tourist - like Arthur Young studying the nation's farms - who has the knowledge and experience to know a good inn from bad. In the third of Byng's tour journals, 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', he takes pleasure in correcting previous opinions on inns with his own experience. Though recommended (he doesn't say by whom) to the Goat ale-house at Lianvair, Byng is happy to add usefully that this inn doesn't, however, stable horses; travelling past the 'famed inn of Tann y Bwlch' in favour of the inn at Festiniog which is reputed to be better still, Byng's comment is good, though sober and analytical ('Festiniog Inn; civil, comfortable, & accommodating'); and in his tour of the Midlands just four years later, he writes with positive glee of finding a 'far famed-inn' (The Bull's Head at Meriden) 'deficient of every comfort [...] only fit to receive waggoners!' 54 Moreover, in his 'Tour to North Wales 1784', he not only describes good and bad inns in his usual detail, he also brandishes a note of authority about his comments by footnoting each inn stayed at with a summary statement. Thus, 'an old dreary lodging' between Uxbridge and Oxford is reviewed in a footnote as 'King's Arms, Stoken Church. Very indifferent'; the King's Head at Northleach is 'in the middling way'; the 'Unicorn, Leominster; civil and very cheap' and the 'Angel, Ludlow; very good.' 55 These authoritative notes in this early tour not only establish Byng's journals as critical enquiries, but also make them useful to others as advice books (even if the 'other' in this case is Byng himself, or an imagined reader). In rubber-stamping a particular inn as good, bad or middling, Byng is able to role-play not only the critically capable tourist, but perhaps more interestingly, the useful tourist and travel writer. 'ID,1, (l39and 156);'ATourintheMidlands 1789', ID, 11,1-146(107). " TD,1, (118, 121, 129, and 130).

130 Knowing what to expect from inns, by turning himself into a critic and advisor, enables Byng to manage a relationship between hope and disappointment which lessens the opportunity for disappointment wherever possible. In his later tours Byng writes about his role as inn-expert and advisor. Whilst touring with Colonel Bertie in Lincoinshire in 1791, Byng makes it clear he now knows exactly what to expect at an inn. Enjoying being the experienced member of the tour, he notes his friend's relative inexperience with amusement: 'The Col comes down to me (his unpitying friend,) saying, "Why my servant says he was bit by bugs last night'! - 'Was he so? Aye, they will bite in inns!'!!". Nevertheless, acknowledging an inherent degree of discomfort in staying at inns doesn't mean that the critic cannot be comfortable, and in later tours it becomes evident that Byng aims to reduce all sense of possible disappointment by taking his own careful advice about good inns, and using it. Thus, certain inns become familiar places as he uses them again and again. The White Hart at Beilbar, for example is an early stop on his tour in North Wales in 1793 because he knows it to be good ('whose landlord I have long known'); similarly the Sun Inn at Biggleswade, which he stays at in most of his tours, threatens to disrupt his trip because he finds it difficult to leave its comfortable rooms. 57 Whilst not all attempts to avoid disappointment by choosing familiar inns succeed - in the same tour at Shrewsbury he writes: 'took possession of my old rooms at the White Lion [...] My dinner consisted of some stale fish, and of the remains of a cold venison pastye; of the bottle of port-wine I could not drink more than a pint'(299) - his attempt to minimise these disappointments by being his own advisor signifies an intention of making the most of 'inn pleasures' when touring.58 Adopting the role of advisor, Byng's notes about inns, as made in 'A Tour to North Wales 1784', are self-referential and often read as if he intended them for an audience of some kind. Curiously, in one of his last tours, 'A Tour in Bedfordshire 1794', Byng takes his fantasy of a wider readership to another level when he tries out a typical travel book style of writing by making implicit reference to guiding successive travellers along a route he has taken. Describing his travels around the village of Beaston, Byng's narrative becomes chorographic: You now leave Sturtlow village to the right - where stand in view the houses of Mr Brown and of Mr - with - before the lofty spire of the church, 129 'A Tour into Lincolnshire 1791', TD, 11, (392). " 'A Tour to North Wales 1793', ID, ifi, (189 and 192) For further discussion of eating see Simon Varey, 'The Pleasures of the Table', in Pleasure in the Eighteenth Centwy, ed. by Roy Porter and Marie Mulvey Roberts (London. Macmillan, 1996),

131 and the palace of the Bishop of Lincoln, at Buckden. Which village you now enter: and I consign you to the good inn, The George.59 In this passage, then, Byng clearly posits himself as not only an advisor, of'fenng his experience of staying at inns as example and/or warning, but also as a guide who has prepared a route for his readers which removes all anxiety about expectation and disappointment because it is pre-tested for success. In all his writing about inns throughout his tours, Byng succeeds in making this chosen subject an opportunity for playing out a variety of tour-writing roles (critic, advisor, guide) which give his tours a sense of purpose or a style of writing which is readable for both himself, and his imagined reader of the future. For Wordsworth, writing about inns and other places of shelter exposes her expectations as imaginative geography, and reveals how she was forced to recalibrate her expectations of Scottish inns with every experience of putting up. For eighteenth-century home tour writers like Byng and Wordsworth, then, making the inn a subject was not merely about recording the minutes of the tour, or the facts of social history, but was also to make the inn a device of tour writing itself. By negotiating discourses of expectation and disappointment, Byng and Wordsworth confront their own idealism, when expectations are not met, and contentment, when inn pleasures are found. 130 Narrative Possibilities in the Unpredictable Space of the Inn Making the inn a subject and device of their tour writing, Wordsworth and Byng were unusually attentive as travel writers to its contained space. However, alongside this culture of writing travel, another culture of writing had long since appropriated the inn as a subject and trope of fictional discourse. As Percy G. Adams considers in Travel Literature and the Evolution of the Novel (1983), the details of travel and travel writing - in particular the coaches and inns - were regularly written into novels of the eighteenth century as 'plot-controlling motifs'; 6 Laurence Steme's A Sentimental Journey, Henry Fielding's Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews, Tobias Smollett's Ferdinand Count Fathom and Humphry Clinker, are all novels which use tle inn as a trope of their fiction. Why the inn is made a central motif of these (and other) novels is not difficult to summarise, as the inn is a vehicle for important destabilising aspects of a 'A Tour in Bedfordshire 1794', TD, IV, 1-86 (26). 60 ercy G. Adams, Travel Literature and the Evolution of the Novel (Kentucky: Kentucky University Press, 1983), 213

132 131 fictional narrative. Essentially, the unstable internal space of the inn is exploited in fiction, as it provides a space into which characters can come and go as they would in real life, and is thus somewhere where protagonists can meet an endless number of new characters. Moreover, as the inn is both a private and a public space, characters are able to mingle on a social and an intimate level for a short period of time; they can eat and drink together, or they can even share a room and a bed, before they move on and resume their journey. As a liminal space which traded on temporality, the inn space brought into close contact (and sometimes close quarters) men and women of different social classes. Furthermore, as the inn was, temporally speaking, not a space of permanence, but a space passed-through, whatever action occurred within, between its heterogeneous mix of classes and gender, could always be left behind. Consequently, in eighteenth-century culture and discourse, the contained space of the inn represented the potential for short bursts of unpredictable action, and as such was perfectly suited for episodic or picaresque novels of the period. As the legal discourse discussed earlier in this chapter suggests, eighteenth-century culture was aware of the potential instability of the inn space, where different people bought food and beer, and slept at close quarters, and so it took pains to regulate the morality and legality of its space to curtail its potential excesses. 6' For novelists of the period seeking dramatic action or a quickmoving plot, the inn was therefore an ideal narrative device, and novelists frequently used its culture and space to compose dramatic, comic or sentimental narratives. For travel writing, making the inn a subject not only supplied the tourists with something to assess and debate, but also provided the same kind of narrative opporturity which novelists enjoyed for turning a report of movement through space into a story of time spent touring. This final part of the chapter will consider how Wordsworth and Byng used the unpredictable, indeed unstable, space of the inn to produce their experience of moving through space as travel narratives by suggesting that for Byng, the inn was a trope of his experiments with comedy and dramatic action, and for Wordsworth, provided an opportunity to present herself as heroine of her oi tale. Intertextually, however, the inn was not only a feature of travel writing and a motif of novels, but was also significant to eighteenth-century intellectual debating culture. Being related to the tavern and the coffee house as a communal space offering food and drink for money, the inn is also partly situated in a culture which rhapsodised 61 Both The Public-House-Keeper's Monitor (1769) and The Publican Protected [1800] offered legal and moral advice to curtail excessive drinking by both patrons and owners. The Public-House-Keeper's Monitor suggests 'Rules of Conduct' to control drunkenness and sexual licentiousness (26-30) and The Publican Protected cites laws to dissuade owners from encouraging 'tipling' (57-61).

133 132 about the pleasures which might be obtained from such contained spaces. Richard Steele and Joseph Addison wrote much in favour of the coffee house; and Samuel Johnson famously said 'there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn', thus suggesting that a space such as an inn, tavern or coffee house which admitted different people for rest and pleasure was related metonymically in eighteenth-centuiy culture with good society and debate. 62 In his various tours, Byng often situates his travel writing within this earlier inn culture. In his 'Tour into Lincoinshire 1791', touring with Colonel Bertie allows Byng to fantasise that the pair of them will enjoy staying at inns, quoting Johnson's epigram about the pleasures of the tavern. Moreover, in his 'Tour to Bedfordshire 1794', Byng writes that he hopes he will breathe his last an inn - 'Let me expire in the mock cordiality of an inn' - suggesting, therefore, that he is suited to its society and sensitive to its pleasures. 63 However, Byng's writing of inns does not confine itself to this kind of learned musing, and is for the most part over-shadowed by his attempts to write his inn experiences not so much as worthy and fitting, but as comic episodes which derive pleasure not from the society found at the inn, but from the satire constructed about its staff and servants. Using inns as a fictional trope in novels of the eighteenth-centuiy often meant taking advantage of two different aspects of its contained space. In the first place, the inn as a place, which received an unpredictable number and mixture of people made it, a space often exploited in fiction for the comic potential of its unstable privacy in terms of intimate encounters between characters. Secondly, as a space which lraded on hospitality in order to turn a profit, the owners and staff of inns are often satirised as being of a low, vulgar, and yet aspirational class which often lapsed into crude, truly 'low class' behaviour, whilst simultaneously maintaining delusions of importance. As an intimate space, an inn in Henry Fielding's novel, The History of Tom Jones (1749), takes advantage of the fact that guests taking a room for one night only essentially shared a bed - mattress, pillows, sheets, and fleas - with a complete stranger. In Book 8, for example, sexual frisson is generated for both the novel's protagonist and the reader, as the landlady of an inn tells Tom that he is lying in a bed formerly occupied by his elusive love-interest Sophia: 'Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that bed 62 For example Richard Steele in The Spectator no. 49 (April, 1711) and no. 155 (August, 1711) in Richard Steele and Joseph Addison, Selections from The Tat/er and The Spectator, ed by Angus Ross (London: Penguin, 1982), Samuel Johnson, from James Boswell, Life of Johnson, ed. by R. W. Chapman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1953; repr. 1980), Ti), IV, 1-86 (46).

134 133 you now lie in.m Furthermore, in Book 9, the inn at Upton provides the opportunity for comic plot entanglement by exploiting the capacity for sexual encounters in the inn's shared space. Tom's liaison with Mrs. Waters, a woman mis-identified later in the text as his mother, is a crucial part of the plot that is entirely enabled by the characters sharing an inn reputed for sexual licentiousness. In these scenes, Tom is also witnessed walking around Mrs. Water's bedchamber wearing only a shirt, and furthermore is alarmed when an Irish officer accidentally climbs into bed with him. Aside from sexual intimacy, the closeness of inn-quarters is further exploited in Smollett's The Expedition of Humphry Clinker (1771), in order to satirise tourism in eighteenth-century Bath. Considering Bath as a place which a tourist visited in order to seek good health, the inn which Mart Bramble's family occupy in the city is described as a site of excessive bustle, confusion and a cacophony of noise: '[tjhe trampling of porters, the creaking and crashing of trunks, the snarling of curs, the scolding of women, the squeaking and squalling of fiddles and hautboys out of tune'. 65 In terms of class, the noises which are described in this inn at Bath, are reminiscent of noises made by the crude and greedy landlady in Fielding's The History and Adventures of Joseph Andrews (1742). The landlady, Mrs. Tow-wouse, is described as having a voice which represents her personality, being 'load and hoarse' enough to be heard above the usual cacophony of noise generated at an inn: 'a most hideous Uproar began at the inn. Mrs. Tow-wouse, Mr. Tow-wouse, and Betty, all lifting up their Voices together: but Mrs. Tow-wouse's Voice, like a Bass Viol in a Concert, was clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest'. Despite her pretensions, then, Mrs. Tow-wouse's voice betrays her true low status by not only joining in the kind of disorder which she claims to have controlled at her inn, but by rising above the other voices as the loudest and least tuneful. Additionally, the 'true' class of the Tow-wouses is betrayed in their lust for money. In Joseph Andrews, Fielding satirises the inn staff's interpretation of the law which stipulated that no man in need of shelter be turned away from an inn, but that such charity did not have to extend to offering the needy clothes to wear. As The Publican Protected advised 'the duty of an innkeeper does not extend to the finding of his guest with clothes or wearing apparel. 2 Rol.Rep. 79', so Mrs. Tow-wouse takes this law quite literally, and cruelly refuses to offer a shirt to Joseph who, having been robbed, arrives Ed. by R.P C Mutter (London. Penguin, 1966; repr 1986), Ed. by Angus Ross (London: Penguin, 1967; repr. 1985), by Douglas Brookes Davies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966, repr 1990), 73.

135 134 at the inn naked. 67 Not wanting to harm commerce with charity, Mrs. Tow-wouse is Fielding's vehicle for a comic narrative, which depends upon a reader's understanding that she does not have the right sensibility for true, old-fashioned hospitality because of her class. Eventually Joseph's shirt is supplied by Betty the chambermaid, which might at first seem to contradict Fielding's class-based comedy, until we learn that Betty is herself satirised for being quite generous with all her favours at the inn. 68 Thus in Tom Jones, Humphry Clinker and Joseph Andrews, the inn is a trope for comic action and satire, and these novels take advantage of the contained space of the inn in tçrms of its close quarters, its low class staff and its problematic role concerning hospitality and commerce. For tour writers Byng and Wordsworth, novels such as those discussed above were both context and inspiration for their narratives. A bad inn at Glen Coe causes Wordsworth to recall how similar her landlady's house was to 'those places of rendezvous which we read of in novels - Ferdinand Count Fathom, or Gil Bias' (334). In Byng's tours, frequent reference is made throughout to the same novels, indeed in his first 'Tour to the West 1781', he describes having stayed at the Talbot Inn in Upton on Severn which was the real-life inspiration for an inn in Tom Jones. 69 However, the fictional context of the inn in eighteenth-century textual culture is not merely an occasional point of reference for Byng and Wordsworth, but is something which has been absorbed into their tour writing in order to facilitate the composition of particular kinds of narratives. For Wordsworth, the intimate spaces of inns and houses where she is offered shelter, are used to compose a narrative of sensibility where Wordsworth's encounters with landladies and other women are carefully described in sympathetic discourse; for Byng, the contained space of the inn becomes a fictional device for comic tableaux, and Byng borrows from novels to write his own characters based on inn staff he has met. That fiction should be absorbed and used in the construction of a travel text in this way raises some interesting issues about the travelling and tour writing process. Firstly, in acknowledging a fictional context for their travels and travel journals, tourists like Byng and Wordsworth have the opportunity of imagining their tours as novels, where moving through space becomes not unlike the narrative of Tom Jones or Gil Bias; in other words, it enables tourists to enjoy the idea that, like their fictional counterparts, being on the road signifies that anything might happen. Hoping for 67 The Pubhcan Protected, 6; Joseph Andrews, Thk ID, 1, 1-65 (38).

136 moments of fiction in order to produce narrative occasions for their travel texts was not unusual for eighteenth-centuiy travellers, as Chloe Chard has discussed in Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour. Wanting to believe that, like the novels they have read, anything might happen when on the road, meant introducing opportunities for destabilising the travelling: Destabilisation and danger [...J assume a double iole within tourism: on the one hand, they are seen as threats to be contained; on the other, when kept at a proper distance, they may provide acceptable touristic gratification, by allowing the traveller to combine a frisson of excitement and a reminder of risk with a self-congratulatory awareness of having survived.70 Thus whilst tourists who travelled in Italy described risking a mountain pass, or a lonely country road for a frisson of excitement, in alluding to novels in their tours, and adopting their devices in their narratives, tourists like Byng and Wordsworth enjoyed engaging with the idea that their home tours may potentially have been as eventful as the narrative of a novel. For Byng and Wordsworth, this kind of fictional fnsson often centres the inn as an inherently unstable space, and consequently provides their tour narratives with the opportunity of occasional carnival moments. Whilst neither tourist woulçl really like to have experienced a tour as traumatic as the plot of a novel, the possibility that they might have done is appropriated into the narratives of their text to add fictional frisson and narrative interest to their tours. At the beginning of his first tour to the West in 1781, John Byng inserts a poem he has composed about a fictional inn landlady called Mrs. Marck In the third stanza of this comic poem, Byng suggests that fiction has already influenced his hopes and expectations of staying at inns, as the poem hints that he knows only to expect poor food and wine at an inn: 'The wine of all sorts being brew'd, / Instead of doing any good, / My tongue and bowells parch; / No stomach they can e'er befit; / I wish you would your vintner quit. I My worthy Mrs March'. 7' This poem is just the first of many comic episodes in these tours, all of which draw very heavily on fiction he has read by emphasising the greed, low class, or ignorance of the inn staff he meets. Indeed Byng's 'comic' episodes are all the more interesting as they mostly convey a degree of forced mirth, as though Byng would like to find such things as bad service, expensive charging, or ignorant staff, comic, but in fact is often torn between turning such things into interesting narrative for his journals, and being simply upset by poor hospitality Chloe Chard, Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour: Travel Writing and Imaginalive Geography (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), 'Tour to the West 1718', TD,!, 1-65 (4).

137 At the end of his first tour to the West, one such comment about inn staff suggests disappointment re-constructed as comedy: The imposition in travelling is abominable; the innkeepers are insolent, the hostlers are sulky, the chambermaids are pert, the waiters are impertinent; the meat is tough, the wine is foul, the beer is hard, the sheets are wet, the linnen is dirty, and the knives are never clean'd!! (53) Nevertheless, Byng's tours continue to borrow from fiction when making comments about inn staff. At The Bell in Derby in 1790, Byng's details about his landlord are entirely influenced by Joseph Andrews, despite the fact that he is well treated: 'My landlord, fat, stupid, and splay-footed, reminded me of Mr Towouse'. 72 Here, Byng's rather harsh description of a man who made him a 'very reasonable' charge for 'a fine roasted fowl, asparagus, and cheese for dinner', suggests that Byng felt a pressure of intertextuality to include stock descriptions of characters he has read in novels. Later in the same tour he borrows from Joseph Andrews again when he describes the level of noise emitting from the inn at Cromford: 'our house was in rustic revelry, with such a quantity of singing! Solos, and in parts, and all kinds of chauntings, increasing with the beer, to an excess of bawling'(200). Similarly, a week later at Wisbech, the 'fine, conceited, dress'd-out landlady' of The Rose and Crown is described in stereotypical fictional style as being greedy for money and having notions above her station, by not allowing Byng to partake of the family meal, but insisting that he must order something from the menu (230). Moreover, in his 'Tour into Lincolnshire' in the following year, Byng continues his novelistic discourse by revelling in the low-class conversation of his landlord at Folkingham: My landlord then came in, 'fearing I was lonesome'; he now gets familiar, and will soon put his paws upon my lap; he prated away 'About the Duke of Orlines 'S coming in here from hunting; who he knew to be a foreigner by his earings, that he gave 9 guineas for a chaise to Grantham [...] There would have been no end of my landlords jaw, had not the bells rang for church, to which I repair'd with my landlord, and landlady;73 In this passage, Byng's care in exaggerating the landlord's dialect to stress his lack of sophistication seems at odds with his desire for 'inn pleasures' and 'the conversation of waggoners and hostlers', and it emphasises how Byng tried in his journals to write like a novelist, even when he preferred not to travel as one. The tension between Byng's self-conscious attempts to write comedy, and his conveying of actual pleasure or disappointment in time spent at inns, then, suggests a desire to destabilise his narrative, 'A Tour in the Midlands 1790', TD, II, (165). 'A Tour into Lincolnshire 1791', TD, 11, (337).

138 137 if not his actual movement through space, in order to make his representation of travelling time more interesting. Aside from writing comedy inspired by novels he has read, Byng is also keen to try out different writing styles when composing his tours. In two of his last tours, 'A Tour to North Wales 1793' and 'A Tour in Bedfordshire 1794', Byng writes that he intends to adopt particular personae for the duration of each tour. In North Wales he is the melancholic character Jacques from As You Like It?I suggesting therefore that he is a man of feeling and sensitivity; and in Bedfordshire, he becomes 'the kind humourist William Wimble' 75 from The Spectator, suggesting a old-fashioned, patriotic, and less anti-social character than that of Jacques. In adopting these personae for his tours, Byng makes clear how much he tries to situate his writing within a textual culture, in order to make what he writes more interesting for his (real or imagined) readers, and in order to make his texts more relevant to the culture in which he writes. By trying out different styles of writing from chorography to comedy, Byng was taking advantage of a mode of writing which allowed and encouraged this kind of cross-fertilisation and experimentation, to enjoy trying out all of travel writing's intertextual possibilities. The inn was his chosen subject for this as it is already featured in much of the fiction he had read, and yet was not always represented in published travel writing. Making the most of the inn's liminality and unpredictability, then, Byng's engagement with its space in line with fictional discourse enabled him to produce a representation of his travelling time which registered the minutes of his tour, but which also portrayed travelling at home as a narrative of incident and experience. Wordsworth's elements of fictional frisson, on the other hand, are not dangerous or comic, but rather are exquisite moments of acute sensibility. Making the most of the intimate spaces of inns, Wordsworth portrays these spaces and her occupation of them as a series of picturesque stills that capture the sights, sounds and people she sees within. At an Inn in Dumbarton, for example, she describes how by lying on 'the carriage cushions on three chairs' she was able to peer through a gap in the casement of her room so she could see the sea ('I discovered a little side peep which was enough to set the mind at work.'). Whilst all she could see was a few boats, it was sufficient for a woman of her sensibility to be inspired: 'Perhaps you will think that there is not much in this, as I describe it: it is true; but the effect produced by these simple objects, as they ID, LII, (188). ID, IV, 1-86 (4). The tradition of adopting roles for travel narratives was perhaps bequeathed to Byng from Smollett's Travels through Frwce and Italy (1766), or Sterne's A Sentimental Journey (1768). Charles Batten discusses how these were well used personae in Plearurable Instruction,

139 happened to be combined, together with the gloom of the evening, was exceedingly wild' (239). Having assembled a quiet seaside tableau in her narrative, inside the inns, similar pictures are drawn of the people she is staying with. Wandering into the family kitchen of an inn to ask for food or a candle, for example, provided Wordsworth with the opportunity of recognising the pleasures of simple Scottish life. At an inn at Inveroran, a kitchen filled with travellers seated around a peat fire eating porridge, is described in a perfect tableau of simple Scottish hospitality: 'There was nothing uncomfortable in this confusion: happy, busy, or vacant faces, all looked pleasant; and even the smoky air (being a sort of natural indoor atmosphere of Scotland) served only to give a softening, I may say hannony, to the whole' (339). In this description, the Scottish weather serves as a natural device for framing her picture, and Wordsworth produces a description which suggests that neither her cold, hunger, nor tiredness after the day's travelling prevented her from recognising such simple pleasures when she saw them. Less romantically, Wordsworth creates a similar portrait when she describes an encounter with a servant girl at an inn at Brownhill. After the girl proudly shows the party some of the inn's mediocre paintings, Wordsworth writes how she and her brother recognised, but did not mock, the girl's misguided knowledge: 'We could not but smile; for the rest [of the paintings] were such as may be found in the basket of any Italian image or picture hawker'(201). In this encounter, the servant girl's class and lack of education are represented sympathetically by Wordsworth who does not make this scene at all comic, but rather concentrates on highlighting her own delicate sensibility which allows her to notice, but not act on, class difference. Whilst Wordsworth's recording of this incident is condescending, it is nevertheless quite different from the usual comedy which class difference provokes at inns in novels, or which Byng tries to draw on in his tour writing. Rather like peering through the casement to see the harbour, then, Wordsworth's drawing of inn scenes which place herself in the picture as a silent and benign observer, help her to construct a narrative of travel in which she also takes the rqle as a curious and careful narrator. 138 Conclusions Writing about stopping and putting up at the jim was a mode of writing which engaged John Byng and Dorothy Wordsworth with a number of discourses. In making inns a subject, both tourists were keen to represent the real travelling time of their tours in order to make sense of how stopping was a necessaiy and important part of the

140 139 travelling day. Moreover, in making the contained space of the inn a subject, both were keen to make the tours that they wrote into particular kinds of narratives which benefited from the details of inns both by their experience, and by the representation of inns in other areas of textual culture. Like Fielding's explanation of the construction of Joseph Andrews into books which give the reader a convenient place to take a break - 'little Spaces between our Chapters may be looked upon as an Inn or Resting-Place, where he may stop and take a Glass' - the construction of the tours of Byng and Wordsworth used the inn as both a device, and a subject, but yet chose to keep the fact that they had to stop to rest or 'take a glass' on the page, and not off it76 In terms of representing movement through space, then, the 'long tag' which signified the need to stop, and the contained spaces at which the home tourists did stop, provoked criticism, debate, pleasure and comedy to be itten into the tours, either as an immediate response to events witnessed, or as a recollection of interesting scenes or moments, reconstructed at a later date. Moving through space either on foot, horseback, or in a carriage, the need and desire to stop was represented as a natural rhythm of the travelling day, and though often not without its frustrations, knowing they needed to stop, kept travellers going as the hope of somewhere to rest always brought to an end every burst of active movement. Moreover, the liminality and temporality of the inn space itself meant that home tourists like Byng and Wordsworth were constantly engaging with discourses of expectation and disappointment, as landlords and landladies trod a line between kind hospitality and profit-making, and encouraged patrons like these to debate, criticise and record the differences between good and bad inns, often with an alarming attention to the detail of their own experiences. Making the need to stop, and the experience of being stopped, a subject of their travel writing, home tourists like Byng and Wordsworth thus produced the moving and contained spaces of travelling as journalised narratives, which placed their own experience of needing to rest to the fore of its representation in text. By sometimes adding fictional discourse to their own representations of movement through space, tourists like Byng and Wordsworth highlight how eighteenth-century home tours were a mode of writing which engaged many kinds of literary discourse in order to produce personal experience of beiig on the move as text. 76 Fieldin& Joseph Andrews, 78.

141 140 Chapter Four Ways of Going and Seeing Looking and Writing at the Country House in the Journals of Caroline Powys and Horace Walpole In late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives, going in order to see, or seeing whilst on the road, was recorded by tourists as a routine part of the travelling experience, and a part of their movement through space. For home tourists, as I have already suggested, the urge to know was often resolved by a decision to go and see for themselves things which they knew to be there, which they had heard about, or which they simply stumbled upon. Travelling from his second home in London to his native Italy, for example, Joseph Baretti recorded how the decision to go and see Salisbury cathedral caused him to run 'like a fury through the town' in order to catch a glimpse of this particular site of interest in the short space of time he had to view it.' Describing extraordinary agency in the act of sightseeing because he 'chose to give a look at it', Baretti records his decision to see the cathedral as both an obligation (something he should see) and a choice (something he was determined he would see), and consequently lends a slightly absurd air of panic to his record of having a look en route to Dover. For British home tourists, poking about in churches, factories, mills, mines, caverns and, especially, country houses, was no less decisive, and they incorporated movement through these kinds of contained spaces into their itineraries and their narratives both as a register of the travelling day, and a particular record of their experience of being in, and looking around the contained space itself. When visiting country houses, a similar combination of obligation, compulsion, and choice caused tourists to go into the house in order to take a look for themselves, and like Baretti, they recorded their decisions to see in terms of the pace of their own movements to and through the space, and the way they looked once inside it. How tourists described their experience of being in, and looking around the space of the country house, and how looking was represented and reflected by their writing, then, is the subject of this chapter. 2 Engaging with the subject of country house Joseph Baretti, A Journey from London to Geno4 through Englan4 Portugal, Spain and France, 2 vols (London. for T. Davis and L. Davis, 1770), I, 4. 2 The contained space of the country house includes not only the internal spaces of its buildings, but also its parks and gardens, and, indeed, everything that belongs to the property itself. For two reasons however, this chapter will concentrate on the internal space of the country house instead of its gardens and grounds firstly, in order to hone my enquiry to consider how tourists wrote about that particular

142 141 touring in the late eighteenth-century requires recognition of how a metaphor of movement through space expands in light of both the social history of these spaces and this visiting habit, and a close reading of the home tours and travel narratives which represent particular subjects' experiences of going and seeing. In the first instance, the social history of eighteenth-century country houses requires a consideration of how these contained spaces were not just blank spaces (rooms in buildings), but were, in fact, contained in Lefebvre's definition of contained space as the space of capitalism.3 For example, the social history of country house touring has focused on how visiting these spaces at the end of the eighteenth century signified a change in function for the house from family property to a commercial space, maintained by and for tourists. Ian Ousby has identified how the establishment of admission charges, opening hours, and the sale of guidebooks, signified that the country house developed from being a private family space, to a public, commercial space in line with a history of British tourism.4 Secondly, and though not always in line with the commercial enterprise of prototourism, Cohn Cunningham and Lee Morrissey have reported that the late eighteenthcentury country house developed architecturally in accordance with its new role as a space to be seen by others and travelled through. 5 Suggesting that some houses built at the end of the eighteenth century were specifically designed as spaces through which their owners and their guests, or indeed curious tourists, could move with ease from room to room, Cunningham notes that the 'circuit of state rooms' which architects like Robert Adam designed, encouraged the house to be experienced and viewed as a series of interconnected, fluid spaces. 6 That architectural design either adapted to suit the contained space; and secondly, because there is already much scholarly work on eighteenth-century gardens and landscaping, see, for example, Stephen Bending, 'A Natural Revolution? Garden Politics in Eighteenth-Century England', in Refiguring Revolutions: Aesthetics and Politics from the English Revolution to the Romantic Revolution, ed. by Kevin Sharpe and Steven N. Zwicker (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), and Stephen Daniels and Charles Watkins review of articles on this subject in 'Picturesque landscaping and estate management: Uvedale Price and Nathaniel Kent at Foxley', in The Politics of the Picturesque: Literature, Landscape andaesthetics since 1770, ed. by Stephen Copley and Peter Garside (Cambridge. Cambridge University Press, 1994), (38-39). For a discussion of how such gardens were experienced see Robert Harbison, The Built, the Unbuilt, and the Unbuildable: In Pursuit of Architectural Meaning (London: Thames and Hudson, 1991), See Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. by Donald Nicholson-Smith (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), SL-g3. ' See 'Envious Show: The Opening of the Country House', in The Englishman's England: Taste, Travel and the Rise of Tourism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990; repr. 2002), Further references are cited parenthetically in the text. See Cohn Cunningham, '"An Italian house is my lady": some aspects for the definition of women's role in the architecture of Robert Adam', in Femininity and Masculinity in Eighteenth-Century Art and Culture, ed. by Gill Perry and Michael Rossington (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1994), 63-78; Lee Morrissey, From the Temple to the Castle: An Architectural History of British Literature, (Charlottesville University Press of Virginia, 1999), especially chapter 5 '"To Invent in Art and Folly": Walpole's Castle of Otranto', CU1m, '"An Italian house is my lady"', 66.

143 142 country house's new status as a tourist space, or enabled the [house to shift its role as a private space into a more public space of exhibition, testifies to Morrissey's point that all buildings, when considered as anything other than merely shelter, engender space with metaphorical or metonymical significance. 7 What this means is that the contained space of the country house as viewed and represented by home tourists in their texts is already a complex metaphorical construction even before it is re-presented y tourists writing their own experience of moving through its spaces. In particular, this chapter will engage with narratives describing country house touring, introducing the home tours produced by Caroline Povys between 1756 and 1808, and Horace Walpole's rather more fragmentary 'Journals of Visits to Country Seats, &c', , alongside examples drawn from other travel texts. 8 Moving through the spaces of many country houses, sometimes more than once, was an activity that engaged both Powys and Walpole in a way of writing that empirically represented the spaces as they saw them (as eyewitnesses), and also represented their experiences of being there as a period of time spent looking and writing. 9 Time was especially important to Powys, Walpole, and a number of other tourists who made similar tours of country houses, because, as Carole Fabricant has argued, '[tjhe tourist was defined above all as a creature on the move: a traverser of as much terntory, and a collector of as many sights, as could be crammed into a limited span of tiine. 10 Certainly, Baretti's description of his dash to see Salisbury cathedral which I discussed earlier estifies to Fabrieant's argument that in the proto-tourist space of the country house, seeing could be nothing more meaningful than a quick glance which ticked off another sight-seen on the itinerary. In the journals of Powys and Walpole, there is similar evidence of quick glances and things only glimpsed, but at the same time, for every description of time- 7 Morrissey, From the Temple to the Castle, Caroline Powys, 'Journals', British Library Additional Manuscripts, Extracts from the journals have been collated by Emily J. Climenson in Passages from the Diaries of Mrs. Philip Lybbe Powys of Hardwick House, Oxon. AD (London Longman's, Green & Co., 1899). References to Powys' journals in this chapter refer to Clirnenson's edition, though because her editing is sometimes unclear, I have consulted the MSS for accuracy, and any significant differences are noted. 'Horace Walpofe's Journals of Visits to Country Seats, &c', is compiled from two notebooks called 'Book of Materials. Sept. 1759' and 'Book of Materials 1771', ed. by Paget Toynbee, The Walpole Society, XVI ( ), 9-80 In Climenson's edition of Powys' tours, there are at least one hundred records of visits to country houses, and more still in the MSS. Horace Walpole's journals record 45 separate visits to houses. Both subjects revisit houses, or describe seeing a house for the first time in a number of years, noting its changes. 10 Carole Fabncant, 'The Literature of Domestic Tourism and the Public Consumption of Private Property', in The New Eighteenth-Century: Theory, Politics, English Literature, ed. by Felicity Nussbaum and Laura Brown (London: Methuen, 1987), (259). Further references are cited parenthetically in the text.

144 143 beating looking, there are also descriptions of expert, deft, and careful looking, seeing at leisure, lingering and feasting the eyes. In this chapter, I challenge Fabricant's reading of eighteenth-century country house touring to suggest that rather than one way of looking for all, the journals of Powys and Walpole, and by comparison, o;her home tours which describe country house visiting, prove that ways of seeing were not a single story, but, in fact, were various and sometimes complex. The tour narratives and journals that were produced by subjects like Powys and Walpole, however, are not the only textual record of the space of a country house as tourists might view it. In many country houses, guidebooks were produced by the owner of the house to, quite literally, guide people who wanted to see, through the rooms of the house (and garden), pointing out features of interest, or cataloguing antiques and paintings along the way. Guiding tourists to and through country houses at this time, as Raymond Williams has rightly argued, had a conservative ideological function which encouraged 'so many admirers, too many of them writers' to stand and share the view of the ruling classes who were sitting pretty on disproportional amounts of private land, and filling their homes with symbols of their power, wealth and status." Similarly, in Fabricant's reading of eighteenth-century country house touring, guidebooks are analysed as tools of a conservative 'shared view', suggesting that these texts provided directed looking which encouraged the consumption of a particular house's features and contents, and, moreover, engendered a way of looking which promoted a 'way of life one could buy into [...] if not actually buy', for the tourist granted admission to the big house (261). Suggesting that guidebooks scripted tourists' experiences of a particular country house by focussing their eyes on the way of life it promoted, Fabncant argues that 'the act of tourism served a conservative social function by defusing discontent with one's lot in life and by promoting the idea that happiness could be achieved via temporary entrance into the carefree world of a rich man's pleasure gardens' (264). Certainly, the country house as a site of aspirational wealthy display is valid, but Fabncant's reading of the ideology of the country house visit via its guidebooks fails to recognise how tourists actually looked, even with a guidebook in hand, once there. In the tour narratives produced by Powys and Walpole, and indeed, many less affluent or upper class tourists, the guidebook was*,i instrument of directed seeing which tourists both used and rejected; in many cases, the purchase of a guidebook was offset with the production of a travel narrative which replaced the text of the in-house guide with a Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (London: The Hogarth Press, 1985), 106.

145 144 tourist's own version of a tour, based on a personalised description of their movement through space)2 In this chapter, then, I will compare a selection of country house guidebooks with tour narratives produced by tourists in order to suggest, not that these texts represent one way of looking, but that some tourists adopted the chorographic style of guidebooks to represent the space of the house and their movement through it, but also to personalise the experience by debating what they see, and, indeed, engaging imaginatively with the space of the house as they move through it. As tourists like Powys and Walpole took care to represent the ways in which they looked - including finding a way of writing which mimicked glancing, expert scanning, or feasting on particular features and sites - I also draw on Michel de Certeau's ideas about the differences between mapping and touring, to argue that in borrowing from the chorographic conventions of writing used by guidebooks, touiists who wrote about touring country houses, mapped, consumed, and composed space as a narrative which uses simultaneous discourses of travel to represent movement, and chorographic descriptive conventions to build up a picture of the space itself as it was experienced by those who toured it. The Country House as Text The social history of the country-house tour of the late eighteenth century has received some critical interest, but for this most part this interest focuses either on the habits of the tourists who visited such houses, or the architecture of the houses themselves.' 3 At the same time, the country house has long been a theme of literary discourse, and there exists a firm relationship between the subject of the country house and writing, most famously in poetry: Ben's Jonson's tribute to the Sidney family estate in Kent, 'To Penshurst' (1616); Aemilia Lanyer's less celebrated farewell to Lady Clifford's estate, 12 It is also worth noting that in the case of both Caroline Powys and Horace Walpole, Fabncant's notion of aspirational looking is complicated as both these subjects themselves lived at, or owned, country houses - Powys as mistress of her husband's Oxfordshire estate, Hardwick House; Walpole as owner of Strawberry Hill, Twickenham. R. W. Ketton-Cremer describes Walpole's visits to countly houses in the years before the completion of Strawberry Hill in 1784 as 'antiquarian tours', suggesting that they were a kind of fieldwork which Walpole undertook on behalf of the 'Committee of Taste' which he had assembled in the planning and designing of Strawberry Hill. As such, Walpole's reasons to look were not simply aspirationai, but inspirational - helping him to hone ideas for his own house by observing not only what other landowners had, but how they had handled design and decoration in their own homes. See Horace Wa/pole: A Biography, 3 edn (London: Methuen, 1964), 129. ' See, for example, Mark Girouard, Life in the English Country House: A Social and Architectural History (New Haven Yale University Press, 1978) and Stephen Clarke, 'A Fine House Richly Furnished: Pemberley and the Visiting of Country Houses', Persuo.sions, 22 (2000),

146 145 'The Description of Cooke-ham' (?161 1);' and perhaps most famously, Alexander Pope's 'Epistle to Burlington' (1731), the fourth epistle of the Moral Essays. However, the country house of the late eighteenth century has not been considered in terms of a discourse of travel writing, despite the fact that much of the information which social historians glean about their subject comes from such texts; so far, the country house as written about by those people who visited it has received little critical attention. In light of this, then, this chapter will reunite discourses of literature and history within a frame of travel writing, to consider how experience is mapped by writing, and how writing is itself implicated in experience. To a certain extent, writing the experience of touring the country house is the experience itself because, as a kind ofjournalizing which relies on both the representation of time, and the preservation of memory (as I have outlined elsewhere), there is no experience without its written testimony, or at the very least, experience is expressed and set down through writing.'5 The social history of touring country houses in the late eighteenth century focuses on how the country house became a site of tourist interest at this time, changing its role as a symbol of nobility and landownership into becoming a symbol of wealth and social status. Mark Girouard charts the changing role of the country house from being a 'social house' of the 1720s, to an 'informal' house of the 1780s, noting how the country house's architecture developed in support of its changing role in society.' 6 In The Englishman 's England, Ian Ousby argues a similar line to Fabricant, suggesting that as the country house became a symbol of wealth and social status, so its role as a site of tourist interest was an 'envious show', exhibited by its owners as 'an effective way of staking a claim on the social ladder', and enjoyed by streams of curious tourists as a display of who owned what and, most importantly, who owned more than whom (48). The history rehearsed by these three scholars of how the country house became a site of tourist interest in the late eighteenth century is all the more interesting when the history of the country house is extended back into the seventeenth century and earlier. ' 'Cooke-ham' comes from Lanyer's longer poem Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum (1611), though it is usually dated slightly earlier. See the critical notes to 'Cooke-ham' in Kissing the Roth An Anthology of 1 Century Women's Verse, ed. by Germaine Greer, and others (London: Virago, 1988), For further discussion of the country house poetry see The Coumry House Poem: A Cabinet of Seventeenth- Century Estate Poems and Related Items, ed. by Alastair Fowler (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1994), Richard Gill, Happy Rural Seat: The English Country House and the Literary Imagination (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1972), David Hill Radcliffe, 'Genre and Social Order in Country House Poems of the Eighteenth Century: Four Views of Percy Lodge', Studies in English Literature, 30 (1990), "See Chapter One, '6 Girotd Life in the English Country House,

147 146 By considering the role of an estate owner from the correspondence of the seventeenthcentury landowner, Sir Ralph Vemey, for example, it becomes apparent that the country house was never simply a private space maintained by and for its owners alone, a space which was subsequently abandoned or violated to make way for tourist interest in the eighteenth century.' 7 In early modem England, country houses were already public spaces; the owner of the 'great house' in any provincial locality was duty-bound by his status as landowner to participate in a gift-economy with his tenants, traders and peers. This meant that those people who lived and worked on his land were honoured on a seasonal basis with banquets and entertainments held at the 'great house', and that other landowning families in the same or nearby counties were invited to take part in a reciprocal visiting routine which necessitated endless, and often unannounced, visits to each others' houses. This obligation to offer hospitality to tenants and friends was also a spatial issue: as landowner, any individual or party who physically crossed your land (even en route) was entitled to call upon the owner of this land and, whether stranger or friend, be offered shelter and sustenance as a welcoming gesture.' 8 The correspondence of Vemey, for example, records one evening when Ralph received 20 people, unannounced, into his home for dinner; similarly, Ralph's eldest son, Mun, understood his obligation to participate in local visiting culture, to 'get to all major seats' in the locality before the new year as a way of demonstrating and confirming a complicated system of kinship in which his family was expected to participate.'9 By the eighteenth centuly, however, the kind of hospitality that the Verney family correspondence illustrates was on the wane. By 1750 it was a common complaint amongst tenants and local gentry that the landowner of the 'great house' was often more absent than present from his country home, less interested in managing a working estate, perhaps, than in pursuing other interests in London or participating in the seasonal entertaimnents of cities like Bath or Tunbndge Wells. 20 Thus as the owner of the 'great house' stayed away he became increasingly isolated from the community which lived and worked on his land; his more mobile lifestyle meant that his social calendar no longer revolved around festivals held at the big house for tenants and local gently, but was replaced by a social calendar which demanded that two-thirds of the 17 The Vemey correspondence and this fanilly's social network is discussed by Susan E. Whyinan in Sociability and Power in Late-Stuart England: The Cultural Worlds of the Verneys (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), ' Felicity Heal discusses the conventions of offering hospitality to an uninvited guest in Hospitality in Early Modern England (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), Whyman. Sociability and Power in Late-Stuart England, Girouard suggests that improvements in carriages and roads encouraged owners of country houses to pursue a more mobile social life at this time than previously,

148 year be spent elsewhere. The result of this change of routine was that the country house became less a site of daily life and work, and more a kind of summer retreat, a place away from the city, which during the summer months, once again became home. But the more mobile lifestyle which wealthy landowners came to enjoy also meant that the country house was now no longer inaccessible to people wishing to visit from further afield. As Mark Girouard suggests, landowners gradually began to improve their houses to accommodate their new role as occasional homes, with a different kind of routine of socialising, which focused on bigger and better entertainments, and perhaps to a degree, emulated the kind of entertainments which were on offer in the assembly rooms of Bath and other cities with a social season. 2' That the improvement of countiy houses was such an important theme of eighteenth-century architecture not only hints at the changes which occurred in terms of the landowners' mobility and the uses to which the houses were subsequently put, but it also suggests a degree of anxiety on the part of landowners to have their improved houses act as symbols of their wealth and status. In previous centuries - as Jonson's 'To Penshurst' suggests, and the Verney family correspondence corroborates - a table spread with the fruits of a bountiful harvest had once been enough to support a reputation as a wealthy landowner. Similarly, in The Country and the Guy, Raymond Williams charts how the demise of the tenant farmer ran concurrent with the 'improving' of country estates, and he notes that such houses 'break the scale, by an act of will corresponding to the real and systematic exploitation of others', arguing that as landowning incomes came to be supported not by tenancy but by the buying and selling of property, so country houses were no longer working estates but empty prospects and, in Ian Ousby's words, show-homes (48).22 Here, then, Lee Morrissey's point about the metaphorical nature of space, and the notion of the country house as a text, is expanded: space is metonymic, because as landowners spent more and more time away from their country piles, these second homes were improved to become bigger and brighter, to represent the status of the landowner when he was away, and to break the scale (as Williams suggests) as if to enable the owner to see what he owns but does not use, as he retreats further and further away from the country. By the late eighteenth century, the form and function of country houses had changed as many were improved to become show homes, and the increasing mobility that had liberated landowners from their estates, also liberated an increasing number of curious home tourists into the countryside. One tourist who was certainly at least in part Ibid., Raymond Williams, The Country and the Cny, 105.

149 148 responsible for the developing tourist interest in visiting countly houses was Arthur Young who, in A Six Weeks Tour, through the Southern Counties of England and Wales first published in 1768, admitted '[t]he professed design of my sketches is husbandry; but it would have been great stupidity to pass very near a celebrated house without viewing it'. 23 As Young suggests here, travelling to look at houses was not his intention, but nevertheless famous houses could not be ignored if they happened to be en route. But what made eighteenth-century country houses 'famous' as sites of interest? Certainly the fever for home-improvement which Girouard has described, and the increased general interest in architecture which Morrissey has discussed, served to make others' homes sites of interest in a general sense, but perhaps more importantly, country houses became sites of interest because they represented the people who owned them. Chatsworth in Derbyshire, for example, as the home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire was a house much visited by tourists (at least in part) because of the celebrity status of its mistress Georgiana, and for the prominent role which she played in Whig politics. Visiting Chatsworth in 1789, John Byng (sarcastically) described how 'the Duchess has made a fine display of French tables', suggesting here that his interest in these things is certainly inspired to a degree because they are her things, in her house. 24 Elsewhere, one gets the sense that country houses were famous because they were simply talked about, perhaps because of a combination of interest in architecture, improvement and owners, and not least because more people were travelling at home and reporting back on what they'd seen. Visiting flam Gardens near Chatsworth, for example, Hester Thrale described it as 'a place of which I had heard much', and thus rather vaguely hints at the talked-about-ness of country houses at this time. 25 Aside from this, however, Arthur Young's suggestion that he would look at country houses whilst travelling for other reasons indicates that as a lone traveller, he assumed that knocking on the door of any given house would be accepted by its owner or occupier as reasonable behaviour. Thus Young's approach to travelling at home, even in 1760, employed an early modern code of conduct that recognised a gentleman traveller's right to learn about new counties and regions through its principal landowners, and reciprocally, landowners' honour in assisting the traveller's inquiry. In the 1760s, a (London: for W. Strahan, 1768), In 'A Tour in the Midlands 1789' in The Torringlon Diaries: Containing the Tours through England and Wales of the Hon. John Byng (Later Fifth Viscount Torringion) Between the Years 1781 and 1794, ed by C. Bruyn Andrews, 4 vols (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, ), II, (38). Further references to this text will be cited as ID. 25 In 'Journal of a Tour in Wales with Dr. Johnson', in Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale 's Tour in Wales 1774, ed. by Adrian Bristow (Ciwyd: Bridge Books, 1995), (92). Further references are cited parenthetically in the text.

150 149 fault-line existed between early modern notions of hospitality and eighteenth-century ideas about tourist interest; perhaps, then, country houses became famous sites of interest in the first place because travellers like Arthur Young expected to be let into them under a code of hospitality (as an uninvited guest) at a time when this code was ceasing to be relevant and travellers were beginning to be described no longer as guests, but quite differently as 'tourists'. However unclear it is about how country houses came to be 'famous', what is certain is the degree to which country house touring became fashionable at the end of the eighteenth century. In The Englishman 's England, Ousby details just how many tourists visited houses at this time (over 2000 visited Wilton in 1776), an how this habit forced landowners to organise their homes to accopimodate an increasing amount of tourist interest (61). He notes how some houses required a letter of introduction before a tourist would be admitted, but that others, like Blenheim, organised visiting times (2-4pm every day except Sunday) in order to control the flow of tourists through their doors (57 and 61). Focussing on how Walpole received visitors into his home Strawberry Hill, Ousby points out how ordered country house visiting had become by the end of the century, how tourists grumbled if they were denied entry t a house which they knew others had seen, and how owners like Walpole became irritated by the many who trooped through their doors out of habit without really having any interest in what was within. Describing country-house visiting by the end of the century as a 'mass industry', Ousby details how houses not only sold entry tickets, but also guidebooks which stemmed the flow of too many tourists, and also acted as mementos for those who came anyway (70). But what role does text or writing play in the social history of country house touring? Ousby suggests that the production of guidebooks, or handbooks as they were then called, was one solution to the problem of coping with too many tourists as these books supplied the kind of information about the house which, with fewer sightseers, would normally have been supplied by the housekeeper (80). For Ousby, guidebooks - 'handbooks' - were tools of touring, in-house guides which a tourist would buy for half a crown and which replaced the role of the housekeeper (no more tipping!) with a written rather than a personally guided tour. As I explained earlier, Carole Fabricant is more cynical about the role of guidebooks and argues that they played a didactic role in the history of touring because they employed 'calculated and sophisticated advertising techniques' to turn 'travelers and curiosity seekers into consumers of other people's property' ( ). In considering the role of guidebooks in country house touring,

151 150 however, I want to expand the framework for these kinds of texts beyond social histoty to consider their role in contet with discourses of travel writing, to question how guidebooks and a tourist's own description of a country house tour articulate movement through the space of the house. Certainly, country house touring is closely associated with travel writing not least because travel texts were the means by which tourists got there. George Beaumont and Henry Disney's New Tour thro' England, published around 1768, for example, is a chorographic account of English counties (A to Z) which describes 'whatever is curious [...] including [...J Seats of the Nobility and Gentry', and includes with its text a 'new map of England' detailing the locations of the country seats listed in the text.26 Following the New Tour thro' England, in 1785 Daniel Paterson published his hugely successful British liinerary which offered 'a new and accurate delineation and description of the direct and principal Cross Roads of Great Britain', and which included location details (the roads to take and distances to) of perhaps most of Britain's country houses. 27 Similarly, travel texts like Arthur Young's A Six Weeks Tour through the Southern Counties of England and Wales (1768), A Six Months Tour through the North of England (1770) and A Farmer's Tour through the East of England (1771) all describe country houses in considerable detail, though in the two later texts, these descriptions are no longer incorporated in the main narrative of the text but are relegated to (often very long) footnotes. 28 Clearly there was some equivocation about how useful or interesting it was to mix country house touring with informative travel writing. In his Six Months Tour through the North of England (1770), Young was forced to respond to criticism that books like his should not include so much detail about visiting country houses, alongside their more serious agricultural narratives. He replied to this criticism with the argument that he wished to offer his text to the general reader, not just the farmer, and as these readers 'quickly turn over every leaf that concerns husbandiy, and dwell alone on the description of houses and gardens', then he saw no reason why he couldn't include both (though this time keep them separate).29 As both chorographic texts like Beaumont and Disney's, and subject-specific travel writing like Young's, included descriptions of country houses, the country house ' A New Tour thro' Englan4 Perform 'd in the Summers of 1765, 1766, and 1767, by George Beaumont and Capt. Henry Disney (London: for Thomas Palmer, [1768]). 272 vols (London: for Carington Bowles, 1785) The British Itinerary ran to 18 further editions. 28 (London: for J. Nicoll, 1768); 4 vols (London: for W. Strahan, 1770); 4 vols (London: for W. Strahan, W Nicoll, 1771). Young, Six Months Tour through the North, I, xi-xii. He reiterates this argument in The Farmer's Tour, 1, xxi: 'that each subject may be unmixed with the other, I have thrown all such descriptions into notes, that they may not interrupt the mere farming reader'.

152 151 was a text even before the home tourist set off on his or her travels. Moreover, as poetry such as Pope's 'Epistle to Burlington' suggests, there existed a long-standing relationship between country houses and writing, and the houses themselves were not merely represented by a map or a description, but as Pat Rogers has also suggested, these houses were texts themselves, created in order to be read. Considering Horace Walpole's villa at Strawberry Hill, for example, Rogers notes how the layout of its rooms was designed by Walpole 'to make definitive statements about himself and his own mode of living by the way space was allocated', in a sense pointing out that Walpole constructed his villa in the same way that one might write a story about oneself. 3 Lee Morrissey reiterates this idea and suggests that Walpole's villa was constructed in response to an eighteenth-century notion of 'association architecture', which meant that Walpole hoped viewers of his house would be able to read what they saw as they travelled through it. 3 ' Thus, not only were houses built to be seen, but houses were also built to be read like texts. In this context, then, the guidebook which a country house produced both as an aid to touring and to represent the house after the experience, is a text upon a text; it's the written version of a house already 'written'. Looking at examples of guidebooks from country houses brings together the social history of touring with the writing of touring by introducing discourses which travellers take up in their own accounts of visits to country houses. Guidebooks are interesting texts as their purpose seems multi-faceted: in the first place, these books are step-by-step companions for tourists, guiding their way as they take a tour of the house; in the second place, the direction which they give for movement through the house, and the description of the spaces which they build up, represent the space to sucl an extent that reading the guidebook takes the reader on a virtual tour of the house itself, without actually having to be there. In the guidebook published by Wilton House, A Description of the Pictures, Bustos, Basso Relievos, and other Curiosities, in the Earl ofpembroke 's House at Wilton, first published in 1764, the text suggests that its purpose is to guide the tourists through room after room, drawing attention along the way to what it is the tourist should be looking at. 32 Following the text as a map, the tourist receives a kind of instruction with the description: 3 Pat Rogers, Hacks and Dunces: Pope, Swift and Grub Street (London and New York: Methuen, 1972: repr. 1980), Morrissey, From the Temple to the Castle, 110 For further discussion of association architecture see John Archer, 'The Beginnings of Association in British Architectural Aesthetics', in The Past as Prologue: Essays to Celebrate the Twenty-Fifth Anrnversaiy of ASECS (New York: AMS, 1995), d edn (Salisbury by E. Easton for Henry Coward at Wilton House, 1779). Further references are cited parenthetically in the text.

153 In the Gallery of this Hall, are five Suits of Annour That in the Middle was William Earl of Pembroke 's, the other four, and the Parts of five more Suits in the opposite part of the Hall, were taken from the noble Persons, on the following Occasions [etc.] (35) In this passage, the tourist is not only given particular information about the things in the room, but the guide also suggests that it and the tourist are looking at the room in the same way. 'That in the middle' is a curious directing phrase that relies on the assumption that the tourist is standing in the room, text in hand, looking in the right direction, and reading from the guidebook at the same time. The text, in fact, requires a double obligation of the tourist to be both a careful reader and a careful looker, and its guiding narrative seems to expect the tourist to respond to direction in the same way that he or she might have responded to direction from a guide such as the housekeeper. Later in the guidebook, the text becomes more explicitly instructional. Following the text en route to the New Dining Room, readers are told, 'Begin the Pictures with that opposite the Door as you enter, from Top to Bottom, on your Left-Hand' (59); and as they exit the Colonnade Room they are promised, 'I don 't think it amiss to acquaint the Curious, that in the next two Rooms are some Capital Paintings by the most Eminent Masters' (108). Thus the text of the Wilton guidebook is didactic. Not only does it tell the tourist where to look (start on the left), but also how to look; the paintings in the room after the Colonnade Room, they are told, are 'capital'. In discussing the guidebooks produced for Stowe, Carole Fabncant argues that this kind of 'domestic tourist literature' was didactic because it taught eighteenthcentury tourists how to consume the space of the country house (and hence the status of the ruling classes) in a controlled and careful way (267). Such guidebooks, she suggests, cautiously guided the tourist's gaze to the things that the owner of the house wanted them to see (antiquities, great paintings, etc.), and therefore carefully controlled the image of the house that the tourist would receive and take away. The guidebooks for Wilton corroborate this thesis to an extent. The guide discussed above was republished in 1769 as a quarto edition, repackaged to include 25 illustrations, and with a foreword by James Kennedy. 33 This deluxe version of the Description includes a list of subscribers that reads as a who's who of eighteenth-century history ('Mr. Banks [...j, Mr. Gilpin, [...] Mr. Johnson, [...], Mr. William Pitt'). If the first Description acted as 152 A Description of the Antiquities and Curiosities in Willon House. illustrated with twenty-five Engravings of some of the Capital Statues, Bustos and Relievos. In this Work are Introduced the Anecdotes and Remarks of Thomas Earl of Pembroke, who collected these Antiquities now first pubhshed from his Lordship's MSS (Salisbury: by E. Easton, for R. Horsfield [et al], 1769).

154 153 an instructional, directional guide, then even though the text of the quarto edition is the same, the purpose of the book suggests an altogether different intention. The first guide suggests by its price (half a crown) and presentation its intention to guide visitors around the house like a map; the second guide, however, suggests by its price and presentation something more than simple mapping: the inclusion of its 25 plates, in fact, replaces the need to be in the house at all. Discussing a similar deluxe edition of a guidebook for Blenheim, Fabricant suggests that such expensive guidebooks are a further exercise in public relations in that these books beautifully package the house as a collectable coffee-table book, offering, she implies, a slice of the house itself in the form of its expensive guidebook ( ). Such books, therefore, are both maps of the house (a tour route), but they are also more than a guide, being a memento, a souvenir, or perhaps an aide memoire. For the tourist who visited Wilton house in the late eighteenth centwy, reading the Wilton guide books after the tour would enable the reader to reconstruct the tour they made by using the text (and illustrations) to trigger their memoly. Furthermore, for a reader who had not visited Wilton house (and those on the Earl's subscription list perhaps had not), reading the text of the guide enables one to, in part, construct a virtual tour of the house; a reader is able to know what is in the house, what order it comes in and, perhaps most importantly, how the space is organised in terms of which room follows which. In Michel de Certeau's chapter on 'Tours and Maps' in The Practice of Everyday Life, the language which these guidebooks use can be compared with a process of describing space which suggests always relies on two different modes: mapping space - 'on your left there is' - and touring space - 'as you turn left you will see'[my examples]. 34 In these ways of describing space, the former produces a tableau, and the latter, a 'movement', or a 'spatializing action', which maps space y way of articulating a route through it. Suggesting that these ways of describing space combine to produce 'the structure of the travel story', but that tours have been gradually replaced by maps as a way of producing a fixed tableau of geographical knowledge, Certeau highlights how describing space chorographically - 'as you turn left you will see' - produces not a stable picture of space, but a story of space which, unlike the map, does not fix space as something which everyone would see in the same way. Consequently, guidebooks such as that produced by Wilton House, though they adopt both a mapping Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. by Steven Rendell (Berkeley: University of Los Angeles, 1984; repr. 1998), Bernhard Klein has also made reference to de Certeau's explanation of describing space in relation to chorography in Maps and the Writing of Space in Ear'y Modem England and Ireland (B asin gstoke: Palgrave, 2001), 142.

155 154 and a touring approach to their description of space, because they combine the two, still only produce one story of space. in contrast to Fabricant's reading of the guidebook as didactic and directional, then, Certeau's story of producing space creates room for the explorer of space - in this case, the country house tourist - to also read the guide book as only one story, and to pick and choose from its direction by ignoring its directing tone, and becoming their own agent in the space of the house. Guidebooks, then, negotiate a relationship between two different modes of description that are important to discourses of movement through space. In the first place guidebooks are chorographic; the text they employ works to map a space, or to build up a representation of space by moving through it progressively and descriptively. In the second place, guidebooks are more than simply guides, they are also mementos and aides memoire; the text of the tour both recollects the house (and the touring experience) and replaces or substitutes these things as well. As a map of a space, guidebooks use a chorographic style to double as a working guide. As John Eisner explains in relation to the guidebooks produced in the 1 830s for John Soane's museum in Lincoln Inn Fields, '[IJn describing the house, they enact an itinerary through it, taking the reader on a carefully orchestrated journey', and this journey is both real (if you are standing in the house with the guidebook in your hand) or virtual (if you are imagining or re-imagining the space as you read the text).35 As chorography, the Wilton guidebooks and others like them, use a tradition of writing space that relies on movement and mapping to structure a description. Andrew McRae describes chorography as 'a perambulation of the land, on which the reader is guided by a personable narrator', and Barbara Shapiro further explains chorographic writing by relating it to an early modern culture of writing fact in which local geography, topography, antiquity and natural history were represented in one kind of text 36 What is interesting about chorography, however, is that even where space is mapped - 'on the left there is' - even such a static description of a space, as Barbara Shapiro has argued, relies upon an eyewitness report of what is there in order to present factual information about a space, which only is fact, because someone has seen it and reported of its existence. Shapiro points out that important works of chorography like Camden's " John Eisner, 'A Collector's Model of Desire The House and Museum of Sir John Soane', in The Cu/hires of Collecting, ed. by John Eisner and Roger Cardinal (London: Reaktion Books, 1994), (158). Andrew McRae, 'The Peiipatetic Muse: Internal Travel and The Cultural Production of Space in Early Modern England', in The Countiy and the City Revisited: England and the Politics of Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), (46). Barbara Shapiro, A Culture of Fact: Englan (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2000), chapter 3 'Discoujses of Fact: Chorography, Description and Travel Reporting', See also Klein, Maps and the Writing of Space,

156 155 Britannica and Stowe's Survey of London both emphasise the role of the narrator as eyewitness, just as travel writing in general relies on the notion of the eyewitness to guard against accusations of dishonesty or exaggeration. 37 But for country-house guidebooks, a chorographic style of description does not include an (explicit) narrating eye-witness; rather such texts point out what's there - 'on your left' - and rely upon the touring reader to use their eyes to confirm the existence and appearance of the things listed in the text; in other words, to choose to be directed by the guide, or to ignore it. Guidebooks, then, rely upon a different kind of eye-witnessing to other kinds of chorography, and their lack of a narrator in part corroborates Fabricant's reading of such texts in that they do not explicitly offer the opinion of one eyewitness, and they are the eyes through which landowners want tourists to see the house. Rather like requiring a special lens to see in a certain way (a Claude glass to see a sunset, perhaps, or a microscope to see tiny particles), a guidebook gives the countly house tourist a lens to see the house in a particular, rose-tinted light. However, in using a combination of mapping and touring chorographic description, a guidebook's particular way of looking is also just one story, and is not necessarily a story which a tourist viewing the house might choose to accept. Theonsing exhibition spaces, Ludmilla Jor4w has argued that even directed displays, complete with textual guides 'can never be read as a single text', because 'visitors to exhibitions cannot be treated as passive recipients of an ideological position' simply by 'going, looking, participating'. 38 Once inside the property, a tourist's experience of being in, looking at, and moving through space, is always singular, however directional the text tries to be. Guidebooks offered a story which eyewitnesses accepted or queried as they experienced the space. More significantly, however, tourists visiting country houses in the late eighteenth century often over-wrote the content of guidebooks or produced their own description of the space in a similar chorographic tradition. In her study of country house visiting, Esther Moir noted that 'a great part of the pleasure of touring country houses lay in passing judgement upon the architecture and criticizing the internal decor' because tourists 'felt no compunction in stating their views roundly', or, indeed, in taking issue with the claims of the house's own catalogue. 39 Touring Houghton Hall in 1756, Caroline Powys did allow the house's guidebook to represent her experience of touring the house. Addressing her journal as usual to her father, 'I shall bring you home ' Shapiro, A Culture of Fact, 'Objects of Knowledge: A Historical Perspective on Museums', in The New Museology (London: Reaktion Books, 1989), (3 2-3). The English Tourists (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964), 67 and 73.

157 156 a[n] [exact] catalogue, as I've taken the pains to copy a written one'; in the place of her usual detailed description of her experience of touring a house, we are told, is a laborious copy of the published catalogue. 40 But Powys was only 17 in 1756 and was perhaps uncertain of her ability to overwrite what the guidebook told her, but as her later journals testify, her own descriptions gradually add to, or even replace, any prescribed descriptions she was offered by a particular house. In 1781, in fact, in her 'Journal of a 2 Tour to Norfolk', Powys refers to her 1756 copy of the Houghton guidebook, and this time, produces an opinionated description of changes which the house has undergone in the space of 25 years ( ). Other tourists openly disregarded guidebooks or scoffed at their contents. When Hester Thrale toured Kedlestone Hall in 1774, for example, she took pleasure in describing how the guidebook put into her hand was inaccurate and overblown: 'here I read Claude Lorenze for Claude Lorraine, and here Mr. Johnson corrected some gross anachronism I forget what' (96). Like Powys returning to Houghton in 1786, Thrale produces her own description of the house to show how in reality the house did not live up to its official representation in the guidebook. So tourists visiting country-houses in the late eighteenth-century adopted the chorographic style of the guidebooks they bought, but they did not necessarily accept these guidebooks, handbooks or catalogues as texts to represent their experience of the space, but chose instead to adopt a chorographic descriptive style to write their own version of events. In the second part of this chapter, then, I will focus on the descriptions of country house tours by Walpole, Powys and others to suggest that when country-house tourists wrote about these spaces, their own eyes guided their writing. Looking and Writing In descriptions of country house touring, the chorographic mode that tourists used to represent the spaces they experienced makes constant reference to how they looked, and to how their eyes worked to take in the space. In these texts, eyes are often referred to as if they are somehow extra to the rest of the body; the eyes do the work, and tourists write about their eyes as if they act of their own accord, apart from the whole. As eyewitnesses representing space as they see it, the agency of each individual responding to the space becomes apparent through an empirical discourse that describes their own way 4 Powys, Passages from the Diaries, 7 with corrections from 'Norfolk,1756', British Lorary, Additional Manuscripts, [11]. Further references to Climenson's edition are cited parenthetica1y in the text.

158 of looking. At Wilton House in 1759, Powys, writes 'when you are at this building, the eye has still greater beauties to admire' (53); observing a grotto near Bristol, Arthur Young describes his party as having 'feasted our eyes with these objects of taste';4' at Radmore Hill, Byng admits 'my eyes were soon fatigued with (even) these beauties';42 and at Chatsworth, Thrale complains 'the cascade is too artificial to satisfy an eye' (92). In these accounts, eyes are described admiring, feasting, being unsatisfied, and flagging as they work to take in a thing or a space. On top of these seemingly independent eyes, tourists writing about the space of the country house regularly refer to what they have seen; how busy their eyes have been is often reflected in how they build up a description of a particular space. Poys' journals suggest that her eye often worked particularly hard to see everything, and her text responds to this thorough witnessing with an appropriate amount of detail. At Eastbury, for example, the seat of George Doddington, Powys' interest not only in the space, but also in the detail (colour and fabrics of the furniture) is explicit: Having ascended a grand flight of steps, you come under a Donc portico, whose pediment extends 62 feet, with pillars 46 feet high; from thence you enter a noble hall, adorn'd by statues and busts, the saloon painted olive, the ornaments, as the cornice, &c., rich gilt; the sofas in this apartment are very fine tapestry [.] On one side the saloon is the common dining and drawing room, on the other the best drawing-room, hung with and furnish'd with cut velvet; the state bed-chamber, hung with crimson velvet furniture; the same, the bed with gold, and lin'd with a painted India satin; the dressing room hung with green satin. (63) Not only is this account attentive to cetain details, but also the pace of the chorographic writing replicates a reasonably careful examination, and thorough observation. A similar way of writing is found in Henrietta Pye's A Short Account of the Principal Seats and Gardens In and About Twickenham, published in 176O.' Describing Mrs. Pritchard's house, like Powys, she includes details of finishes and fabrics: The front of the house is very pretty, being covered with Gravel; the best Room (with a handsome Bow-Window) forms a very uniform Appearance: This Apartment is hung with India Paper, dispos'd in a most elegant Taste. It represents a Chinese Pavilion, supported with Lilac Pillars. (43-44) By contrast, Walpole's description of the houses he has visited suggests quite a different way of looking. In 1760, for example: 'Ditchley, Lord Litchfield's, built by last Lord, 157 Young, A Six Week's Tour through the Southern Counties of England and Wales, BYng, 'Tourto the West 1781', ID,!, 1-65(16). There are many similar, and very long, chorographic descriptions of the furniture, finishes and fabrics of a house in Powys' journals. See for example, her description of Fawley Court in 1771, (London. [n. pub], 1760). Further references are cited parenthetically in the text.

159 very good house except Salon, which too small, bad carved figures, painted olive; chimney & a buffet, each in a corner'. 45 In this description, Walpole's way of writing is fast-paced, abbreviated and quick to judge. It suggests a rapid but focused way of looking which does not linger, but which hones in expertly on the things that interest him. Similarly at Drayton, the pace of Walpole's description of the gallery is exhausting: At the top of the House is a trunk gallery wainscotted & hung with pictures as follow; Charles the hardy, Duke of Burgundy, but qure: Henry Duke of Beaufort; Mary of Modena; Charles 2d by Hanneman, and James 2d by Honthurst, when boys; James Lord Dursley, afterwards Earl of Berkeley; old view of Drayton by Carter; D of Westminster to the river; Drayton I beleive [sic] was painted by Burghers. Mary, Mother of King William, by Hanneman; Prince Elector, eldest Son of Queen of Bohemia, not a bad picture; view of Tangier by Dankers. Opposite to the windows are looking glasses; in the middle of that side is the Duchess of Norfolk's closet, the floor inlaid with her and Sir John's cyphers, a looking glass in the cieling [sic]. [IJn a small closet within this two pieces of painted glass, & about the House are many fragments more. At the end on one side is a small bedchamber, & opposite to it a closet; in the former is a portrait of the Countess wife of Barnabus Earl of Thomond. On the ground floor is another good apartment; the Drawing room is wainscotted in the taste of James 1st his time. The bed in the next room is of green velvet paned with beautifull needlework, & cost eight hundred pounds. (57) In this passage, Walpole's description of the paintings which hang in the gallery is fastpaced, abbreviated and focused; his pace slows a little as he describes the other things in the room (beds, closets, floor), and his detail does not suffer for the speed with which he seems to look at things and write them down. As in this passage he is listing paintings, the abbreviated nature of his description, and its pace, suggests a combination of mapping and cataloguing. Powys uses a similar abbreviated writing style in some of her later tours, her description of Mrs. Winniford's house at Marlow, for example: The drawing-room a white flock paper; the chairs and curtains lute-string, white ground, a faint stripe, and fringed. My lady's dressing-room octagon, the corners fitted up with the cleverest wardrobes in inlaid woods; their own bed the Dutch cord white dimity, Devonshire brown fringe, curtains and chairs the same; all over the house a thousand elegant neatnesses and contrivances. ( ) 158 Walpole, 'Journals of Visits to Country Seats, &c.', 26. Further references are cited parenthetically in the text A similar urge to list paintings from country houses is demonstrated by John Loveday's home tours which include an appended inventory of over 20<) records of paintings-seen in different houses. See Sarah Markham, John Loveday of Caversham : The Life and Tours of an Eighteen1h-Cen1uy Onlooker (Salisbury: Michael Russell, 1984),

160 As in this passage, and that of Walpole's before it, the abbreviated style of the writing betrays the detail it conveys to suggest that though the pen is quickly making short notes, the eye is nevertheless focussed to notice size, shape, colour and texture. This kind of writing suggests, therefore, that the eyes sweep the room for detail, rather than methodically moving around the space, to gradually compose a mapped description of the room. In these descriptions it is apparent that there is a quite specific relationship between looking and writing, and one which adopts both a mapping and touring approach to the chorographic style. Walpole and Pye map space by describing it in the present tense, and their descriptions are eyewitness statements that testi1' an at-the-time response to the space which they have experienced. Both of these writers use phrases like 'there is', and they replicate the style of writing found in country house guidebooks which similarly make references to how space is there in the present tense, unchanging and fixed in time. By contrast, Powys' text also uses a touring chorographic style, one which supplants 'there is' for 'you see', and thus her text addresses a reader - she explains early in her journals that her father is one of her readers - and her text puts the reader in her place in order to experience the things which she describes as a kind of virtual tour, as we see things as if through her eyes. In her first tour, 'Norfolk, 1756', a chorographic description of Mr. Spilman's house not only tours the interior of the property, but also excitedly follows her own footsteps over the threshold and inside: You ascend a flight of twenty-one steps, which, as they don't spread out as usual towards the bottom, seems as if you were mounting a perpendicular staircase; you enter a hail, striking from its strange dimensions, being five cubes of eighteen feet, so it's ninety feet long by eighteen! and might rather be termed a gallery. Besides this (as 'tis only one floor and no staircase), there is a saloon, library, two parlours, and three bed-chambers, all the offices and servants' rooms are underground. The chimney-pieces, tables, &c., are of green marble from Sweden; all the doors solid walnut-tree, off the estate, and every room paved with Ketton Stone. (7-8) This excitable description takes the reader straight into the house, rushing through the rooms, with just enough time to focus on the detail of the green marble. Lacking the kind of detail that Powys used to describe Eastbury, this chorographic approach nevertheless follows the tourist's own anticipatory entrance into the house, replacing description of movement with simple mapping once inside. A similar style of description is given of Caversham Lodge in 1776: [Y]ou enter a charming hall (lately new), the old hall now a very elegant library, which you go through to a breakfast-room adjoining the saloon, in both of which are many good pictures, but the drawing-room beyond the 159

161 saloon is one of the most pleasing apartments I ever saw, being fitted up with the English tapestry [...]. From this room you go through a pretty lobby into the eating-room, a very good one. (162) Again, this description walks th reader through the house, creating a route through the space, composing a picture of the sequence of rooms, and highlighting certain features on the way. As chorography, all three of these texts build up pictures of space by reporting what has been seen, and presennng this information as fact; that is, as something which was there at the time. Barbara Shapiro suggests that chorographic writing differs from travel writing in that '[t]he voyage or adventure mode [of travel writing] involved movement and time, whereas the chorographic was more static', and certainly this is true to an extent. 47 The chorographic descriptions of houses written by Walpole, Powys and Pye represent space in part as a tableau (like a photograph) because their descriptions scan space and represent what is there with a written testimony not unlike the impression taken from a rubbing, or the image burned onto photographic film. But at the same time, the representations of space given by these chorographic accounts do not sustain a metaphor of scanning, or benefit from comparison with photography, because whilst such accounts present space as fact ('there is'), they nevertheless draw attention to the fact that this space has been looked at, and that the eye has moved about the room in a certain way, selecting particular things to see and write about. Experiencing exhibition spaces, museologists have recently argued that people do not look in the same way, meaning that it cannot be assumed that 'our visual perception is somehow coherent, even objective [...], as if all that is necessary is to "see properly", without taking account of how complicated and problematic a process of "seeing" is'.48 Certainly from the differences between Powys' and Walpole's accounts it is clear that there is no way to 'see properly'. For Walpole, there is a sense of his eye darting about the room as if with an urgency to take in all that it can as fast as it can; in Powys' more carefully paced description, the reader gets a sense of space as it is moved through, with certain things (sofas, wallpaper, cornicing) highlighted for attention. Shapiro's definition of chorography as static, therefore, does not make sense for these descriptions of country house touring because these texts represent space as it is there, but crucially that space is represented by following a moving eye and a moving body, both of which pass across and through that space, matching movement with text as they go. 160 Shapiro, A Culture of Fact, 70. Peter Vergo, 'The Reticent Object', in The New Museology, 41-59(49).

162 161 Of course, the relationship between the eye, looking and travel writing has its origin in Enlightenment discourse, more specifically in Empiricism. Barbara Shapiro rightly argues that the 'eye-witness' was an important feature of travel writing because a traveller's claim to have seen something with his own eyes was tantamount to a verification of fact, or at least was as close as one could get to 'fact', and was certainly more reliable than rumour or hearsay. 49 More generally, eye-witnessing, or seeing, was the basis of much empirical philosophy, especially that of John Locke and George Berkeley, both of whom suggested that knowledge was built through sense-perception. In An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1689), Locke argued that at as the mind is a tabula rasa, then '[t]he senses at first let in particular ideas, and furnish the yet empty cabinet', and thus it is through sense-perception that knowledge is gained, reason learned, and the self constructed. 5 In A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge (1710), Berkeley argued that sense-perception was not merely about knowledge-gathering, but was experience itself. Margarita Bowen calls Berkeley's radical empiricism 'subjective idealism' as 'according to Berkeley's thoroughgoing empiricism, experience is the only reality'. 5' But with both versions of empiricism, senses are the means by which humans create experience, and for Locke, the eyes were the most important organs in the body because sight was the most valuable sense of all.52 In this philosophical climate, then, the emphasis given to the eye and to looking in accounts of country house tours makes sense. When tourists refer to their eyes as independent organs, they do so within an empirical discourse which understands that 'one' cannot see, as such, because there is no certain 'one' (a self), but only that which is forever under construction via sense-perception. In light of Berkeley's ideas of being and perception, experiencing the space of a country house, for example, is only possible whilst a person is standing in the room, once they leave, of course, the paintings, wainscoting, wallpaper and furniture no longer exist in their minds, but only in the mind of God. Writing what they see down as chorographic text, then, provided tourists with a record of experience that protected a memory of experience for later life, making a Shapiro, A Culture of Fact, 65 Shapiro acknowledges that eye-witness testimonies were not always believed, but suggests that early modem culture nonetheless rejected a 'thorougligomg scepticism'. For further discussion of seeing see Vision in Context: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives on Sight, ed. by Theresa Brennan and Martin Jay (London: Routledge, 1996) and James Elkin, The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing (London: Simon & Schuster, 1996). 5 John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, ed. by Roger Woolhouse (London: Penguin, 1997), 65. ' Margarita Bowen, Empiricism and Geographical Thought: From Francis Bacon to Alexander von Humboldt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, 145.

163 162 written picture lest the mental picture should evaporate in a Berkelean sense, or fade in a Lockean sense; even writing the experience of movement through space itself, like Powys ('you enter', etc.), so that it might be toured again, imaginatively, at a later date. Descriptions of countzy house tours, then, share with journal-writing an empirical discourse which relies upon sense-perception to build experience, and uses writing as a tool with which to support the knowledge of the space, and experience of travelling to see, for the future. Descriptions of country house tours, however, only take the empirical notion of passive sense-perception so far. For tourists in the late eighteenth century, though Lockean ideas about experience were still relevant, home tours and travel narratives reveal that looking at the space of a country house was not simply a passive experience, but was often about active participation, and imaginative interaction with the space of the house. 53 In the first place, country-house visiting and writing is active because it is curiosity that drives the tourist into the house, and once there, curiosity again that engages the eye to look and persuades the pen to write. Barbara M. Benedict describes how curiosity was an important part of empirical inquiry, and adds that the eye was always 'the paramount organ of curious perception' in early modem and eighteenthcentury culture.m In travel writing, curiosity was long understood to be a driving force for all kinds of travel, and Chloe Chard reports how one eighteenth-century cultural commentator, Lord Kames, stated that 'curiosity converts into a pleasure, the fatigues and even perils of travelling'. 55 For country house tounsts, curiosity is a given as it is why people crossed the threshold in the first place, but departing from Karnes' argument that curiosity depends upon novelty, country house tourists were not averse to seeing the same thing more than once. Powys, Walpole and Byng were all curious tourists who went back for a second look, perhaps to inspect houses which they knew to have been 'improved' or to have changed owner, but also simply because they simply wanted to look again. In fact, the most wearying thing about reading country house tour texts is the extent to which such narratives are the same; different houses, admittedly, but the same things pointed out: furniture, paintings, wall-hangings, etc. The " Bowen argues that Locke's ideas about empiricism were sustained throughout the eighteenth centuly, suggesting that the 'new empiricism' of Kant and Leibniz had a delayed impact in British and French society, Barbara M. Benedict, Cunosiiy: A Cu/lw-al History of Early Modem Inquiry (Chicago and London University of Chicago Press, 2001), 93. "Chloe Chard, Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour: Travel Writing and Imagznatve Geography (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), 85. From Kasnes, Elements of Criticism, 3 vols 'ondon and Edinburgh: for A. Millar, A. Kincaid and J. Bell, 1762), 1, 320. Powys returns to Wilton in 1776 (166) and Bletchingdon Park in 1789, explaining how the party 'had not been there since the alterations he [Mr. Annesley, the owner] has made' (238).

164 repetition of detail, especially in the journals of Caroline Powys, the seemingly endless description of the same things in different places, testifies less to curiosity driven by novelty, than curiosity driven, perhaps, by compulsion. In descriptions of country house tours, curiosity is an agency that cuts through the idea of passive sense-perception, but at the same time, it is also an agency which generates anxiety about how a person sees. Significantly, anxiety about curiosity in these kinds of texts is articulated along gender lines; of all the texts I have so far discussed in this chapter, only Powys and Pye refer to their curiosity, and do so in both guilty and defensive ways. Touring Christ Church college in Oxford, for example, Powys explains what it is that got her out of bed that morning: Thursday's morn had not many hours been visible before our sex's characteristic, as 'tis called, curiosity, made us, I must own, rather impatient to be traversing over the charming buildings of this fine city; and our breakfast repast was no sooner over than we got into our vehicle. (37) 'Owning' up to her driving force, Powys articulates a degree of guilt for her thirst to see. Henrietta Pye, on the other hand, explains not only her thirst to see country houses, but also her reason for writing nd publishing by suggesting that women need to learn from something: '[t}hese little Excursions being commonly the only Travels permitted to our Sex, & the only Way we have of becoming at all acquainted with the Progress of Arts' (vii). Pye's defence, then, suggests that as travel is something that people learn from, its driving force - curiosity - must be satisfied somehow if one is to learn anything at all. But is it really only the women who wrestle with guilt about curiosity? Barbara M. Benedict suggests that though curiosity in early modern/eighteenth-century England was a 'fashionable attitude', female curiosity was 'empiricism's underside', a dark force, or 'threatening ambition' when embodied in a woman. 57 Obviously related, however vaguely, to Eve's curiosity in the Garden of Eden, curiosity in women was not a virtue. For men, however, curiosity was a necessary force that drove them into foreign lands and dangerous terrain. Curious travellers and adventurers like James Cook and Mungo Park were lionized because they possessed a quality that enabled them to discover and describe roads made into new lands. But in descriptions of cou1tiy house tours, curiosity manifests as an anxiety not only along lines of gender, but also along gendered lines of taste. Nicholas Thomas points out that Johnson's definition of curiosity in his Dictionary (1755) was 'to be addicted to enquiry', and whilst inquiry is Benedict, Curiosity, 98, 121 and 2, respectively.

165 a healthy pursuit, a compulsion for repeated inquiries reveals a lack of self-control, or in Thomas' words, a 'giddy condition'. 58 In eighteenth-century discourse about taste, this potential for giddy curiosity is associated with detail, and particularly with a fascination for the small and tiny details of something, rather than its bigger, more aesthetically satisfying whole picture. Naomi Schor has argued that in this discourse, detail is the opposite of taste because, 'the detail blocks the dynamic rush of the Inagination, fatigues the eye, and in the end induces anxiety rather than the elevating pleasure of the Sublime'; and, moreover, that this detail is feminine because it is pejoratively associated with both ornament, and, conversely, the everyday, being 'rooted in the domestic sphere of social life presided over by women'. 59 For women writing about their movement through the space of the country house, repeatedly honing in on the detail of furniture, fabric, and finishes, unites a gendered discourse of curiosity, with a related discourse of taste to suggest that these women wrote silly descriptions of domestic detail with a compulsive eye which either unthinkingly churned out repetitive prose, or giddily, greedily wrote everything they saw without discernment. In her early journals, Powys explained that she wrote about her home travels in order to please her father and practise a way of writing travel as a kind of accomplishment. 60 In 1760, and whilst her ability to represent chorographically the contained spaces of country houses developed well, a visit to a citadel finds her out of her depth, and lost for a mode of cescnption which suits this site. Frustrated, she acknowledges the limits of her own accomplishments: But is it anything surprising the sex should amuse themselves with trifles when these lords of creation will not give themselves the trouble (in my conscience, I believe for fear of being outshone), to enlarge our minds by making them capable to retain those of more importance? (75) Having learned to write about the detail of country houses in a particular way, then, Powys acknowledges that her accomplishment is little more than a veneer, and her way of writing one which will forever leave her stranded on Hannah More's famous 'little 164 Nicholas Thomas, 'Licensed Curiosity Cook's Pacific Voyages', in The Cultures of Collecting, (124). Naomi Schor, Reading in Detail: Aesthetics and the Feminine (New York: Methuen, 1987), 19 and 4, respectively. 60 In the 'Plymouth Journal', 1760, Powys explained: 'If the rusticity of a dull pen, like a piece of rough marble, may be polish'd by exercise, then (as I've scribbled o'er much paper), may i in time, perhaps, have the honorary title of an expert journalist Here am I now commencing my fourth essay on our summer's rambles', BL, Additional MSS, 42165, 1.

166 165 elevation in her own garden' where, appropriately, she can make 'an exact survey of home scenes', but is ill-equipped to write about anything else.6' Labelling Powys' descriptions of country houses as an accomplishment, however, undermines the engagement which she and others had with both the space of the houses she saw, and the accounts she produced of her own movement through these spaces as part of her travelling. Ann Bermingham has described women's accomplishments at this time as a mode of expression which made women like Powys artistic, but not an artist; a 'consumer and reproducer' of culture, but neither a creator nor a producer. 62 Comparing accomplishment with connoisseurship, Bermingham suggests that 'the connoisseur used empirical judgement', having 'trained his eye so that he could authenticate and judge works of art', whereas the accomplished observer had an uncritical eye, which was incapable of such careful judgement. 63 Benningham's distinction, however, is not easily supported by descriptions of country house tours. In the first place, the kind of detail which Powys, Pye and other 'accomplished' women wrote was not only produced by women but, as I have already shown, was also produced by men like Arthur Young and Horace Walpole. These men were, in fact, connoisseurs in Bermingham's definition, engaged on 'antiquarian tours', and with an interest in other people's houses which, though often focussed on their collections of fine art, was equally as interested in the furniture, finishes and fabrics of a house as their female counterparts. Moreover, whilst country house touring brought out an interest in detail for both men and women, the writing of that detail can not be described as merely 'reproductive' for either gender. In all cases, viewing country houses, and recording these spaces in chorographic language meant that all tours and exercises in looking were their own. Moreover, repeated looking and writing at the countiy house encouraged Powys, Pye and Walpole alike to hone their observational skills, making them far from uncritical all-seers. Turning their habit of looking into an expert skill which encouraged them to adopt certain styles of writing from guidebooks, and also to select what write about for themselves, tourists like these represented both a confidence in their own good taste, and a practised knowledge of these kinds of spaces. Learning not only what to like, but also what to write about, descriptions of country house tours indicate that tourists like Powys and Walpole honed their ways of looking in order to develop critical and discerning eyes. Supporting this notion is the 61 Hannah More, Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education, as quoted by Ann Bermingham in 'The Aesthetics of Ignorance: The Accomplished Woman in the Culture of Connoisseurship', Oxford Art Journal, 16 (1993), 3-20 (14). 62 1b,d 7.

167 fact that one of the most recurring phrases of these texts is the statement that something is 'worth seeing'. For Caroline Powys, learning to look with discernment takes time, and her early journals shy away from opinion, going only so far as to express the odd sense of disappointment. At Chatsworth, for example, in 1759 she nervously admits, 'I must own [it] does not quite answer what report had taught me to expect' (28). By the time she visits Buistrode, the seat of the Duchess of Portland in Buckinghamshire in 1769, however, her opinion is much more confident: 'This place is well worth seeing, a most capital collection of pictures, numberless and other curiosities, and works of taste in which the Duchess has displayed her well known ingenuity' (120). As Powys' confidence increases, 'worth seeing' is further qualified with confidently added adjectives of approval. Visiting Mawley, the seat of Sir Walter Blount in 1771, Powys writes that '[t]he library, eating-room, and large drawing-room all good', concluding that Lady Blount 'seems to have everything very clever' (139). Such confident and concise opinion suggests that, by 1769, Powys has learned a way of looking which understands what 'worth seeing' means and, moreover, has learned a way of writing which reflects her developing understanding of what is good taste. Rather more confident in matters of taste, the country-house tour journals of Hester Thrale and John Byng suggest that not only is 'worth seeing' a statement of approval, but also a statement about their own confidence in choosing what to see. Where Caroline Powys sometimes appears to look at everything, Thrale and Byng not only choose what they see, but also choose what they deem worthy of recommendation. Describing Hawkestone, the home of Sir Rowland Hill, in 1774, Thrale is evangelical about the house's qualities: 'this is a place which should be seen, and when it is seen is sure to be admired' (99); with a more underwhelmed tone, Byng writes of Dunnington Park: 'the house is no bad house, but not worth the getting off a horse to see'. Thus Powys, Thrale, and Byng temper the curiosity that drives them into houses with discernment, and insist that the act of seeing is not driven by a 'giddy condition', nor is the act of writing merely a repetitive accomplishment, but is shrewd, confident and earnestly reported. What tourists see, and what they approve of, is a matter of choice, but once inside the house, descriptions of country houses tours further emphasise that looking itself is an active, not passive, employment, often to the extent that there is an emotional or imaginative interaction with the space of the house. For the most part, emotional b1d., 14. Byng, 'A Tour in the Midlands 1789', 17), II, (76).

168 responses to the space of a country house are not dramatic; there is no weeping, fainting or trembling in front of great paintings or fine examples of wallpaper, but tourists writing about visiting country houses do, nevertheless, report when they have been 'struck' by a particular space. 65 Visiting Castle Howard in 1772, for example, Horace Walpole writes: 'I was infinitely struck & surpnzed with the first view of Castle Howard from the new road' (72); Caroline Powys describes being 'much struck by' Broughton Hall in 1798 (303); and Hester Thrale explains how her ancestral seat at Liewenny 'struck me extremely' (101). Being 'struck', then, suggests that a tourist's response to a space was somehow jolted out of a usual way of seeing, nqt quite an assault on the senses (within a discourse of the sublime), but nevertheless a nudge during the experience of looking which registers a degree of awe, and an acknowledgement that a space has an effect on the senses, and is not simply absorbed by them. Similarly, country houses are often described as 'pleasing', the Queen's Palace in Windsor Castle, for example has a 'particularly pleasing' hall and staircase for Powys (116), and in the same way, looking eyes are 'satisfied' (or not) by what they see; at Kedlestone Thrale seeks, but does not find, a 'pleasing disposition of well-conthved apartments' (96). Similar to being 'struck', being pleased or satisfied by what they see suggests that country house tourists registered not just how their senses were put to work on a space, but also how that space subsequently made them feel. Beyond feeling, one tourist even registered an imaginative response to a space. Byng, for example, writes about how seeing country houses gave him the opportunity to dream. Walking in the gardens of Blenheim in 1787, he writes about imagining a life of pastoral bliss: I expanded my lungs, and stretched my legs, hearing the eight hour strike as I came near the house. Oh! that the duke wou'd lend me a lodge in the park, and that I were in a situation to possess it: I shou'd live as long as old Parr - for then my nerves wou'd steady, my mind wou'd quiet; and every mom shou'd I wake to happiness For Byng, then, such dreaming registers an imaginative and an emotional response to the space of the country house, confirming that looking (and sense-perception) is never merely passive, but is also responsive, creative and is even occasionally susceptible to fantasy Chloe Chard in Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour explains how tourists visiting Italy would have these kinds of emotional responses to certain things, especially violent paintings, Byng, 'A Tour in South Wales 1787', TV, I, (327).

169 168 Time and Money Descriptions of country houses reveal that tourists visiting these spaces described both the way they moved through space, and the way they looked, as a way of representing their own engagement with the space, and in order to express their own opinion of it. For them, looking was a way of seeing, and a way of going; and as John Berger famously argued, 'seeing [...J is not a question of mechanically reacting to stimuli [...] we only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice'. 67 For eighteenth-century travel writing, as Baretti's decision to see Salisbury cathedral illustrated at the beginning of this chapter, looking was understood to be an act of choice s well as something of an empirical obligation. Descriptions of country house tours articulate a double responsibility of empirical obligation and choice because they negotiate a way of writing which is chorographic (the eye empirically scanning the space), but also reactive and opinionated. Theorising how we look, Berger draws a comparison between the eye and the camera and concludes: 'The camera showed that the notion of time passing was inseparable from the experience of the visual [...]What you saw depended on where you were when. What you saw was relative to your position in time and space'. 68 In descriptions of country house tours, chorographic writing suggests that scanning the space with your eye and writing down what you see is very much like pointing a camera and taking a picture. In the final part of this chapter, then, firstly I want to consider one way in which tourists chose to look, and secondly, how time mattered to looking at and writing down movement through the space of the country house. One significant way in which this kind of travel writing registers choice concerns matters of taste. Descriptions of country house tours are particularly concerned with the space of the house in terms of taste and cost, and countly house t9urists like Horace Walpole and Samuel Johnson constantly weigh up whether cost appropriately matches taste, or whether the former outshines the latter. Walpole's text frequently refers to good or bad taste, and how much owners paid to create their homes. At Kew, Walpole expertly tallies up how much the Prince of Wales and others spent on improving the house. Reaching a round figure of 30,000 he adds that, however, '[t]here is little invention or Taste shown' (23). Similarly at Woodcote in 1764, Walpole's summary of taste and cost is cutting and concise: Woodcote, Lord Baltimore's: The present Lord has laid out in making it what he called French, that is the most tawdry house in the 670 Berger, Ways of Seeing (London: Penguin, 1972), 8. Ibid., 18.

170 universe & the most ridiculous. He then determined to sell it. It was put up to auction & bought in, June 28th 1764, at (61) In this passage, Walpole's comment expresses a degree of condescension as he scoffs at the Lord's false taste, and is reminiscent of Pope's 'Epistle to Burlington': 'Something there is more needful than Expence, / And something previous ev'n to Taste - 'tis Sense' 69 In his descriptions of countiy houses from his tour of Wales in 1774, Samuel Johnson is equally condescending about false taste, describing Kedlestone as 'very costly but ilicontrived [sic]' and 'there seemed in the whole more cost than judgment'.7 Similarly at Shavinton Hall, Johnson is offended that its owner 'showd [sic] the place with too much exultation' (34), and thus did not recognise how he ought to match promotion with good taste. Thus Walpole and Johnson's texts both articulate a discourse of taste that takes pleasure in the recognition of good taste, but takes an equal amount of pleasure (and perhaps more) in the recognition of false taste, particularly where an owner has laid out much money trying to buy what they do not understand. As such, then, these two country house tours confirm eighteenth-century scepticism about the relationship between taste, wealth and breeding which cultural commentators like Joseph Addison and Richard Steele in the early decades of the century debated in coffee houses and periodicals, and which in the later decades, continued to be an anxious subject as those with 'no legitimate claim on it', in terms of class, nevertheless tried to buy their way into it because they had the money, if not the breeding. 7' John Brewer argues that the question of whether taste could be bought was a matter of debate because of a burgeoning consumer culture where 'money rather than privilege became the chief currency'. 72 Brewer's reading of eighteenth-century culture, then, suggests that tourists like Walpole and Johnson were sceptical about new wealth and the opportunity to consume, and consequently this idea further questions Fabncant's reading of country house tour literature as consumerist propaganda which turned 'travelers and curiosity Alexander Pope, 'Epistle IV. To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington', from Moral Essays in The Poems of Alexander Pope: A One Volume Edition of the Twickenhain Pope, ed. by John Butt (London: Routledge, 1965; repr. 1992), (589, lines 4 1-2). 70 Samuel Johnson, 'A Journey into North Wales in the Year 1774', in Dr Johnson and Mrs Thrale 's Tour in Wales 1774, ed. by Adrian Bristow (Ciwyd: Bridge Books, 1995), (33). Further references are cited parenthetically in the text. 71 Recently, Robert W. Jones has discussed taste and its relationship with class and politeness, arguing that in the later decades of the eighteenth century, increased consumption and the rise of the merchant classes, generated anxiety about what taste meant once it was no longer a badge of distinction, but, more frequently, simply a signifier of wealth. In Gender and the Formation of Taste in Eighteenth-Century Britain: The Analysis of Beauy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), John Brewer, The Pleasures of the Imagination: English Culture in the Eighteenth-Century (London: Harper Collins, 1996), 92.

171 seekers into consumers of other people's property' (261). Crucially, the descriptions of countly house tours produced by Walpole and Johnson suggest a resistance to being seduced by what they see; the detail which Walpole includes about cost and building suggests a real interest in the work behind the scenes of the show-house (no doubt because he was also constructing his own show-house at Strawberry Hill), and a knowing opinion that throwing money at a space did not immediately make it tasteful. Rather than being passive consumers of the space of the country house, then, the travel texts produced by Walpole and Johnson suggest that instead of being seduced by what they see, they prefer to own what they see as a matter of opinion and good judgement. Joseph Addison explained in the Spectator that 'A Man of Polite Imagination' could cultivate 'a kind of Property in every thing he sees'; for Walpole and Johnson (and others), looking with a critical eye, and recording their opinion, was an act of resistance to the idea that taste could simply be bought. 73 Detailing the things that they see, and adding to this empirical viewing a knowledge of prices and an understanding of the contemporary debate about taste, tourists like Walpole and Johnson were able to reclaim taste for the privileged few, snatching it back from the grabbing hands of those who did not understand it, and producing a narrative about this act of recognition which validated their own superior knowledge. As the question of taste kept discerning tourists on their toes in the space of the country house, the issue of how far tourists were consumers as well as lookers is further complicated by the question of time. Fabncant has argued that tourists were encouraged to 'rely on appearances and fleeting surfaces, on sights that could be apprehended in a single glance' so that a house owner could control how these visitors consumed his space and possessions: 'the visitors' scrutiny of his possessions was [encouraged to be] only a fleeting glance rather than a lengthy, devouring glare, which might be interpreted as making a perpetual claim on his riches' (260). Fabncant's argument is not supported by descriptions of country house tours, however, as many of these texts suggest that looking was not simply a matter of speed. Rather, what mattered was that time spent looking was tailored to suit both the way a tourist chose to see the space, and the way the tourists wanted to record their experience of the tour. When writing about the experience of a country house tour, most tourists chose to write in a way that would reflect the way they looked, not only by adopting a chorographic style which represented chosen parts of the space (and re-enacted the tour route), but also by choosing a pace and style which registered an appropriate amount of looking time. 170 As quoted by Brewer in Pleasures of the Imagination,

172 171 For those tourists who described spending hours, and not minutes, looking, declaring the time-scale of their seeing was an act of resistance to the notion of the careless tourist. Powys and Byng, for example, both emphasise in their tours that the amount of time they gave to a particular space, was gauged appropriately. At Mount Edgecombe in 1760, Powys writes that 'more than five hours, I think, we spent at my Lord's, admiring its several beauties'; and after this lengthy 'scheme of pleasure' she then reports how her party moved onto 'the place we were next to see' (73) without pausing to take a breath. Byng is similarly generous with time in his observation of Blenheim: 'After tea, I betook myself to the pleasures of Blenheim Park; and therein did I sit, walk, moralize, and criticize for 3 hours'. 74 As both texts suggest, hours spent looking are hours well spent when the observation is justified, and the seeing pleasurable. Powys and Byng both stay looking either because they are enjoying what they see (the 'pleasures' of Blenheim) or because there is a lot to see (the 'several beauties' of Mount Edgecombe). The time they choose to give to such visits is leisurely in that they have the time to spend, and they choose to give it, but lengthy looking was not necessarily an indication of having nothing better to do. As Powys' description of her visit suggests, immediately they finished looking at Edgecombe they moved on to somewhere else, implying less a leisurely touring experience than a carefully calibrated, time controlled experience. Similarly, Byng's 3 hours at Blenheim are not indulgent. In the gardens of the estate, Byng describes how he takes himself first to see the kitchen garden, '(for I love the inspection of a kitchen garden)', suggesting by 'inspection', that his way of looking is to scrutinise, just as earlier he wrote that he 'criticized' his 3 hours of looking away. For Byng and Powys, as for Walpole and Johnson, pleasure was to be had in looking intently, examining, and finding fault, just as pleasure was also to be found in seeing things which accorded with the tourist's sense of good taste, and gave them the opportunity to exercise their own knowledge and superiority. Scrutinising, giving time, and debating details were therefore all methods of staking a claim on the space of the house by writing their own knowledge into the story of their movement through its spaces. Not all tourists looked with care, however, or gave long hours to their ways of seeing. On the other side of the touring experience, Horace Walpole, not as tourist, but home owner, reported how visitors to both his father's country house, Houghton Hall, and his own house, Strawberry Hill, sometimes sped through these spaces without care. At Houghton Hall in 1761, for example, the tourists are irresponsible 'seers': 74 Byng, 'A Tour in South Wales 1787', 77), 1, (322)

173 A party arrived [...] to see the house, a man and three women in nding dresses, and they rode post through the apartments - I could not huriy before them fast enough - they were not so long in seeing for the first time, as I could have been in one room to examine what I knew by heart. I remember formerly being often diverted with these kinds of seers - they come, ask what such a room is called [...] write it down, admire a lobster or a cabbage in a market-piece, dispute whether the last room was green or purple, and then hurry to the inn for fear the fish should be overdressed.75 Again at Strawberry Hill in 1783 he reported, 'We have swarms of French daily [...]. Three came to see this house last week, and walked through it literally while I wrote eight lines of a letter, for I heard them go up the stairs and heard them go down exactly in the time I was finishing no longer a paragraph'. 76 In both letters, Walpole reports how tourists looked quickly and without care, but also how they focussed in on particular things to observe (a lobster, a cabbage, the colour of the walls), seemingly without rhyme or reason. Principally, of course, Walpole is offended by these tourists' lack of interest in his homes, but his particular irritation seems to be that these tourists give no consideration to how there might be a relationship between looking, time and writing. As French tourists could speed through his house in the time it took him to wnte a paragraph of his correspondence (no mean feat), so other tourists at Houghton Hall wrote down random details to mark what they had seen, even when they hadn't taken the time to see anything worthwhile at all. Walpole recognises that what is recorded not only reflects what has been seen, but also reflects time spent looking; his irritation stems, therefore, from the fact that tourists do not give appropriate time to his house. Moreover, because tourists give the impression that they understand the rules of correct procedure - stopping to write something down, however random or trivial, at least registers that they know what they ought to do - Walpole recognises th4t tourists, however hard he scripts their movement through the space of his house with linking rooms and guidebooks, can always resist his attempts at controlling the way they should look. As these tourists would have left Walpole's house with cryptic references to a few hurriedly noted items and not a careful chorography of their movements through the space of the house, the habit of writing space is also revealed to be a habit that despite being a recognised mode of production, is not automatically produced by everyone, but only those who choose to take the time. 172 Horace Walpole to Montagu, March From The Yale Edition of Horace Walpole 's Correspondence, ed. by W. S. Lewis, 48 vols (London and New Haven: Yale University Press, ), IX, Walpole to Mann, 30 July 1783, Ibid, XXV, 423.

174 173 Walpole's ideal tourists were Powys and Byng. Both visited Strawberry Hill at some stage in their touring careers, but Walpole would've appreciated their touring ability because when they toured country houses, they did so carefully, and wrote to match the way they explored and looked. Visiting Famham Castle in 1782, for example, Byng wrote about how he organised his tour of the space: 'I survey'd every part of the palace. My first enquiry was after the old kitchen and the famous cooking utensils I had heard of there'. 77 Here, then, Byng explicitly indicates his chorographic way of touring, as not only did he survey the place himself, but he also wrote a survey of the place: 'The hail is very large, the chapel neat, and some of the lodging rooms commodious. - The long gallery is furnish'd with modern frippery, as tambour frames, &c., (proving that the petticoat rules the cassock,) [sic]'. 78 Byng's (misogynist) text is perhaps not the most organised of chorography, but the approach he applies to his description nevertheless covers the spaces he moved through with an abbreviated record of mapped space, and a qualitative account of all that he witnessed. By comparison, Powys' skill for writing chorography generally represents a lengthy experience of exploring, and a practised way of looking. Her ability to build up a space in text with careful pace and detail reflects her often painstaking movement through the space of a house. A description of Fawley Court, visited in 1771, for example, indicates her willingness to notice and record certain detail: 'This room [the drawing room] leads to the eating-room, in which the colour of the stucco painted of a Quaker brown' (146). Noting the colour of the stucco in the room beyond the one in which she implies she is standing, it is not clear how far Powys herself ventured into the eating-room to notice the colour; she could, in fact, have simply peered through the door and scribbled it down. Despite this uncertainty about movement, Powys' description represents if not painstaking 1ookin, deft looking - certainly she knows how to see, and what to look at in order to compose a picture of space highlighted with colour and texture. As time had a bearing on how carefully tourists chose to go and see it was also an important factor in their efforts to produce these touring experiences as narratives. How tourists actually recorded their viewing and their movement through the space of the country house is not certain. Walpole suggested that tounsts wrote as they went, scribbling in a notebook as they passed through the rooms, and his own tours corroborate this idea as their abbreviated style often suggests that they are nothing more Byng, 'Ride into the West 1782', TD, I, (74). Ibia

175 than lists produced whilst in the house. Clearly, however, neither Byng nor Powys wrote only in situ; the detail that they used, and the length to which, in particular, Powys went to reflect her movements through the house, indicates that brief notes taken at the time were perhaps expanded upon at a later date. In 1787, for example, Powys visited Bath for six weeks, and whilst there recorded in her journal the visit she made to Strawberry Hill in 1785: N. B. - I forgot, in the year 1785, to set down our having been to see Mr. Walpole's at Strawberry Hill; but I found a memorandum of many curious pictures I had seen there, and some other things [...] The most beautiful inlaid marble chimney-piece. Fine old deif. Cardinal Wolsey's red hat. On a toilet are the combs of Queen Elizabeth, Mary, Queen of Scots, and that King Charles used for his wig. A small clock in the library which belonged to Anne Boleyn; a curious picture of flowers done in feathers; a chair of a high priest. Some ebony chairs, six hundred years old, so hard nothing can penetrate them; cane bottoms. Four drawings of Madame de Grignan's castle in Provence; Johanah's chair, five hundred years old, made of the Glastonbuiy thorn, and numbers of curiosities in cabinets, that we hardly had time to see one quarter of them. ( ) This 'memorandum' of her visit to Strawberry Hill is quite different from the chorographic style that represents many of her other visits to country houses, suggesting therefore, that this was the kind of note she took whilst in the house, and then used to expand upon at a later date. Noticeably in this extract, Powys details only things, and not only does this text suggest how tourists chose to look as a kind of découpage, but also suggests that tourists relied upon these notes to be 'portable soup' (in Boswell' sense) which could furnish a fuller description of the space, written from memory, at a later date. 79 The fact that Powys (and Byng) expanded their notes when Walpole didn't is a matter of genre and a matter of politeness: both Powys and Byng accepted and adopted a mode of production which represented not only the way they looked, and the things they chose to see, but also their movement through the space of the house. By contrast, Walpole was not persuaded by the idea of describing travel, declaring in a letter to C. H. Williams in 1745, that 'I don't tell you anything about our journey, because I hate writing travels'. 80 For both Byng and Powys, however, writing travel as a joumalising process which recorded their personal movement through space was a habit, an accomplishment, or a hobby; for Walpole, recording the details of country 174 See above, Walpole to C. H. Williams, 7 September, From his Correspondence, XXX, 95.

176 houses was antiquarian fieldwork which borrowed from the discourses of travel in order to make the right notes. Whatever the reasons for their writing, however, the mode of writing movement through space that they adopted brought together a way of representing going and looking in order to illuminate the contained space of tie country house. 175 Conclusions In descriptions of late eighteenth-century country house tours, then, going and seeing are brought together in a style of chorographic writing which represents a tourist's movements through the space of the country house. In her study of Grand Tour narratives, Chloe Chard has suggested that tourists who wrote about their experience of travelling in Europe sought 'forms of language sufficiently intensified to match the drama of the topography' through which they moved. 8' For British tourists visiting country houses, however, writing about this contained space was matched by a way of writing that always expressed how they looked, and also often replicated how they went, too. In contrast to travellers on the Grand Tour, however, writing athout country houses at home caused tourists to employ an anti-dramatic language that selected things to see and note down in a chorographic style, either mapping or touring space by describing the things they could see, their position in space, and the tourist's own position as an empirical observer. Writing about the space of the country house, home tourists in the late eighteenth century were writing a space that was already written: houses were developed to be seen and travelled through, and whilst tourists often paid for the pleasure of taking a look, and bought a guidebook to facilitate or commemorate their experience of having been there, this did not make them simply consumers. In their own experiences of going and looking, and especially when represented as a chorographic narrative, the space of the house was re-written as their own story of having been there. Employing discourses of curiosity, detail, taste, and appropriately time-managed viewing, going and seeing was personalised, appropriated and journalised - produced via discourses of movement through space into a singular experience of mapping or touring. The narratives which tourists subsequently produced - whether full descriptions or fragmentary notes - testify to the experience of having been there, acting as Chard, Pleasure and Guilt on the Grand Tour, 84-85

177 mementos which, like the guidebooks which I also discussed, provide a repeat or a virtual tour, for a reader enjoying the descriptive prose of this kind of travel writing. For many tourists, writing was a testimony which proved that time spent travelling was not idle. In Henrietta Pye's text of her visits to houses in and around Twickepham, she encourages her readers to 'content themselves with being glad I past [sic] my time so agreeably', even if they think that what she has written is of no value (x). As she, Powys, and other tourists wrote repetitive, anti-dramatic descriptions of country houses which might easily be dismissed as mere notes, shallow accomplishments or peculiar habits, the reasons why they wrote do not discount the mode of writing with which they engaged, or their agency in being doers, seers, and producers of their home tours and travels. 176

178 Chapter Five 177 Picturesque Moments and Picture-esque Time Representing Travelling Time in Joseph Budworth'sA Fortnight's Ramble to the Lakes and James Boswell's 'London Journal ' Extending a metaphor of movement through space to full stretch, it is necessaiy to think of the eighteenth-century home tour or travel narrative not just in terms of the spaces which travellers moved to and through, but also in terms of the space of the journey itself - the space of time spent travelling as a period of travelling time. As eighteenthcentury home tours and travel narratives indicate, the experience of travelling at home - just as the experience of travelling anywhere else - had a starting and an end point, which the act of representing that experience in writing would replicate with a narrative that begins when the traveller sets off, and ends when the travelling stops.' In other kinds of home travels the narrative does not end when the travelling subject returns home, but instead concludes when a particular period of travelling, or a penod of time spent travelling in one place, draws to a close. In both kinds of travelling, lowever, a space of time spent moving through space is a contained experience, a length or portion of time during which a person is travelling, framed and defined against other times when he or she is not, or is travelling differently (on business, or for pleasure, for example), or elsewhere. As I have already discussed, travelling time is contained and set apart from other time when the experience is represented in writing and set down in text. 2 In the examples of home travels discussed in this chapter, time plays an important role by acting as a register which represents the minutes of the day, and as a framing device for representing the period of time that travellers spent moving through particular spaces. In Joseph Budworth's A Fortnight's Ramble to the Lakes in Westmoreland, Lancashire and Cumberland (1792), the indication of a temporal period in the title (two weeks) and the boards of the book itself, frame Budworth's expenence of travelling 1 In eighteenth-century home tours, the travelling and the travelling story generally begin as the tourist sets off from home, and end when the travelling stops and they return home. John Byng, for example, calls his travelling a 'circle' in 'A Tour in the Midlands 1789', and the majority of his travels end as he rides into London. Even Johnson's fragmentary Welsh tour, 'A Journey into North Wales, 1774' records 'we went home' as his final sentence. See The Torringlon Diaries: Containing the Tours through England and Wales of the Hon. John Byng (Later Fifth Viscount Tomngton) Between the Years 1781 and 1794, ed. by C. Bniyn Andrews, 4 vols (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, ), II, (126) and Dt Johnson and Mrs Thrale 's Tour in Wales 1774, ed. by Adrian Bristow (Clwyd: Bridge Books, 1995), (56), respectively. 2 See Chapter One,

179 178 time. 3 By comparison, in James Boswell's London Journal , the temporal frame is one year, and its duration represents the nine months that Boswell spent on a visit to London. 4 As both of these texts suggest, travelling time when set down in writing frames and fixes a period of time in time. In both cases, the duration of the travelling, and the period of time passed, are marked in the process of representing movement through space. As travelling time is recorded in writing, then, time is both registered and captured: writing marks time - what Stuart Sherman refers to as 'Tick, tick, tick' - and, more importantly for this chapter, it represents a period of time during which travelling occurred, but has since passed.5 Representing travelling time, texts like the London Journal and A Fortnight 's Ramble can be considered in line with a metaphor of space-time proposed by recent studies in the field of cultural geography. As I have already suggested, in this field, 'space-time' is suggested as a preferable metaphor to 'space' because it unhinges the way in which the usual inquiries into questions of space are carried out. Doreen Massey argues, for example, that it is usual for questions of space to be assumed to be in opposition to questions of time, and that space and time are considered as binaiy opposites existing in separate dimensions. 6 Massey suggests that in line with feminist criticism, geographers might choose to distrust this dichotomous notion, and instead develop questions of space in line with modern physics, which recognises that the identity of objects in space is always constituted through interactions.7 For travel writing, then, questions of place matter, but enquiries which investigate the relationship between place and time put forward a less conservative definition of space than those which focus only on space as a metaphor for geographical location. Specifically it means that A Fortnight 's Ramble and the London Journal are not simply about looking at London and the Lake District respectively as spaces, neither are they an investigation into the geography of these places within an eighteenth-century A Fortnight's Ramble to the Lakes in Westmorelana Lancashire, and Cumberland By Rambler (London: for Hookham and Carpenter, 1792) was published anonymously. According to the Dictionwy of National Biography [on CD ROMI, Joseph Budworth changed his name to Joseph Palmer on his marriage in Boswell's London Journal , ed. by Frederick A. Pottle (London: Heinemann, 1950; repr. 1951). Pottle explains in his introduction that this text was part of Boswell's 'continuous record' which he kept from September 1762 until January 1765, but that the 'London visit' - from 15 November 1762 to 4 August was a separate manuscript, kept apart from the travel narrative which immediately,receded his London visit, 'Journal of my Jaunt, Harvest, 1762', and from his other journals (10-11). See Stuart Sherman, Telling Time: Clocks, Diaries, and English Durnal Form, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), In 'Politics and Space/Time' in Place and the Politics of Identity, ed by Michael Keith and Steve Piles (London: Routledge, 1993), Also, Doreen Massey, Space, Place and Gender (Padstow: Polity Press, 1994; repr. 1998). Massey, 'Politics and Space/Time', 152.

180 179 context. Certainly, such inquiries have already been made. The subject of travelling to the Lake District in the late eighteenth-century has received much critical attention, as has the geography of London at this time and earlier. 8 Rather, in considering these spaces within the context of travel writing, applying a metaphor of 'movement through space' which considers time, it is possible to think of these texts as representing periods of travelling time; that is, as texts which represent travelling in a particular place at a particular time, for a period of time. Thus the focus of the enquiry shifts from a dichotomous question of either/or, to a consideration of space and time as relative, indeed dependent, upon each other. Being in a place at a particular time,for a period of time is the definition of the modem holiday; two weeks away from home is 'time out', and perhaps what matters as much as the location of the vacation is the fact that travelling for a certain time signifies a cut-out period of different time. 9 To an extent, Budworth's Fortnight 's Ramble foreshadows the idea of the modem holiday with its emphasis on two weeks, but more importantly, the temporal frame of both the text and the travelling provides structural and grammatical support to the 'Ramble' itself. Significantly, the period of time - a 'Fortnight' - owns the travelling, as if Budworth rambled for two weeks time exactly, and thereafter, the nature of his travelling in some way changed. Certainly place makes a difference here. At the end of the Fortnight 's Ramble, Budworth takes his leave of the Lake District to embark on 'the northern part of my ramble', suggesting, then, that he rambled on, but in a different location.' 0 The two weeks spent rambling in the Lake District, then, is cut out of time to be rcpresented by his book. Here, travelling and narrative collide as the text ends - 'I take my departure' - but just as importantly, place and time collapse into each other to emphasise that the period of travelling time the two weeks in the Lake District but not the 'northern [...] ramble' - has been selected to be represented for public coqsumption. Notably Malcolm Andrews' chapter 'The Tour to the Lakes' in The Search for the Picturesque: Landscape Aesthetics and Tourism in Britain, (Aldershot: Scholar Press, 1989), and Ian Ousby's chapter on the Lake District, 'Rash Assault: Nature and the Nature of Tourism', in Englishman's England, Studies which consider the geography of eighteenth-century London within a travel writing context do not exist, but those which consider its geography in relation to literature include Pat Rogers' Hacks and Dunces- Pope, Swift and Grub Street (London and New York: Methuen, 1972; repr. 1980), and Simon Varey's Space and the Eighteenth-Century Novel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 9 Barry Curtis and Claire Pajaczkowska suggest '[bjy imagining the vacation as a space in the structuring of time, work is counterbalanced by the promise of temporal alterity' in 'Getting there travel, time and narrative', in Travellers' Tales: Narratives of Home and Displacement, ed. by George Robertson el a! (London and New York: Routledge, 1994, repr. 1998), (200). ' Budworth, A Fortnight's Ramble, 263. At the end of 8OiVII ' rm'..h4 ht. p tec o. ht into Europe See Bo.swell 's London Journal , 333. Further references to both texts are cited parenthetically in the text.

181 By representing cut-out time, texts like A Fortnight 's Ramble and the London Journal also use their periods of travelling-time as spaces in which to consider both how time passes, and how periods of time are bound together to create both personal and public memory. In philosophies of time, the idea of the period - cut-out time - is important as it is often by reflecting on such specific portions of time, that one is able to recognise the passing of time itself. In John Locke's An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690), ideas about duration suggest that for him, time is (or was) measured duration: This consideration of duration, as set out by certain periods, and marked by certain measures or epochs, is that, I think, which most properly we call t:me. Being able to measure time by reflecting on certain periods of time, according to Locke in this quotation, is time itself. Making sense of these periods, he adds, is one way of recognising the concept of time, and enables an understanding of our experience of time as personal time: 'without some regular periodical returns, we could not measure ourselves, or signify to others, the length of any duration'. Locke suggests, therefore, that periods of time that are cut-out in order to be reflected upon ('periodical returns'), are necessary if one is to have any sense of time passing at all.'2 For eighteenth-century travel writing, then, periods of time such as those represented in A Fortnight's Ramble and the London Journal, are exercisçs in both recording and recognising how time was passed during a period of travelling and during a lifetime. To an extent, these texts simply represent some time in the lives of Budworth and Boswell, as periods of time in a lifetime when these people happened to be travelling. More importantly, however, these texts suggest that travelling time was deliberately selected over other time, as an opportunity to reflect more generally on time passing. Certainly it makes sense that a period of travelling is suited to serving as a sample of how time passes. Stuart Sherman has argued that developments in eighteenthcentury time-keeping technology - such as John Harrison's ship-shape clock for calculating longitude - often had one eye on how time and travelling were dependent upon one another.' 3 Similarly, when travelling, eighteenth-century home tourists would calculate the passing of time by writing dated entries in travel journals, or by compiling an itinerary of where they planned to be, what they planned to do, and when.. In 180 "Ed. by Roger Woolhouse (London: Penguin, 1997), Thid., 183 and, more generally, See also Philip Turetzky, Time (London and New York. Routledge, 1998), (76). ' Shennan, Telling Time,

182 Boswell's London Journal, his time in London is dated as a diaiy, and whilst this particular period of travelling time does not require an itinerary because it is not a tour, Boswell's movements around London - like many diaries - are recorded in daily entries as a register of time. As Sherman has suggested, the diary is a kind of timekeeper which checks and monitors time like a watch.' 4 More specifically, however, Boswell's journal is a record of his movements, and as each day is registered, the record he creates is that of a man travelling about London from coffee-shop to tavern, tavern to theatre, and theatre to home. Boswell's London Journal thus creates a map of the spaces he has travelled through within each period of twenty-four hours. Movement and time, then, are relative, and Boswell's London Journal is a record of how he spent his days in town by charting nine months' worth of twenty-four hour movements about London. In considering how writing movement through space registers time-passing, Henri Bergson has suggested that tracing movement makes the passage of time more explicit: Now, nothing prevents us from assuming that each of us is tracing an uninterrupted motion in space from the beginning to the end of his conscious life. We could be walking day and night. We would thus complete a journey coextensive with our conscious life. Our entire history would then unfold in measurable time.'5 As Bergson suggests here, movement through space, if marked, creates a shape of a life that acknowledges the movement of time coexistent with movement through space. Moreover, the benefit of tracing time through movement in this way is that it is always possible to see the shape and length of the journey; history is created, as Bergson suggests, in the tracing of movement and in the ability to be able to see where one has come from. In this way, then, movement through space and time, if traced, is associated with creating a history of oneself, and building a memory. During a period of travelling time, a traveller such as Budworth or Boswell has the opportunity to measure their own time for a period of time. For Budworth, engaging upon a tour was an opportunity to turn personal experience into a narrative for public consumption by selecting a very specific period of travelling time (in the Lake District) not just for measuring his time, but in order to file his time in a public archive, and in order to create a memory that is not just his. For Boswell, writing the movements of his time in London was an opportunity to watch and measure his own time, but also to create a set-apart period of 181 ' 4 Th1d., In 'Concerning the Nature of Time' (first published, 1922), in Key Writings ed. by Keith Ansell- Pearson and John Mullarkey (London: Continuum, 2002), (209).

183 time in public memoly by sharing the minutes and movements of his days with himself with John Johnston in Edinburgh, and the future curators of the Boswell archive at Auchinleck. 16 This chapter, then, considers how both authors turn their travelling time into public memory by disclosing personal information and sharing (often intimate) details of thmse1ves and others with their readers. Within these narratives of lisc1osure, sharing personal, privileged and intimate information works to represent their experiences as singular and their own, and also to add colour and a shot of life to registers of experience. Noticeably, both A Fortnight 's Ramble and the London Journal put contact with women at the heart of their disclosing narratives, using the experiences of seeing and meeting women in order to demonstrate and explain how they see themselves as travelling subjects and travel writers. The second part of this chapter will consider how women are made into narrative scenes which capture travelling in time, and turn a period of time spent travelling into memory and public property. Before this, however, I consider how writing travel is related to recording time, and, in particular, how it captures the moments of travelling as personal experience. In A Fortnight 's Ramble, for example, discourses of the Picturesque establish a contradictory narrative, whicb suggests that Budworth's Lake District experience was singular, bu also that others taking the same path might be able to replicate some of the things that he experienced during his travelling time. Emphasising the singularity of his experiences, Budworth implies that certain things were serendipitous - sights seen, people met and views enjoyed, are often represented as things which he was lucky enough to experience himself, but which would not be available to anyone else should they try to fo'low in his footsteps. Throughout A Fortnight 's Ramble, the reader is tantalised by hints that the Lake District is a pastoral idyll, and Picturesque scenes are presented to us in such a way that Budworth's experience is framed as a series of personal tableaux. Implicated in this freeze-framing of experience is a reminder to the reader that Budworth ould only create these tableaux because he happened to be in the right place at the right time to witness and capture the moment. As the Picturesque aesthetic commonly sought to Felicity Nussbaum has argued that Boswell's journali.zing during his time in London was a conscious attempt to scrutinise his private and public behaviour in order to create a satisfactory public persona as a 'manly subject'. See The Autobiographical Subject: Gender and Ideology in Eighteenth-Century England (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989; repr. 1995), (108). See also Elaine Perez Zickler, 'Boswell's London Journal Binding a Life', in James Boswell: Psychological Interpretations (New York: St. Martin's, 1995), Boswell sent his London Journal as a series reports, prefaced by a letter, to his friend John Johnston in EdinburgK See Bo.swell 's London Journal, note 4(40) and Boswell's entry for Saturday 10 September 1762 (68).

184 183 make nature as pretty as a picture, then, A Fortnight 's Ramble indicates that this discourse not only framed people and places, but also captured time by turning things seen into Picturesque scenes that represent Budworth's own travelling time in the Lake District.'7 At the heart of these framed scenes are the women who are given a prominent place in these tableaux of travelling time. In A Fortnight 's Ramble, one woman in particular turns personal experience into public memory because her body and her face are made to represent a feature of both Budworth's own time in the Lake District, and the Lake District itself. Becoming a cover girl for Budworth's experience an4 his book, the representation of Mary Robinson, or the 'beauty of Buttermere', turns his personal experience not just into a public display of his memory, but moreover, into public property as Budworth suggests that other tourists might also see Mary should they follow his path into the village of Buttermere. Similarly, in Boswell's London Journal, the writing subject's contact with a series of prostitutes turns personal experience into public memory as Boswell uses these experiences to scrutinise his own wrongs and weaknesses, and also confides, or confesses these details, in the reports he sends to Johnston in Edinburgh. For Boswell, recording the time he spends with prostitutes is similar to Budworth's record of the time he spent with Mary Robinson. In both cases, disclosing details about their contact with these women provides a means for the travellers to exhibit their own travelling time and establish their period of travelling as a series of Picturesque or picture-esque scenes. In the former, aesthetic discourse frames the moment, and in the latter, experiences are framed as static and dramatic tableaux; in both cases, these scenes reveal the personae of the narrators through the women they meet. Using women to exhibit their travelling experiences, then, Budworth and Boswell record experience to produce memory, and make these memories public tlrough the prodtiction of movement through space as travel writing. The development of the Picturesque aesthetic is usually traced through the writings of William Gilpin, Uvedale Price and Richard Payne Knight. Gilpin described the Picturesque as the kind of beauty which 'is agreeable in a picture', in An Esqy on Prints (London: for J. Robson, 1768), 2. For a more detailed account of its development see Malcolm Andrews, The Search for the Picturesque: Landscape Aesthetics and Tourism in Bri gal,,, (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1989) and Martin Price, 'The Picturesque Moment' in From Sensibility to Romanticism: Essays Presented to Frederick A. Pottle, ed. by Frederick Whiley HiRes and Harold Bloom (London: Oxford University Press, 1970),

185 PicturesQue Moments 184 The problem with tracing travelling time in order to create memory is that so much of what happens in the act of travelling happens in an instant - a scene snatched through a carnage window or a conversation held with a stranger at an inn, such things can happen quickly and are easily forgotten. In An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Locke suggested that instants are unrecognisable and unmeasurable; for him, the instant is the diametric opposite of duration as it is, by definition, the time when time cannot be seen to be passing. 18 For Bergson, the instant is similarly at the 'extremity of the interval', that is, at the edge of succeeding ideas, an important, but difficult to pinpoint, part of time passing. 19 In eighteenth-centuiy travelling culture, however, a protocol was observed which meant that the ungraspable nature of the instant was anticipated by at all times canying a journal in the pocket in which to record the moment, or by consciously attempting to elongate this moment to guard against losing it. So as I have discussed already, tourists record how they are writing at the exact moment that something is happening, or else they write of how carefully they spent their time, as if recording how taking their time ensured they wouldn't miss anything at all. In Budworth's A Fortnight 's Ramble, instants or moments are captured and preserved precisely in the ways I have just described. In the eighth chapter, as he nears the town of Ambleside, for example, Budworth explains that he is 'frequently writing upon the spot from whence the object strikes me', and for this reason will be employing 'both the present and the preter perfect tenses in the same chapters', as he switches between to-the-moment reporting and reflection (42-43). Similarly, A Fortnight '5 Ramble also records the lengths of time certain aspects of travelling took; a walk to the top of Rydal Hill and back 'lengthened our time to above seven hours', meaning that the walk had taken longer than they thought, but also that the seven hours it took registers that this was also a walk undertaken with some care (161). Aside from these usual methods of capturing the moment, A Fortnight 's Ramble uses a Picturesque discourse to record many travelling instants that seem to the reader to be remarkably fortuitous and entirely personal. In these moments, Budworth focuses on nature, the weather and people, and in doing so, selects things to write about which are by their very nature, fleeting or changeable. Referring to the 'fancies of nature', on the banks of the river Ken, for example, Budworth sits for 'half an hour watching [an] ' 8 Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Bergson, 'Concerning the Nature of Time', 213.

186 abundance of salmon attempting to rise the fall, and sometimes leaping sideways at a fly'(ix and 13). Similarly, at Bowness he witnesses 'an adder in a wall' (60); and at Derwentwater enjoys 'the largest wild strawberries I ever eat' (176). As for the weather, at Windermere, a fortuitous gust of wind 'drove the clouds before the sun, and left an azure over the lake which [...] changed the dun colour of it to a reflected blue'; here also, 'the bleating of the sheep on the Lower Fells, the rustling of the wind, and the poppling of the lake' combine to create a scene which 'flhl[s] up the pleasures of the mind' (57-58). Additionally, the people Budworth describes meeting are just as fortuitously met or observed. Early in the tour at Levens, the Rambler is lucky enough to witness the 'rustic agility' of the locals when he is 'induced from [...] hearing the sound of a fiddle in a barn, to become spectators' of a group of children dancing the hornpipe at the Eagle and Child (19). Again, on the road from Patterdale, Budworth and his travelling companion run into old friends of his companion's family, a meeting which occasions a happy sense of serendipity: 'Flow remarkable! for four people to meet in so solitary a place, [...] in a distant part of the country from whence they all came, not having seen each other for thirty years'(89). On the top of Rydal Hill, Budworth's sense of being in the right place at the right time makes use of his writingto-the-moment skills to compose a Picturesque scene: At the instant I am writing a man with his hayday dress, with a rake and a stone bottle, is passing over the bridge, the back shade makes his dress and frame so distinct, I shall never forget the figure (44). In this rustic tableau, Budworth places himself at the edge of the scene, suggesting that he was both a fortuitous eyewitness who captured a moment, and also a learned observer who could recognise a picturesque scene when he saw one. In this, and his other descriptions of nature, the weather and people, then, A Fortnight 's Ramble uses these things to suggest that Picturesque scenes which the Rambler enjoyed, were very much of the moment, caught in time because he was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. In terms of nature and weather, these 'forces' are not entirely singular instants because these aspects of nature are in fact reasonably predictable or even cyclical: the salmon will leap in the river Ken t a certain time of the year; the adder will most likely live and breed in and around the wall at Bowness; and the wild strawberries will very probably grow again in the same spot the next year. As for the weather, a mixture of sun and cloud is most likely to be witnessed in certain months of the year, and the instant Budworth records where the cloid passing over the sun changes the colour of the lake from blue to azure, is certainly fortuitous, 185

187 but perhaps not singular. In terms of the people he met, again, luck is not entirely governing such instants. Children will practice their dancing perhaps on certain days, and at certain times of the year, every year; the people whom Budworth and his companion met on the road are not so fortuitously met when you consider that this is where they live; the only surprise, perhaps, is the fact that, unlike Budworth and his companion, these people have never moved away. Finally, the man in hayday dress seen crossing the bridge will certainly be there at the same time any other year (or if not the same person, another like him, in the same clothes). These captured moments, then, are not as singular as Budworth seems to be suggesting. If they have any singularity, however, it is the fact that Budworth caught them and recognised that they were worth recording as they were happening. Hearing a fiddle playing from his room at the inn, Budworth recognises this as a call to witness children dancing; similarly, noticing the change of colour across the lake, or stopping to taste the wild strawberries, are not so much singular moments, as personal moments which register Budworth's sensitivity to such things as potential Picturesq1e scenes. Budworth's register of captured moments, then, is actually a record of his own sensitivity to sensations of sound, light and taste. His account of the beauties of nature, is also, therefore, an account of his own alertness whilst travelling in the Lake District. In recording rustic scenes as moments appreciated and captured by the Rambler, A Fortnight 's Ramble adopts a discourse of the Picturesque that concentrates on detail, and exaggerates the moment as passing. Ian Ousby has described the Picturesque aesthetic as 'a visual delight in the irregular, the humble and the fleeting', and Ann Bermingham corroborates this opinion by emphasising that the Picturesque is concerned with surface detail and not depth: '[t]he Picturesque eye comprehended landscape as pure spectacle, a lively surface animated by a mélange of ornamental details and decorative effects'. 2 In his essay 'On Picturesque Travel', William Gilpin explains that this interest in surface detail and passing moments is appropriate because the Picturesque aesthetic is not concerned so much with what a traveller may find, but with the action of looking for things to capture: [W]ith [...] pleasing expectation we follow nature through all her walks. We pursue her from hill to dale; and hunt after those various beauties, with which she every where abounds.2' Ousby, Englishman's England, 137; Ann Bermingham, 'The Picturesque and ready-to-wear femininity', in The Politics of the Picturesque: Literature, Landscape and Aesthetics since 1770, ed. by Stephen Copley and Peter Garside (Cambridge Cambridge University Press, 1994), (85). 21 William Gilpin, 'On Picturesque Travel', in Three Essays: On Picturesque Beauty; On Picturesque Travel; and On Sketching Landscape: To Which is Added a Poem, On Landscape Painting, second edition (London: [n. pub.], 1794), (48).

188 187 As Gilpin suggests here, nature's 'various beauties' are unspecific but plentiful, and the pursuit of as many of them as possible is what matters. This is what John Whale has described as the 'energy' of the Picturesque, the will to hunt out or pursue unspecified 'beauties' in nature so that a traveller has a continuous supply of new things to see, even if the thrill of the chase means that such things can only be glimpsed before the traveller is compelled to make a quick note, and move on. 22 Consequently, as the energy to seek outruns the energy to see, witnessing things for just a moment is enough; as Martin Price has also suggested, the 'playfulness' of the Picturesque allows for this kind of capriciousness in the act of seeing. 23 In contrast to those tourists who visited country houses, for example, the Picturesque traveller doesn't have the will or indeed the time to stand and stare, and once the moment is captured, the tourist is then free to move on. For Gilpin, Budworth and others, then, a Picturesque way of travelling meant accepting that a tourist must be fleet of foot if she or he was successfully to engage in the pursuit of nature's 'beauties'. For this reason, then, time mattered, and Picturesque discourse suggests that tourists like Budworth recognised that because nature's 'beauties' were either multiple, or might be there one minute and gone the next, then each moment needed to be captured quickly before moving on. So Picturesque time is unstable because the traveller is engaged in a 'hunt' for the beauties of nature which move in and out of view. 24 In Budworth's text, the series of captured moments which he describes is accompanied by an optimistic tone 'we are determined to be pleased with whatever is laid before us' suggesting that his 'hunt' is not exactly an ambush on nature, but that it is a sprightly alertness which will ensure that whatever is seen or expenenced is appreciated in the right way (76). Appreciating the beauties of nature as fleeting moments, however, is not the full extent of the Picturesque traveller's duty. Moments like those discussed above were not simply appreciated by Budworth, but more importantly, they were captured by him and set down in text. In A Fortnight 's Ramble, the 'Rambler' suggests that his way of 22 John Whale, 'Romantics, explorers and Picturesque travellers; in The Politics of the Picturesque, (190). Martin Price, 'The Picturesque Moment', A different relationship between the Picturesque and tune from that which I'm proposing here has been considered by a number of cnticai studies, particularly with regard to nostalgia. Price, in 'The Picturesque Moment', states that 'the typical picturesque object or scene [...] carries with it the principle of change', implying 'the passage of time' (285). Similarly, John Whale notes that the Picturesque is 'peculiarly concerned with, and susceptible to, time, and in particular with the processes of decay, loss and ruination', in 'Romantics, explorers and Picturesque travellers', 189. Ann Bermingham and Anne Janowitz have also considered this relationship in Landscape and Ideology: The English Rustic Tradition (London: Thames and Hudson, 1986) and England's Ruins: Poetic Purpose and the National Landscape (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1990), respectively.

189 capturing moments was not simply to write to-the-moment, standing in front of the scene, but also to rely on his memory to store certain scenes for him which he then could transcribe at a later time. In the text, the memory is imaged as a Lockean storehouse that is capable of holding onto moments and scenes even when such things are no longer before the traveller's eyes. In the Preface, the Rambler explains that whatever he writes comes 'warm from the imagination', and towards the end of the text, he describes having a 'head too full of mountains, lakes, and values' to see anything else (vi and 254). Thus the memory is imaged as a tool which can hold a moment or a scene behind the eyes, and Budworth suggests that this method of storing experience is, to an extent, trustworthy: 'The day following being constant rain, I have noted down, as well as I could recollect, the pleasures of yesterday, and I trust they will never leave my memory' (30). In this quotation, then, the Rambler marks a tension between the powers of recall, and scenes-stored, and he seems to suggest that making the most of a rainy day to write down all that he can remember in fact facilitates his powers of memory, as if writing itself is an exercise which helps turn recollection into memory. In this way, as a traveller in search of the Picturesque, the Rambler is able to turn his knack for being in the right place at the right time to capture the 'beauties' of nature, into memories which he hopes he will be able to recall. Through a. combination of alert travelling, seeing and writing, the Rambler is able to convert his experience of two weeks in the Lake District into a series of scenes which, having been stored in the memory, and recorded in the narrative, are an archive to represent his travelling time, displayed for public consumption. Thus the series of captured moments described in A Fortnight 's Ramble are cut-out of the Rambler's lifetime - what Barthes has called découpage - to represent a travelling time of his life, and also to represent time-spent as he saw and remembered it: as a series of scenes.25 In representing his period of travelling time in the Lake District as a series of captured moments, for Joseph Budworth, A Fortnight 's Ramble is a personal text, possibly an exercise to help him remember more efficiently, or at the very least a testimony of his period of travelling time. But the text itself, irrespective of Budworth's hand in it, is a public text, a travel book published by Hookham and Carpenter in 1792, and re-issued as a second edition in 1795, and a third edition in As a public text, FrJe Pacteau describes Barthes' explanation of découpage in The Symptom of Beauay (London Reaktion Books, 1994), 108. The second edition (1795) includes an extra chapter ('A Village Wedding') and an additional poem, 'Windermere: A Poem'. The third edition (1810) replaces Chapter Xli 'Patterdale' with 'Such as it is, it speaks for itself, and includes two appendices, 'Revisit to Buttermere' and 'Half-Pay', a poem.

190 and as a travel book, A Fortnight 's Ramble offers not simply personal experience, but also travel advice because the text does not merely represent Budworth's time in the Lake District, but it also aims to be suggestive for any travelling time spent in the same place. In the Preface, Budworth suggests that despite the personal, and indeed fortuitous, nature of his experiences, his time could be replicated by someone else: Those who make the tour of the Lakes, and will examine any of the views I attempt to describe, if they see them from the points I did, and in the last week in July and the first in August, making allowances for the fancies of Nature, or the pruning hand of man, may, perhaps, give me the credit of delineating faithfully; and they will be well repaid agarnst any of my omissions, by finding out new beauties of their own (ix-x). In this quotation, Budworth qualifies the possibility of replicating his experience by offering only so many promises. The 'fancies of Nature', he reminds us, make replication difficult, but not impossible; travelling in July and August, as he did, makes seeing and experiencing the same things more likely, but not guaranteed. Indeed, Budworth further qualifies the status of the text as a public book when he suggests that it 'does not merit the name of a Guide' but is simply a 'Journeying Companion' (xii). With this qualification, then, Budworth alludes to the guidebook as what he understands to be the more explicit public role of the travel book, and chooses for his own book a different moniker, and one which occupies a liminal area between not being and being a 'Guide'. As a 'Journeying Companion' it is implied that A Fortnight's Ramble is a friend, not a guide; it will not tell you where to go, but it might point certain things out, or suggest them, based on a degree of personal experience. The difference between a guidebook, and 'Journeying Companion', is not, however, a simple binary of public travel text and private travel memoir. Certainly, most books of 'travels' were based on personal experience, and most of these books also offered advice to other travellers, often as a way of modestly justifying publication in the first place. 27 For A Fortnight 's Ramble, personal suggestion is not the same thing as direction, so long as subsequent travellers allow for the 'fancies of nature', and accept Budworth's narrative as a register of his time, with only a hint of a possibility that they might share his experiences outside of the text. In A Fortnight 's Ramble, Budworth makes his own text's status as a 'Journeying Companion' explicit by directly contrasting his narrative with Thomas West's more For example, Tobias Smollett's Travels through France and Italy (1766) mixes personal details about the narrator's health and advice to other travellers, including details about French Customs intended as 'a warning to other passengers'. Travels through France and Italy, ed. by Frank Felsenstein (Oxford Oxford University Press, 1979; repr. 1999), 7.

191 instructional Guide to the Lakes (1778). However, the extent to which A Fortnight's Ramble distinguishes itself from West's guide, does not necessarily clarify the public status of Budworth's 'Journeying Companion'. In West's Guide to the Lakes, West's own experience and knowledge of the Lake District is organised to supply the traveller with a text which creates an itineraly of the best Picturesque scenes on offer (what he calls 'select stations') so that a traveller can move from station to station, secure in the knowledge that they are seeing the best views on offer in the space of time they have travelling there. 28 For each of these views, West suggests that in order to witness the scenes he himself describes, the best time to travel is 'the first of June to the end of August', and that if one goes at this time, what he describes, will be there (9). In describing 'Station 1' at Coniston Lake, for example, features in and around the lake are located: 'On the opposite shore, to the left, and close by the water's edge, are some stripes of meadow and green ground, cut into small inclosures, [sic] with some dark coloured houses under aged yews and tall pine trees' (51). Similarly, as you leave the lake, a certain scene is also set for you: The noble scenery increases as you ride along the banks; [...] when the wind blew, the beating of surges were heard just under you; on other places abrupt openings shew the lake anew, and when calm, its limpid surface, shining like a chrystal [sic] mirror, reflecting the azure sky (51-52). In West's guide, then, features of the Lake District - rocks, houses, meadows, for example - stay put for successions of tourists travelling in the same place. More confidently still, he also suggests that when travelling between June and August, even those things which cannot be guaranteed - for example, calm lakes, azure skies, and other aspects of nature or the weather - will be there for you, just as he describes. Discussing Thomas West's Guide to the Lakes, Ousby describes his guide as establishing 'a series of static, approved pictures' which have the effect of '[reducing] landscape to a sequence of conveniently spaced, well-advertised stopping points' in a way which is all too familiar to tourists today as then. 29 Thus, West's guide represents aspects of space to suggest that features of the Lake District are certain. By freezing moments as scenes, his text operates to fix certain things in place for readers and travellers alike. Using a chorographic style of writing ('you can see'), West dares to suggest that even such things as the weather can be relied upon to create a scene, indeed A Guide to the Lakes: Dedicated to the Lovers of Landscape Studies, and to all who have wsited or intend to visit the Lakes in Cumberlana Westmoreland, and Lancashire. By the Author of The Antiquities of Furness [Thomas West], (London: for Richardson and Urquhart, 1778), 3. Further references are cited arenthetica11y in the text. Ousby, The Englishman's England, 123.

192 the weather plays a vital role in his tableau of the Lake at Coniston because the water would perhaps not shine like ciystal if it rained, or if it was disturbed by strong winds. By contrast, Budworth's text - despite claiming to be simply a 'companion' - also uses a chorographic style to imply that certain features in nature will be available for readers who wish to follow in his footsteps. Setting a scene at Ambleside, Budworth's narrative imitates West's chorographic style when he writes: 'cast your eyes downwards, and you will see the mountain ash shewing its red berries amidst variegated verdure'. Following this guidance, however, A Fortnight 's Ramble quickly pulls back from its directorial style when the scene is completed on a personal note: '[t]he stones were so wet and slippery, I got a clumsy tumble; I mention this, as it was the first time I went out without a stick, and I would advise those who go up hills to have one' (128). Thus, Budworth's text counters West's formal scene-setting with a reminder that he intends not merely direction, but occasional anecdotes and friendly advice. Moreover, Budworth's text hints that the 'you' referred to in directional, chorographic style is not necessarily a 'you' climbing mountains in the Lake District, travel book in hand. In A Fortnight 's Ramble, the reader is often explicitly addressed in the text in a way that highlights how certain scenes described encourage the reader to imagine the pictures being drawn for them in words. A descriptive passage in chapter XVII, for example, introduces itself as a 'Peep into Troubeck Dale - All descriptive, fyou don 't chuse to read it, let it alone' (120). Here, the descriptive passage is itself the 'Peep' as the travelling and the narrative collide metaphorically to guide the reader through the text and the landscape. In Budworth's text, then, the 'you' of chorographic, guiding writing is the reading 'you', encouraged by the text to close his or her eyes and imagine the scenes which Budworth has described. When the reader is directed to '[a]dvance one hundred yards, [...] and seat yourself in an oak that juts over it', the detail of this scene given in the text is enough to supply the reader with a mental image of being there (125). As A Fortnight 's Ramble works personal and fortuitous experience into public narrative, the text uses guidebook, or chorographic, conventions to place either the reading or the travelling 'you' in the scenes being set. However, unlike West's Guide, which offers quite straightforward direction, and a degree of certainty as to what tourists might see for themselves, A Fortnight's Ramble includes particular personal experience, anecdote, and a lesser degree of certainty in the 'fancies of nature' for its readers. By presenting picturesque scenes drawn from personal experience, Budworth suggests that such scenes were his own way of preserving his travelling time in memory, and thus his 191

193 192 narrative can only be a 'companion' - a friendly conversation, not an instruction - which subsequent tourists might choose to read, but will not necessarily seek to replicate. Representing aspects of nature, or random, nameless compositional figures such as the hay-maker, then, A Fortnight 's Ramble presents personal experience to the public with no promises that they will see the same things he did. Peculiarly, however, when the Rambler encounters local women, and describes these experiences as a series of picturesque tableaux - personal memories of these women are offered to readers with the instruction to go and see for themselves, the women whom the Rambler selected to represent his travelling time. Picture-esgue Women and the Framin g of Time As a text which manipulates personal experience as a public exhibition of memory, Budworth's A Fortnight 's Ramble takes picturesque moments and freezes them as tableaux in order to preserve and pass on his Lake District travelling time for he benefit and enjoyment of others. As a result of turning travelling time public, Budworth's picturesque scenes act rather like a slide show of a holiday, because these scenes as a whole represent the entire two weeks of travelling time, just as each scene, or slide, also represents a particular moment of the holiday which has been captured. In considering how Budworth and others have created scenes or tableaux to create public memory, a photographic metaphor seems inevitable. 30 Ousby referred to West's Stations as convenient points for tourists to stop and take a photograph, and certainly West and Budworth's habit of creating Picturesque tableaux is to a certain degree an attempt to capture a moment in the same way that taking a photograph freezes time. 3 ' But in creating scenes in order to preserve and pass on memory, a photographic metaphor will only take us so far because writing time, and stopping it, literally, in an image, is not the same thing. Writing about the photograph, Roland Barthes has considered how capturing time in this way is related to memory, and he is sceptical about the photograph's role: The Photograph does not call up the past (nothing Proustian in a photograph). The effect it produces upon me is not to restore what has been 3 Carol Crawshaw and John Urry identify that 'photographic desire' in tourism emerged in the late eighteenth century as (lilpin and others expressed an urge for 'fixing their sensations in landscape' See 'Tourism and the Photographic Eye', in Touring Cultures: Transformations of Travel and Theory, ed. by Chris Rojek and John Urry (London: Routledge, 1997), i 95 (181). Ousby, The Englishman's England, 123.

194 193 abolished (by time, by distance) but to attest that what I see has indeed existed.32 Thus for Barthes, the photograph doesn't represent time, because it is time, caught and held, in an image. Here, the photograph 'astonishes' Barthes because, in his words, it resurrects the past rather than represents it. Thus the photograph and the travel book are very different texts because the still and the scene have quite different relationships to memory. Where the photograph astonishes us with an actual moment from the past, the scene re-writes the past, selecting and editing, changing and distorting real moments to create tableaux. 33 In comparison with A Fortnight 's Ramble, James Boswell's travel text, the London Journal, considers more explicitly how travelling time creates personal and public memory as a process of writing, or journalizing. For Boswell, writing his London minutes for himself and Johnston in Edinburgh, was an exercise in representing time and helping to create memory for himself, and his archive, in order to record his life. In a conversation with his friend, Dempster, in the London Journal, Boswell considers that the memory is 'like a room [...J either made agreeable or the reverse by the pictures with which it is adorned'. Understanding, then, that writing has an active role in selecting and editing 'pictures' to hang in this gallery; he adds, '[t]he great art is to have an agreeable collection and to preserve them well' (203). Writing, then, is one way of 'preserving' scenes from life which are picture-esque enough to display in the mind, and Boswell's 'gallery' is curated through his journalizing for public and private exhibition. Both Budworth and Boswell, then, create a gallery of scenes to represent their periods of travelling time, making both personal and public memory in the process. In the act of travelling, collecting scenes to hang in a metaphorical gallery of memory relates to a culture of collecting which is often associated with travelling, as tourists and explorers alike brought back souvenirs from their travels to represent where they'd been and the experiences they'd had. 34 Rather than collecting Italian art, specimens of flora and fauna, or, in home tours, souvenirs from religious or literary shrines, however, travellers such as Budworth and Boswell collected experiences, which they could then 32 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida, trans. by Richard Howard, rev. edn (London: Vintage, 2000), 82. Maria Aizira Seixo suggests that 'literature and memory have a complicated relationship to the past, both select and edit what they register both change and distort, in ways that are comparable as well as totally different, what they report on', in 'Travel Writing and Cultural Memory', ed. by Seixo in Proceedings of the XVIh Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association 'Literature as Cultural Memoiy', IX (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000) [no page number]. See John Eisner, 'A Collector's Model of Desire: The House and Museum of Sir John Soane' and Nicholas Thomas, 'Licensed Curiosity: Cook's Pacific Voyages', in The Cultures of Collecting, ed. by John Eisner and Roger Cardinal (London Reacktion, 1994; repr. 1997), and , respectively.

195 frame as written scenes, and subsequently keep private, or exhibit to others through publication or by passing their writing to others to read. Collecting scenes and words rather than things, however, is not unrelated to a compulsion to invest meaning into an experience, and make that experience live beyond the moment by having it represented with a souvenir. 35 As Baudnllard has suggested, collecting 'displaces' or 'simply abolishes time' as: [BJy establishing a fixed repertoly of temporal references that can be replayed at will, in reverse order if need be, collecting represents the perpetual fresh beginning of a controlled cycle, thanks to which, [...] man can indulge in the great game of birth and death. Collecting experiences and framing them in words, then, allows travellers like Budworth and Byng to capture travelling time, but also to relive this time through their narratives, taking them nostalgically out of the present and back into an experience which happened hours, days, or years earlier. Unlike collecting objects, however, collecting experiences and words is a double process of displacing time because words are not taken away, but are constructed and composed in order to organise experience and fix it in time. Collecting scenes to fill a 'gallery' - or memory - is not merely a process of gathering and hanging, but more precisely a process of collating, sifting and ordering of information and experience in order to determine which scenes are worth hanging, and which are not. As experiences are had at one time, and then written at another, creating memories out of words both captures and rewrites time. In theories of memory, it has been suggested that memory itself 'works like a narrative', writing and re-writing the past either with the benefit of hindsight, or simply because 'the construction of the self is a provisional and continual process'. 37 Ian Hacking has suggested that 'all memory [...] beings with scenes and feelings, which are then inevitably transcribed into language', and in the cases of Budworth and Boswell, certain scenes from their travelling time are captured, created and produced as writing in order to be shared with other readers and travellers, or botll " In 'A Ride taken in 1785' Byng records how he was overcome by an urge to take home a souvenir of Shakespeare's birth place in Stratford, and he reports buying a slice of Shakespeare's chair 'equal to the size of a tobacco stopper' and also stealing a tile from the Roman pavement at the head of Shakespeare's tomb In TI), 1, ( ). See also Ousby, Englishman 'S England, Jean Baudrillard, 'The System of Collecting in Cultures of Collecung, 7-24 (16) 37 Nicola King Memo,y, Narrative, Identity: Remembenng the Self (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2000), 26 and 17, respectively 38 Ian Hacking from Rewriting the Soul: Multiple Personality and the Science of Memory (Princeton. Princeton University Press, 1995). As quoted by King in Memory, Narrative, Identity, 26.

196 195 For Budworth, however, selecting experiences to hang in the gallery of his private and public memory included choosing things not merely composed from the 'fancies of nature', but also drawn from real life. A Fortnight's Ramble is littered with Picturesque people, from the nameless haydaj man walking over the bridge considered earlier, to other, more specific people, including the famous 'Sally of Buttermere', who will be discussed in more detail below. In the book's preface, Budworth explains that people will often be included in his scenes because 'my portraits are cottagers, my pictures what Nature has lavished around them' (vi). Deciding to make people his subject of observation and writing, Budworth uses a fine art metaphor to explain how his literary scene making will be in line with a discourse of the Picturesque which sought to frame nature as art, by producing paintings and sketches from nature, and including people in these pictures in order to help a Picturesque composition. William Gilpin explained in 'On Sketching Landscape' that the purpose of the figure was" 'to mark a road - to break a piece of foreground - to point out the horizon in a sea view", meaning that in drawing, the human figure has an important role to play in formal composition. 39 For Gilpin, however, using such figures was not a matter of faithfully copying nature; figures were not drawn from life because farmers, shepherds, and milkmaids do not stand still long enough to be sketched in the same way as a tree or a hillside, instead people were added a later date, chosen from a selection of stock characters in order to enhance a Picturesque scene.4 In A Fortnight's Ramble, then, Budworth chooses figures in a similar way, in order to compose picturesque scenes, and to represent his travelling experience. Because such scenes represent his real travelling time, however, the people whom Budworth chose to include in his scenes were not fictional features of composition, but were real people, such as 'Sally of Buttermere', who, because she happened to come into contact with Budworth at her parents' inn, found herself written into one and more of Budworth's Picturesque scenes. 'Sally of Buttermere' is Budworth's most famous compositional figure, and she appears not as herself Mary Robinson - but as 'Sally of Buttennere' in chapter XXX of A Fortnight's Ramble. 4' In this chapter, 'Sally' is William Gilpin quoted by Peter Garside in 'Picturesque figure and landscape: Meg Merrilies and the ipsies', in The Politics of the Picturesque, (146) Garside explains that Gilpin recommended stock figures such as these to be included in picturesque art. Ibid., 146. " It is unclear whether Budworth was seeking to protect Mary Robinson's identity by naming her 'Sally', or whether he was simply confused as to her name. In the 'Revisit to Buttermere', included as an appendix to the third edition of A Fortnight's Ramble (1810), Budworth explains that Mary was 'the young person described five and half years ago under the character of SALLY OF BUTTERMERE'. He also describes meeting Mary's friend, Sally, at this time, suggesting therefore that Budworth may have been confused about Mary's identity, and was not seeking to characterise her under a false name (397).

197 situated in two different tableau; firstly as part of a rustic scene, sitting to her spinning in her parents' inn; and secondly, as part of a less conventional tableau, as she waits on Budworth in her job as barmaid: 196 SALLY OF BUTrERMERE. Her mother and she were spinning woollen yarn in the back kitchen; on our going into it, the girl flew away as swift as a mountain sheep, and it was not until our return from Scale Force, that we could say we first saw her; she brought in part of our dinner, and seemed to be about fifteen. Her hair was thick and long, of a dark brown, and though unadorned with ringlets, did not seem to want them; her face was a fine contour, with full eyes, and lips as red as vermilion; her cheeks had more of the lily than the rose; and although she had never been out of the village, (and, I hope, will have no ambition to wish it) she had a manner about her which seemed better calculated to set off dress, than dress her. She was a veiy Lavinia, 'Seeming when unadom'd, adorn'd the most.' When we first saw her at her distaff, after she had got the better of her first fears, she looked an angel, and I doubt not but she is the reigning lily of the valley ( ). In this tableau, Sally's face and hair receives the most attention as her beauty is compared with a mythical figure, a messenger of God, and a flower. In al of these comparisons, 'Sally' is not human, but, rather ominously, being like a mountain goat, or a lily of the valley (and here Budworth is punning because Sally lives in the valley of Buttermere), Sally is made just another fancy of nature, like a wild strawbeny or leaping salmon, which someone like Budworth might come across when travelling in this place, at this time. Unlike the fancies of nature which, earlier, Budworth had suggested were moments of his time, and might not be available to be seen by other travellers taking the same route, Sally of Buttermere is presented as a more certain feature of the Lake District, and a person who could always be found in a particular place, at any time. Budworth's description of Sally thus emphasises her proper and rightful place in this village. As a lily of the valley, Sally is set in place because she is rooted and because lilies grow and re-grow in a particular place every year. Even as a sprightly mountain sheep Sally is only granted a certain amount of mobility because sheep graze on the hillsides which surround Buttermere, and still belong to the farmers who live and work in this location. For the text, Sally's locatedness matters; the tableau quoted above is completed with confirmation of her place: 'Ye travellers of the Lakes, if you visit this obscure place, such you will find the fair SALLY OF BUT1ERMERE' (204). Here, then, J3udworth's address to his readers that they can find this woman where he left her,

198 matches his wish that she will not leave the village of Buttermere. Consequently, Budworth's moments of seeing, and being served by, a beautiful woman at the inn are represented in scenes which, when presented as a public text, fix not oniy his travelling time for the perusal of others, but also Sally's face and body in place. Essentially, Sally's class and gender are exploited by Budworth to suggest that she knows her place and stays there, and his call to other travellers either to verify his tableau, or create their own, requires that Sally stays exactly as he described her in a particular place, and at a particular time. Elsewhere in A Fortnight 's Rambie, portraits of people are drawn which further emphasise a tension between the text's emphasis on personal, captured moments, and its role as a travel book which requires that certain people stay put so other travellers can see them. Ironically, in creating scenes that include local people, the text often confidently suggests that these people will always be part of the scenry, more confident, in fact, than when describing the fancies of nature which previously have been framed as lucky glimpses. At Troutbeck Dale, the subtitle to chapter XVII does not promise anything with certainty, 'take a Walk to it, and fyou meet the same pretty Girl and obliging Person we did, so much the better' (120); and oyerhearing haymkers' 'loud laughs' in chapter XIX (136) is similarly fortuitous, but elsewhere, the text suggests that there is a stable and certain relationship between the landscape and the people who live there. In the Preface, the 'Rambler' explains that generations of families have lived in the same place quite happily: '[t]he inhabitants are as peaceful as their vallies, and seem to have no inclination to leave them' (vii), and similarly, in chapter XXXV, he draws a further relatianship between the people and their landscape by suggesting that space nurtures and protects their 'nature': There cannot be a fairer proof of the soundness of our religior, than the harmless lives the inhabitants of the lakes [sic] live; the mountains around them not only preserve it undisturbed, but serve as barriers to keep out many follies and vices, which are afloat amongst people, that unjtstly think themselves more enlightened (229). In A Fortnight 's Ramble, then, the people are the landscape because aspects of space determine their nature. Moreover, because these people do not leave, their location in space is as certain as the space itself. Budworth proposes, then, that the Lakes are the people, and the people are the Lakes because the two things are inseparable Budworth's association between the people anci the landscape of the Lake District is comparable with Wordsworth and Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads (1798) where poems such as 'Goody Blake, and Harry Gill', similarly fix real people in particular rural locations (in this case Warwickshire). In the 2' edition of the poems (1800), further association is made between real (and fictional) people of the Lake District, for

199 198 With this in mind, then, the role ascribed to Maiy Robinson - 'Sally' - in the text is even more dependent on her place in Buttermere. It is ironic that in all its descriptions of nature, A Fortnight 's Ramble, suggested only the possibility of such things being in place for others to see them, but in its description of people, exemplified in 'Sally', the text is rather more certain that such things will be there. This is despite the fact that, unlike wild strawberries or leaping salmon, there is only one 'Sally', and Budworth's moment of glimpsing her at the inn could never, in fact, be replicated truly because 'Sally' will not come again, seasonally, but will simply grow old and die. Despite this truth, A Fortnight's Ramble prompted other travellers in the 1790s to respond to Budworth's call to see Mary Robinson for themselves. In her own time, the interest generated in Mary Robinson by Budworth's book was documented by other travel writers, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in articles he wrote for The Morning Post and, more recently, Ian Ousby and Melvyn Bragg have re-told her stoly. 43 Certainly it is impossible to know just how many people went to see her, though it is easy to assume that at the height of tourist interest in the Lake District, many people visited Buttermere to take a look. One traveller visiting the Lakes in 1797 described Mary as 'the celebrated beauty of the lakes'; Coleridge described her as 'the woman celebrated by the tourists under the name of The Beauty of Burtermere'; and another source gave her the alternative moniker of 'The Flower of Buttermere'.' Budworth himself returned to see Mary in 1798, declaring himself to her as the author of the book which created her celebrity. His 'Revisit to Buttermere' was first published in The Gentleman 's Magazine in January, 1800, and in this text, Budworth re-emphasises to Mary the importance of her staying put: example, 'The Idle Shepherd-Boys, or Dungeon Hill Force' and, most famously perhaps, 'Michael', the story of a shepherd living in Grasmere. See The Lyrical Ballads, ed. by R. L. Brett and A. R. Jones, 2 ' edn (London: Routledge, 1991). Ousby, The Englishman's England, Melvyn Bragg fictionalises Mary's history in his novel The Maid of Buttermere (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1987). Donald Reiman also recounts Mary Robinson's history as a sight of tounst interest in 'The Beauty of Buttermere as Fact and Romantic 'mboi', Criticism, 26(1984), 'Journal of a Three Weeks Tour Through Derbyshire to the Lakes. By a Gentleman of the University of Oxford', in The British Touristr, or, The Traveller's Pocket Companion through Englana Wales, Scotland and Ireland, ed. by William Mayor, 6 vols (London, ), V, (275). Mary is also visited by traveller James Denhoim, as detailed in A Tour to the Principal Scotch and English Lakes Glasgow: for A. Macgoun, 1804), Coleridge, 'Romantic Maniage' in The Morning Post, Monday 11 October, 1802 in Essqy on His Times in The Morning Post and The Courier, in The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ed by David Erdman, Boffingen Series LXXV, 16 vats (London: Routledge & Kegan & Paul, 1978), ifi (part 1), (357); 'The Flower of Buttermere' from 'Life of John Hatfield, commonly called the Keswick Impostor, and his Marriage with Mary of Buttermere' in The Echoes of the Lakes and Mountains: Or, Wonäerful Things in the Lake District [...] By an 'Antiquarian, Guide, Philosopher and Friend' (London: James Ivison,?1880), 1-30 (10).

200 You may remember, I advised you, in that Book, never to leave your native valley. Your age and situation require the most care. Strangers WILL come, and have come, purposely to see you; and some of them with very bad intentions. We hope you will never suffer from them; but never cease to be upon your guard. You really are not so handsome as you promised to be; and I have long wished, by conversation like this, to do away what mischief the flattering character I gave of you may expose you to. Be *neny and 199 Budworth's 'Revisit' seems eerily prophetic given what subsequently happened to Mary Robinson. In 1802 she married a visitor to Buttermere, Alexander Augustus Hope, brother to an Earl, only to later discover that Hope was in fact John Hatfield, a bigamist and convicted forger. Once his real identity was exposed, Hatfield was hanged at Carlisle, and Mary returned to uttermere, pregnant with his child. 47 Ironically, harm did come to Mary even though she stayed in place; her celebrity status, caused by Budworth's travel books, meant that being there ensured that people like Hatfield could find her exactly where A Fortnight's Ramble left her, at her parents' inn in Buttermere. Requesting that Mary never leave the valley, and suggesting that other travellers go and see her, A Fortnight 's Ramble thus complicates its representation of travelling time as a series of fleeting, picturesque moments, by making this woman a real framing device for both Budworth's actual experience and his public book. In the first edition of the text, Mary Robinson's role as 'Sally' competes for attention with another framed woman, the Queen of Patterdale, described in chapter XII. The differences between the two women, however, are marked: whereas Mary is beautiful, dutiful, and silent, the Queen of Patterdale is loud, lusty, lazy and drunk. As the 'Rambler' describes his encounter with the Queen at the public house in Patterdale, his attempt at a comic portrait of local colour is tainted by his thinly veiled repulsion at the woman's behaviour. Feeling sympathy for the Queen's 'abused' husband, the King, Budworth describes how he 'felt the utmost indignation at her conduct', and despite his laughter, goes onto describe her behaviour as 'disgustful' in the following chapter (83 and 98). Thus when Budworth stumbles across 'Sally' in Buttermere, he finds a youthful and obedient woman who is as pretty as a picture, and she enables him to oust the Queen of First published in The Gentleman's Magazine, LXX (London: by John Nichols, 1800), 18-24, the 'Revisit' is reprinted verbatim in the appendix to the third edition of A Fortnight's Ramble (1810), , from which this quotation is taken (407). ' The story of Mary Robinson's marriage to Hatfield was detailed at the time in Coleridge's Morning Post articles, 'Romantic Marriage [if]' Friday 22 October 1802; 'The Fraudulent Marriage', Friday 5 November 1802; 'The Keswick Impostor. I.', Saturday 20 November 1802 and 'The Keswick Impostor. II.' Friday 31 December Coleridge's articles are also re-hashed in The Life of Mary,obrnson; the Celebrated Beauty of Buttermere (London Crosby & cc, 1803) and The Life of John Hatfield commonly called the Keswick Impostor (Keswick: James Ivison,?1849).

201 200 Patterdale from her throne, and crown 'Sally' instead as the 'reigning lily of the valley' and preferred face of the Lake District. Budworth's decision to select Mary over the Queen of Patterdale is confirmed when in the third edition of the text, published in 1810, the Queen's chapter is excised and replaced by the slightly odd, 'Such as it is, it speaks for itself. 48 In A Fortnight's Ramble, then, Budworth selects a suitably scenic woman to represent his travelling time, making Mary not merely a picturesque moment in the text, but the moment when Budworth's experience is exhibited in public with the promise that if others also want to have a moment like his, they can. Making Mary Robinson representative of his travelling time means that Budworth makes the most of her class and gender to assume that Mary will stay exactly as he left her.49 For a woman, being expected to stay put was not an unfamiliar discourse of the eighteenth century; moreover, as a working-class woman, a servant in her parents' inn, Mary is expected by Budworth and others to know her place, and keep her station as a good daughter and a dutiful barmaid. Here, then, A Fortnight 's Ramble rehearses a familiar dialectic of the static woman and travelling man. As Doreen Massey has argued, 'in certain cultural quarters, the mobility of women does indeed seem to pose a threat to a settled patriarchal order', and certainly Budworth's assumption (and request) that Mary should stay in Buttermere has a ring of anxiety about it, not least, perhaps, because he acknowledges his own hand in her rise to celebrity.50 By comparison, in James Boswell's urban travel narrative, the London Journal, the dialectic of the static woman and travelling man is valonsed when in this text, Boswell is a man who defines himself by his ability to roam, and who finds he cannot protect this identity when out-of-place, wandering women - prostitutes - threaten to confine him to barracks with repeated attacks of gonorrhoea. In the London Journal, Boswell's movements about town trace his daily life as travelling time; wandering, sauntering, roaming, strolling, sallying and visiting is what he does, everyday, all day, for most of the nine months spent in the metropolis. During this time, Boswell discloses a number of sexual encounters with different women: he has one affair with n actress, Louisa, which results in his contracting gonorrhoea, and at least ten other encounters Budworth explains in the preface to this edition that that 'the RAMBLE, with the exchange of one chapter (which was no credit to it), is nearly the same', x. ' Reiman suggests that Wordsworth's description of Mary Robinson's tragic story in Book VU of the Prelude ( ) focussed on her refusal 'to remain in [her] rightful place in the social order', by leaving Buttermere with Hatfield, in the hope of a better life. In 'The Beauty of Buttennere as Fact and Romantic Symbol', Massey, Space. Place and Gender, 11.

202 with prostitutes. 5' During and following Boswell's period of confinement with his illness, he reflects on his ability to roam abroad. On 20th January 1763, recognising the symptoms of his illness - '[t]oo, too plain was Signor Gonorrhoea' - Boswell reflects on his impending confinement: 'And shall I no more (for a long time at least) take my walk, healthful and spirited, round the Park before breakfast, view the brilliant Guards on the Parade, and enjoy all my pleasing amusements?'( ). Similarly, once his health has been restored at the end of February, his ability to go abroad once more delights him: 'I was quite in an ecstacy [sic]. 0 how I admired the objects around me! How I valued ease and health! To see the variety of people in the Park again put me all in a flutter' (205). Here, then, Boswell associates the ability to wander about with both health and manliness. Visiting parks, for example, walking provides entertainment and exercise; in visiting prostitutes it brings pleasure and sexual gratification. His friend Erskine advises Boswell that walking 'would give my ballocks [sic] the venerable rust of antiquity', and thus further associates strolling abroad with manliness (227). As Boswell also shares the record of these sexual adventures with Johnston, the descriptions of his many conquests establish a homosocial dialogue that fixes his virility, as his travelling time, in public memory. Boswell's ability to roam, however, is in stark contrast with the price a woman can pay for roaming at this time. Because Louisa was not faithful to Boswell - and despite the care he took in choosing her instead of a prostitute - Boswell associates her alleged sexual roaming with prostitution, calling her 'a most consummate, dissembling whore' (160).52 For Boswell, women who roam about in London are not safe, and indeed London women are not safe because they do not stay put: I [...] called in Southampton Street, Strand, for Miss Sally Forrester, my first love [...] I found that the people of the house were broke and dead, and could hear nothing of her. I also called for Miss Jenny Wells in Barrack Street, Soho, but found that she was fled, they knew not whither, and had been ruined with extravagance. (46-47) Here, then, women's wandering is absorbed by the city to suggest that in London, women are at risk because here, they cannot so easily stay in place. Thus the women 201 "His encounters with prostitutes are also discussed by David M Weed in 'Sexual Positions Men of Pleasure, Economy, and Dignity in Boswell's London Journal', Eighteenth-Century Studies, 31 ( ), Actresses in the eighteenth century were often asswned to be prostitutes, largely because of their public visil,ility. They were also regularly seen as disease-earners and gonorrhoea was also known as the 'contagion of the green room'. See Kristina Straub, Sexual Suspects: Eighteenth-Century Players and Sexual Ideology (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), (107). Rebecca Solnit also points out that women's walking is sexualised in language, '[a]mong the terms for prostitutes are streetwalkers, women of the streets, women on the town, and public women', in Wanderlust: A History of Walking (London and New York: Penguin, 2001), 234

203 202 whom Boswell seeks all roam about in a way which is metaphorically associated with transgression, or as Rebecca Solnit has suggested, '[in] terms that imply that women's travel is inevitably sexual or that their sexuality is transgressive when it travels.'53 Despite the association of wandering women with transgression, the London Journal nevertheless upsets a simple binary of walking about and staying put based on gender, as it is not only because women wander that Boswell falls ill, but also because he also wanders, without purpose, to find women for sex. Following his period of confinement, Boswell often describes his walking about as something which he does when he doesn't know what else to do, and this kind of walking coincides with his pursuit of prostitutes. On April 1 he writes, 'a sort of listlessness seized me; and instead of going to church, I strolled up and down all day' (231), and elsewhere, he describes his walking as a kind of purposeless movement, or compulsive wandering. Importantly, one reason why Boswell loses faith in his wandering is because during his travelling time in London, he associates his daily movements with his ability to journalize, and hence his ability to create personal and public memory through writing. During his illness, his first anxiety is that because he is forced to be still, his journal will fade away: '[w]hat will now become of my journal for some time? It must be a barren desert, a mere blank. To relate gravely that I rose, made water, took drugs, sat quiet, read a book [...] must be exceedingly poor and tedious' (166). Yet despite these concerns, Boswell finds his journal actually flourishes during this time: '[h]ow easily and cleverly I write just now! I am really pleased with myself; words come skipping to me like lambs up Moffat Hill; and I turn my periods smoothly and imperceptibly like a skilful wheelwright turning tops in a turning-loom' (187). Boswell discovers that his ability to write ('periods' as sentences), and 'turn periods' of his life into text is not only dependent on his ability to get about and seek adventures. I the London Journal, then, Boswell suggests that writing travelling time is not only about being a man about town, as he is relieved to note that personal and public memory does not suffer for staying put. Boswell's description of his ability to write as turning 'periods smoothly [.. ] like a wheelwright', as words 'come skipping [...] like lambs up Moffat Hill', associates his production of movement through space as writing, with a discourse of the pastoral which compares writing with nature and the smooth-running of rural labour. As Boswell finds that turning travelling time into text does not suffer for being kept indoqrs, his association of writing with rural simplicity compares with Budworth's production of his own travelling time in the Fortnight 's Ramble. However, whereas Solnit, Wanderlust, 234.

204 203 Boswell finds he still produces writing when he does not go abroad, Budworth relies on Mary Robinson's willingness to stay put for Budworth to turn personal experience into public memory in his text, just as he also relies on his and others' ability to visit Mary, and then move on. In the text, 'Sally of Buttermere' plays a crucial role in stabilising Budworth's Picturesque moments and scenic tableaux because she is the compositional figure that other travellers could see for themselves. Thus Mary is both the moment and the picture that validates Budworth's travelling time as truthful; once other travellers could see Mary for themselves and agree on her beauty, then A Fortnight 's Ramble's picturesque take on the Lake District could be confirmed as more than just one, singular experience. Consequently, 'Sally of Buttermere' is the scene of all scenes, the uberscene, which stops the action of the picturesque narrative for a moment, giving timeenough, in fact, for both readers and travellers to contemplate Mary Robinson's role in the public agenda of the text. Arguably, other travellers could 'confirm' Budworth's travelling time as true by seeing any one of the scenes he described in his narrative, but the 'Sally of Buttermere' scene still stands out from the others to hold the reader's attention, not least because she is the first beautiful woman described in the narrative. In 'Woman as Hieroglyph', Francette Pacteau has suggested that the sight of beautiful women in art and text, freezes moments and stops time: 'the narrative flow of popular fiction is typically interrupted, by the descriptive image of the woman'. 54 The image of the woman, Pacteau argues, is 'detached from her corporeality, petrified, [and] arrested in time', and thus once framed like this she is simultaneously '[s]ilenced [...] there is no more to her than that which meets his eyes'. 55 Indeed Mary Robinson, framed as 'Sally of Butteremere' in A Fortnight 's Ramble, is emptied of content in this way. In all of Budworth's descriptions of her, including his 'Revisit to Buttermere' reprirted in the third edition, Mary is curiously silent; in the 'Revisit', Budworth describes holding a conversation with her, but in terms of reported speech, only her friend Sally's and his own words are represented in the text. In contrast to her own silence, however, a great deal of noise was made about Mary Robinson following the publication of Budworth's text, and especially following her fateful marriage to the 'Keswick Impostor', John Hatfield. Not only was Mary described in Budworth's words, but also the words of other travellers, scrawled on the walls of her parent's inn in Buttermere, in other travel 34 Pacteau, The Symptom of Beauty (London: Reaktion Books, 1994), (107). "Ibid., 109 and 110. For details of Wordsworth's, Coleridge's and de Quincey's reports on Mary Robinson's story see Reiman, 'The Beauty of Buttermere as Fact and Romantic Symbol'.

205 texts, newspapers, popular ballads, poems, court reports and novels, indeed a whole market developed around Mary's name, telling and re-telling her story to others. 57 In terms of public memory, then, Mary Robinson's history was created for her by others like Budworth; she was a truly public figure, and one whose role in moral stoiytelling - as a warning against falling for the wrong man - depended upon her remaining silent whilst others created public memory around her. As a beautiful, silent woman, then, Mary Robinson was the perfect compositional figure for a picturesque scene because being still, pretty and quiet, she was easily fitted into a rustic tableau. However, in all that was written about her, the one subject which is regularly addressed by those who go to see her for themselves is her title as a 'Beauty' - given to her not by Budworth, but by the tourists who went to see her - and there is more than a little disagreement amongst travellers about just how beautiful she actually is. Visiting Buttermere in 1797, a 'Gentleman of the University of Oxford' decrees she is 'certainly handsome, but didn't strike us as singularly beautiful'; revisiting her in 1798, Budworth tells her: 'you really are not so handsome as you promised to be'; James Denholm, visiting in 1804, a year after the Haffield scandal, reports: '[h]er figure was rather above the middle size, slender and well proportioned; her face beautiful, and rendered still more engaging from that air of grief which appeared in her feature, the consequence of her sad fate'; more critical, however, is Coleridge who, a year earlier in 1802, suggested: To beauty, however, in the strict sense of the word, she has small pretensions, for she is rather gap-toothed, and somewhat pock-fretten. But her face is very expressive, and the expression extremely interesting, and her figure and movements are graceful to a miracle. She ought indeed to have been called the Grace of Buttermere, rather than the Beauty Ousby reports that odes to Mary were scrawled on the walls of her parents' inn (The Englishman's England, 136). Besides Coleridge's newspaper reports and the travel narratives already referenced, Mary's story was made the subject of many texts including morality tales warning against falling for the wrong man, William Mudford's Augustus and Maiy; or, The Maid of Buttermere. A Domestic Tale (London: for M. Jones, 1803) and the anonymous, James Hatfield and the Beauty of Buttermere: A Story of Modern Times, 3 vols (London: Henry Colburn, 1841). The 1849 version of The Life of John HafieId (as before), reports that when asked to give evidence against Hatfield in court, Mary refused, agreeing only to sign a statement testifjing that she knew him as the 'Hon. Colonel Hope' (17). Before Mary Robinson's story, poems and ballads exist which tell a similar story, of a wronged barmaid also called Mary, whose tale has a more gothic twist Robert Southey's Mary, The Maid of the Inn, first published 1796, which suggests that Mary Robinson's story was developed on top of another Mary's tale, the details of which are sketched in the title of the following pamphlet, Mary, the Maid of the Inn: An Interesting Narrative: Detailing the Singular way she discovered her lover to be a Robber and Murderer; his Conviction and Execution; with her forlorn and destitute Wanderings, and unhappy Death (Alnwick: W. Davidson,?1800). Coleridge, 'Romantic Marriage', in The Morning Post, Monday 11 October 1802, in Collected Works, I, (357). Previously: Journal of a Three Weeks Tour, 275; 'Revisit to Buttermere', in A Fortnight's Ramble (1810), 407; Denholm, Tour to the Principal Scotch and English Lakes, 298

206 Besides Denholrn's comment that her misey makes her more beautiful, these travellers agree that, according to their inspections, Mary is not as beautiful as her public image suggests. In eighteenth.centuiy culiure, as Robert WJons has sggested, 'beauty' was a question of aesthetics and part of a related discourse of taste, which considered not just the physical appearance of a woman, but also her morality and her conduct; as the Adventurer reminded women in 1752: "those who wish to be LOVELY, must learn early to be GOOD."59 Thus Mary's title 'The Beauty of Buttermere', though initiated by Budworth's description of her physical appearance, on closer inspection, appears to be tied less certainly to her face, than to her virtue. Certainly, not one tourist was in any doubt about the 'beauty' of her conduct, Coleridge reported for most when he wrote: 'she has ever maintained an irreproachable character, is a good daughter and a modest, sensible, and observant woman', adding that '[she] uniformly maintained her dignity, as a woman, by never forgetting, or suffering others to forget, that she was the Maid of the Inn, the attendant of those who stopped at the ale-house, and not the familiar'.60 Crucially, then, Mazy's inner beauty - her virtue - is as much to do with her class as it is her gender, for despite her celebrity and tragedy, Mary knew her place, and kept faithfully to her working class role whilst public interest swelled around her. Returning to Budworth's first description of her in 1792 at her spinning wheel, the public memory created of Mary by him, Coleridge and others, is of a dutiful, rural servant girl whose head failed to be turned, despite being made the face of the Lake District, and proto cover-girl of Budworth's travel book. As a scenic woman representing Budworth's travelling time, then, what makes Mary Robinson picturesque is not simply her gender, but perhaps more importantly still, her class. In questions of class, A Fortnight 's Ramble adopts a Pastoral discourse to suggest that, like Mary, the working people of the Lake District - the compositional figures of Budworth's tableaux - are content at their work, happy in their valleys, and in no hurry to leave in search of a different life. As I suggested earlier, Budworth takes pains in the Ramble to stress how the people he meets are, indeed, a part of the landscape around them, and in doing so he suggests not that these people can't or won't leave through choice because this is where they belong; that their bodies and faces are hewn from the local hillside, and their manners and morals nurtured and protected by the valleys in which they live. For Mary Robinson, then, Budworth's request that she never leaves her home is not really a command, but more a plaintive sigh, because in Robert W. Jones, Gender and the Formation of Taste in Eighteenth-Ceniuiy Britain: The Analysis of Beauty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998),

207 framing her as a scenic woman to represent his captured moment and his travelling time, he is also framing her nostalgically to represent not merely instants or periods of time, but the passing of time as well. As Francette Pacteau has argued: Arrested in an image, 'the' woman stands on the edge of time - freezeframe - but only for a fleeting instant; the suspended gesture is completed, she is swept back into the narrative flow, the passing of time. Unless another picture be made of her:6' For Budworth, then, Mary - 'Sally of Buttermere' - comes to represent the passing of time in a double-bind which ties her both to his travelling time, and to a Pastoral nostalgia for a prelapsanan past which he thinks he glimpsed travelling in the Lake District in When other tourists go to look at her in later years, they notice that time has passed since Budworth's visit, and they comment on her changed appearance, as Budworth himself does in As Pacteau suggests, then, 'Sally of Buttermere' is swept into the flow of many different narratives as new pictures are made of her by other travellers; her face to them represents not just their time but simultaneously, Budworth's travelling time and the passing of time itself. Consequently in A Fortnight's Ramble, 'Sally of Buttermere' traces three dimensions of time, the moment, the period and past-time; for Budworth this is personal time; for the readers of his travel book it is public memory, and an 'easy-access escape hatch to a primrose path' which was traced in the Lake District 1792, but which gradually faded.63 In Gilpin's essay 'On Picturesque Travel', representing travelling time as writing - a 'few scratches, like a short-hand scrawl of our own' - is a process which enables personal time to be reconstructed as memory. Gilpin reflects that '[t]here may be more pleasure in recollecting, and recording, from a few transient lines, the scenes we have admired, than in the present enjoyment of them' because '[i]t flatters us too with the idea of a sort of creation of our own [...] [which] can, in any degree, contribute to the amusement of others also' (52). Similarly, in James Boswell's London Journal, the nostalgic creation of personal and public memory is also at work as this text writes both personal minutes and past time at the same time. In the London Journal, Boswell reflects that writing scenes from life into his journal will help preserve his memory, but also that these scenes, once created, will serve a nostalgic purpose: '[VJeiy often we Coleridge, 'Romantic Marriage', 358 and 'Romantic Marriage [llj', 375, respectively. Symptom of Beauty, Terry Gifford summarises those critics who have discussed how Pastoral discourse can be a nostalgic, 'deeply conservative vision' in Pastoral (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), 1-44 (8). 63 Sara Wheeler, Terra Incognita (1997), as quoted by Gifford in Pastoral, 79. Gilpin, 'On Picturesque Travel', 51.

208 207 have more pleasure in reflecting on agreeable scenes that we have been in than we had from the scenes themselves' (40). As this comment from Boswell resonates with Gilpin's thoughts on Picturesque travel, rural rambling and urban roaming are united by a discourse of representing travelling time which constructs memories out of a series of static or, in Boswell's case, dramatic scenes. When Boswell includes a number of scenes of his contact with women, mostly prostitutes, in his narrative, his disclosure of these sexual encounters serves to frame scenic moments not dissimilar to Budworth's 'Sally of Buttermere' tableau in A Fortnight's Ramble. That Boswell's picture-esque women happen to be slightly different kinds of women to Mary is not the point: Boswell's scenes of sexual conquest with a succession of women are still evidence of his purposeless - but manly - wandering during his months in London, ad as such have been included in his memory and journal as pictures representing hs London travelling time. Conclusions For both A Fortnight 's Ramble and, in comparison, the London Journal, then, moments, periods of time, and past-time are represented in order to represent movement through space as a period of travelling time. In both of the these texts, travelling time is anchored around descriptions of contact with women, as Budworth and Boswell aim to live longer than their subjects, by fixing their own travelling experiences as private and public memory. For Budworth, disclosing personal information about his own fortuitous experiences in his narrative establishes experience as a series of picturesque tableaux for the enjoyment of the reader. Whilst Budworth does not promise his readers that the 'fancies of nature' he enjoyed would be available for other travellers taking the same path, he complicates his narrative of personal moments by suggesting that one part of his experience - his encounter with Mary Robinson in Buttermere - would be available for anyone taking this route. In revealing privileged information about this woman, then, Budworth turns his personal, experiential narrative into a public guide that directed travellers to Robinson's home, and subsequently made her the subject of widespread public interest. As Robinson became public news, the association of Budworth's text with the face and body of this real woman made her the cover-girl of his narrative as well as the subject of many other writings which debated her beauty, and covered the story of her subsequent marriage to the bigamist John Hatfield.

209 208 The process of creating Picturesque or, rather, picture-esque scenes in order to compose a gallery that represents a period of travelling time is further explained by reference to Boswell's London Journal. In this urban travel narrative, Boswell reasons that both public and private memory is created by the preservation and exhibition of chosen scenes, produced from experience. In Boswell's period of travelling time in London, his contact with prostitutes compares with Budworth's contact with Robinson as experiences that represent moments of truthful disclosure. For Budworth, writing about his meeting with Robinson stabilises his otherwise capricious travel narrative with a point about his own travelling experience which could be verified by others. Similarly, for Boswell, disclosing intimate information of his experiences with prostitutes, allows him to share his behaviour with Johnston as a manly dialogue, or else enables him to monitor his own conduct by treating his journal as a confessional device, which, knowing everything, keeps an accurate reflection of his life. In both cases, creating Picturesque or picture-esque scenes decorated with beautiful and tempting women, turns periods of travelling time into accounts of experience which are either personally revealing or publicly worthy of exhibition. The home travels produced by Budworth and Boswell, then, achieve this transposition from experience to memory by recording the minutes of their movement through space, and then binding these moments together as scenes and a period of time, in order to represent travelling time.

210 209 Conclusions The final chapter of Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel discusses Xavier de Maistre's travel narrative, Voyage Autour de ma Chambre, published in France in 1796.' In this chapter, Botton argues that Maistre's narrative of a journey around his bedroom springs from a profound and suggestive insight: that the pleasure we derive from journeys is perhaps dependent more on the mindset with which we travel than on the destination we travel to.2 In this example, Maistre's journey around his bedroom was an attempt to travel in a space that could easily be considered as the antithesis of the journey. At home in the bedroom, however, both Maistre and Botton - who describes performing a journey around his own room - find that their travels 'bear fruit' because travelling is not dependent on geographical location, but is nothing more than a state of mind. In Maistre's narrative, touring around his bedroom is described in a chorographic style: 'Next to my arm-chair, as we go northward, my bed comes into sight. It is placed at the end of my room, and forms the most agreeable perspective'; the travelling experience which he narrates, thus turns his room into a pleasure ground of familiar features which are differently explored, and carefully described, in order to match his own movements around the space.3 For late eighteenth-centuiy tourists engaging upon, and writing about, travels within the space of their own - more broadly defined - 'home', travelling was no less of a state of mind than this example of Maistre's circumscribed journey. Echoing John Byng's comment about descriptions of journeys on the Margate Hoy with which I opened this thesis (a journey which Joseph Budworth also describes in the first chapter of A Fortnight 's Ramble to the Lakes), the common and familiar is thus exposed as a worthy subject of eighteenth-century travel writing. The shock of Maistre's travel narrative is that he takes the uber-familiar and explores it as if it were unknown. For eighteenth-century home tourists, however, home was neither unknown nor familiar, and the interesting thing about these travel texts is that they describe the experience of travelling with little recourse to any familiar/unfamiliar dialectic. Certainly, late eighteenth-century home tours and travels indicate that travel writing was - and is - a more complex mode of writing than simply describing new or unfamiliar places. In 'Voyage Autour de ma Chambre. ParM Le Chev. (Hambourg: de L'Imprimerie de P. F. Fauche, 1796). First published in English as A Journey Round My Room, trans. by Henry Attwell (London: Chatto and Windus, 1883). 2 A1ain de Botton, The Art of Travel (London. Hainish Hamilton, 2002), Afourney RowidMy Room, 11.

211 210 Chapter One I argued that, in terms of critical approaches to travel writing, home has often been ignored as a subject because it lacks the element of alterity, which is often assumed to be necessary for travel writing. As this thesis has demonstrated, however, home tours and travel narratives of the late eighteenth-century describe journeys to places that are sometimes familiar, and sometimes not unfamiliar to the travellers, but in each example, alterity is not the only driving force for turning a travelling experience into a narrative. Sidestepping an expectation of alterity by choosing travel writing which cannot easily rely on this to describe being on the move, this thesis has argued that late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives benefit from a different theoretical approach. Drawing on recent theories of travel from, most notably, the discipline of cultural geography and its work on 'space', I suggested a way of reading travel writing that ignores the subject of alterity and instead looks for an alternative relationship between the act of travelling and the act of writing travel. Abstracting travel to an experience of 'moving through space', this thesis has suggested an approach to travel writing which - to an extent - mimics Maistre's journey around his room; both his journey, and this thesis, look differently at travelling and travel writing, and challenge a relationship between going and writing to be exposed, in less traditional experiences of travelling. Main de Botton suggests that Maistre's narrative nudges us 'to try, before taking off to distant hemispheres, to notice what we have already seeii';4 this thesis has proposed that travelling 'at home' is not simply about making the familiar unfamiliar (or vice versa), but instead relies upon a more abstracted relationship between travelling and writing which means that every step, wherever it is placed, can be imbued with a traveller's spirit of enquiiy. Reading eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives as representations of movement through space, then, this thesis has demonstrated that this mode of writing engaged with all aspects of travelling by turning personal experiences of being on the move into travel writing. Suggesting that travel writing has a close relationship with life writing in terms of recording personal time, the four chapters of this thesis provide close readings of home tours and travel narratives to investigate how different stages of a journey are connected with the traveller's own experiences of being on the move at home. Considering motion, stasis, looking and writing in turn, each chapter thus takes one aspect of movement through space, and investigates how these abstracted stages of travelling are related to a process of turning experience into literary discourse. In 4 Botton, The Art of Travel, 254.

212 211 Chapter Two, motion is identified as a feature of travelling which tourists Samuel Johnson and Hester Thrale related to their own bodies in terms of a discourse of improving and preserving good health. Writing their own bodies into their travel narratives, these subjects suggest that travel writing can be represented through moments of personal disclosure, and a daily routine of observing the body in motion, as much as the Welsh countryside. In Chapter Three, stasis is the subject of John Byng's and Dorothy Wordsworth's Tours as these texts reference stopping as both a need and a desire, and also an opportunity to observe their selves occupying liminal, travelling spaces in the form of the public house or inn. After motion and stasis, the third abstracted aspect of movement through space, which this thesis has discussed, is looking. In the country house journals of Caroline Powys and Horace Walpole, writing about visiting country houses was a process of describing being in and moving through the house, as much as the contained space of the house itself. In these texts, representing movement through space was a process of inscription and appropriation, as experiences of being there, were made their own by recording personal time spent looking. In Chapter FiVe, writing an experience of movement through space is more closely related to time, and in particular to a period of time, as tourists Joseph Budworth and James Boswell turned personal experience into scenic tableaux in order to capture and share with others their own travelling time as public memory. Turning travelling time into memory is one aspect with which all home tours and travel narratives engage, both during, and after the travelling experience, and it is a fitting end to the metaphorical journey in this thesis that movement through space ends here, with a self-conscious investigation into how experience becomes its representation in writing. In all, this thesis has demonstrated that late eighteenth-century home tours and travel narratives benefit from an investigation which abstracts travel as movement through space, and considers how motion, stasis, looking and writing are implicated in the process of producing a travelling experience as literary discourse. In all of these investigations, 'home travels' has been an elastic term which reflects the heterogeneity of this mode of writing by selecting fragments, journals, diaries and books; rural and urban journeys; tours, fleeting visits and long stays. Consequently, as home tours and travel narratives display a spirit of enquiry which focuses on a traveller's own experience of being on the move - wherever they happen to be, and however they are traveljing - this thesis opens up eighteenth-century travel writing as a mode of