Tuesday, February 24, 2015

The Often Futile Efforts to Tame the Unmannerly Poor, by Diane Scott Lewis

In my research for my 18th century novels, I often find interesting, and downright bizarre historical details.

The Society for the Reformation of Manners was founded in 1691 in London. While concerned with brothels and prostitution, it also insisted that the poor (because the rich would never behave in such a way) needed instruction to tame their lewd and blasphemous behaviors.


In league with the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge, the organization concerned itself with the morals and manners of those creatures who were less fortunate, and therefore, easily led astray.
Since the Revolution of 1688, England believed she had a special connection with divine providence, and must live up to that standard. Reformer Josiah Woodward opined that: “National sins deserve national judgments.”

In Bristol, England, a local “manners” society started prosecuting people for swearing and other indecent behavior.
People were beaten and put in pillories for these infractions. A woman was arrested for “Disorderly Walking.”

In 1704, Bristol’s poor were referred to as “lousing like swarms of locusts in every corner of the streets.” The indigent were morally contaminating the urban environment by their very appearance.

Workhouses and infirmaries were tasked with taming the poor. In one workhouse, groups of pauper girls were stripped, washed and given decent clothes, because outward changes led to inner ones. Appearance, behavior, and moral worth were all the same. They were then sent to hard labor. The girls’ emotions and personal feelings were never a consideration.
If the poor became ill, they couldn’t enter the infirmary unless they had clean clothes, because only respectable paupers should be healed. Charities were relied upon to provide these items. Inside the infirmary, no smoking, dice or cards was allowed as the people should be removed from corrupt influences. Patients were exposed to daily prayers, and some establishments had Biblical texts painted on the walls. Every ward had Bibles or prayer books, ignoring the fact that the majority of the poor couldn’t read.

St. Peter's Hospital (formally the Bristol Mint)

Hospitals and infirmaries were expected to cure the underprivileged of extravagance, cursing, and contempt of authority. Unfortunately, there was no mention of the cure of bodily ills.
Charity schools taught religion and compliance, but little about how to improve your lot in life.

The indulgent upper classes believed that everyone should know and remain in their proper place. The poor would stay poor, but should work hard and behave themselves. If work was difficult to find, and people starved, they should never swear about it and still attend church every Sunday, or they’d end up in gaol. 

The reason the lower orders were so ill-behaved was attributed to England’s liberal freedoms.
The Bristol society of manners eventually withered away when no one bothered to attend meetings anymore.
Clergyman Josiah Tucker called the poor brutal, insolent, debauched, and idle in their religion. He claimed that England was so careful of personal freedoms that “our People are drunk with the cup of Liberty.” His sermons became so damning, that he was followed in the streets by pauper boys who hurled insults at him. The refining of the poor obviously wasn’t working.

 
Resource: Patients, Power, and the Poor in Eighteenth-Century Bristol, by Mary E. Fissell, 1991

For more on the turbulent eighteenth century, check out my novels:
http://www.dianescottlewis.org

Monday, February 23, 2015

The Art of Craft by Victoria Chatham


I’ve just come back from my old hometown of Stroud, in Gloucestershire, in the UK. Development has drastically altered the face of the town, but the basics don’t change. The High Street is still as narrow but thankfully now pedestrianized. Imagine this with two way traffic, including buses and trucks.

Stroud itself nestles at the convergence of five valleys in the Cotswold Escarpment. The valleys were termed the Golden Valleys, due to the industry that once thrived there. So what does this have to do with art and craft?

Laurie Lee, the author of Cider With Rose, lived in the Slad Valley. Jilly Cooper, Joanna Trollope and Katie Fforde also live in and around Stroud. Katie Fforde particularly, uses Stroud for her settings. While writing is a craft with which all authors usually have a love/hate relationship, it is more generic art and craft I’m thinking of today.

One definition of craft is the skill in doing or making something, as in the arts or an occupation or trade requiring manual dexterity or skilled artistry. That being so, I claim to be a crafter for having knitted a tea cozy as a Christmas gift for a friend last year. Now, I had not knitted anything in well over twenty years and I know for a fact the last tea cozy I knitted was Christmas, 1965. So how does this tie in to my old stamping grounds?

The Cotswolds were once famous for their sheep, a mostly white breed useful for both meat and wool and which is now on the Rare Breeds list. It is said they grazed the hillsides before the Romans arrived. The hills they grazed on got their name from the old Anglo-Saxon for sheep pens, or cottes, and wealds, meaning a high windswept place.

I doubt the wool for my tea cozy came from any such sheep, but the trade is commemorated today in Stroud by this piece of statuary at the top of the High Street.
Pubs such as the Wool Pack and the Ram and the annual Tetbury woolsack races all have their roots in the wool trade which began in the Middle Ages. At one time water from the River Frome powered no less than 150 mills along the valley bottoms. These mills have now been repurposed, most recently Ebley Mill which is now the home of the Stroud District Council.


As transport by road was so difficult, time consuming and costly, the advent of the canal system made a huge impact for local business owners. The Cotswold Canal system extends for 36 miles, and rises 362 feet above sea level by a series of 56 locks along its length. The link between the River Thames and the River Severn was via the Sapperton Tunnel, once the longest canal tunnel in England at 2.17 miles (3.49 kms) long. It is no longer navigable due to the roof having collapsed in several places but it is hoped that it will one day be restored.

The art of craft in this tunnel is in the brickwork and the architecture of the portals, Daneway at  the west end of the tunnel and Coates shown here at the east end.
A large part of this canal system has been restored, but canal work parties formed entirely of volunteers tidy towpaths, fund raise and commemorate their work with these colorful murals beneath a bridge. This panel depicts the Cotswold sheep and a hot air balloon. Ballooning is popular in the area.


Whether it is a mullioned window set in a 15th century hall, an ornamental ironwork lamp above the gateway leading into the churchyard or an oak lock gate, the art of craft abounds in this part of the world. I love it there and am always sad to leave. Now I'm back in Canada it's time to return to my craft, so it's back to the keyboard and my work in progress.

Find out more about Victoria Chatham at:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php
www.victoriachatham.webs.com
www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham




Sunday, February 22, 2015

Excerpt from Ursula, Sisters of Prophecy, Book 1 by Jude Pittman and Gail Roughton


Ursula, Sisters of Prophecy, Book 1

By Jude Pittman and  Gail Roughton

What’s a girl to do? Beautiful young artist Katherine Shipton has a painting that talks, an ancestor who won’t stay in her own century, and a former boyfriend with a serious ax to grind against her new fiancé. She already has a full plate, but when said ancestor sends her tripping back and forth between the 15th and 21st century without benefit of psychedelic drugs, the poor girl begins to doubt her own sanity. Then her best friend, a high fashion model with more than her own share of psychic energy, and her troubleshooting aunt show up on her doorstep in response to a psychic SOS Katherine swears she didn’t send. Life couldn't get more complicated. At least, that's what she thinks until her oilman fiancé disappears in the Gulf of Mexico and a DEA agent knocks on her door.
"A delightful read with twists and turns, quirky characters, a bit of darkness and some snappy dialogue. The authors maneuver between the 16th and 21st centuries with ease, adding authenticity through well researched historical data. While the characters from the two eras have their own stories, their lives are interlocked like the pieces of a puzzle. Putting those pieces together is much of the fun. Jude Pittman and Gail Roughton have successfully blended their styles into a rollicking good read . . . the first in a series. The closure at the end of Book 1 is much appreciated, as well as the tantalizing teasers which left me anxiously awaiting Irene's story in Book 2. I can easily recommend Sisters of Prophecy - Ursula, and after reading it, I'm sure you will, too." ~ 4 Stars, Deborah Sanders

"I've got to say that there is some dialog between a savvy female police interrogator and a cocky, not so smart male criminal that I thought was just the BEST and left me howling. Holy mackerel, that was just fabulous! I am glad there will be more to this series & look forward to Irene's story in 2015. Rest assured there is more to come but this book ends on a satisfying high note and NOT one of those pesky cliffhangers. Nice start to a series that celebrates the powerful love of "Sisters" no matter how they come into your life." ~ 5 Stars, Lomg Time DF Fan

 
"It was quick, but it was also exciting and interesting. I think many readers will find it enjoyable and a good read for a sunny afternoon or an evening indoors. It’s definitely a fast read, and it will entertain without eating away your entire day." ~ 4 Stars, OnlineBookClub.org



Excerpt:

Katherine flew through darkness. Dream darkness. Toward something. Sound barely audible coalesced and rose in volume, forming words. Beneath these gray stone walls I stand, an ancient gypsy king… The darkness lightened into shades of gray and a tower loomed.
A boat approached the tower. Inside, a woman, in Katherine’s likeness. Not her, but near enough to be of her lineage. Floating over the woman, Katherine watched. A man, dressed as an ancient workman, fixed the boat against the steps leading up to the looming tower. Reaching down, he helped the woman from the boat, and pulled her toward a dark stairwell.
Another, in uniform, nodded to the oarsman, and took the woman’s hand. His flickering torch gave barely enough light for the woman to make her way up the stone steps as she groped along behind him. The steps crumbled, and twice the woman almost fell when her feet slipped on the damp stone.
A fierce roar sounded in the night and Katherine knew it as a lion. The guard stopped in front of a scarred wooden door, and pushed it inward. The flicker from his torch revealed a small barren chamber, with scant furnishing and a stone floor. Against the wall stood a crude bed with a single bed covering. The guard motioned the woman inside. She stumbled across the room and sank onto the bed. The guard used his torch to light a single candle. Then without a word, turned and left the cell.
The woman curled into herself. Great sobs shook her body.
Katherine floated back out into the courtyard. Standing in the corner an old man, dressed in the garb of a medieval gypsy, chanted.
“With heavy heart I bear the words of cruelest Mary Queen…”
Mary Queen? Tower? The scene changed in an instant, dream-fashion. Now she floated back to the cell. The same rough cot and threadbare blanket covered a still figure.
“These words I take in sorrow drear unto a lady fair…”
On cue, the woman rose from the cot and entered her dreams. Nobility for certain, possibly even royalty. Her time in the cell had dulled her eyes and matted her hair but yes, the chant was right. She’d been a lady fair. She would be so again, given fresh air and sunshine.
A lady who from birth was blest with visions strange but rare…
The door of the cell opened and the old gypsy entered the cell.
“Tarot! My dear, dear friend! How good it is to see you!” The lady ran into his arms, and he held her to his breast.
“Milady.”
“My grandmother. My husband and son. Is there news?”
“Your grandmother is well and fights ceaselessly for your release. Your husband—there’s been no news from Russia. Except that he pleads for intercession from the Russian Court.”
She smiled sadly. “I can just imagine how much he pleads. He is afeard he’ll be tainted with the same brush that’s painted me.”
“No, Milady! He is doing all he can.”
“Tarot, dear friend, ’tis a very bad liar you are, but I love you for it. Prince Frederick makes no effort on my behalf. He has abandoned me. As have all, in the face of the Queen’s disfavor. All but you and Grandmother. And I bear them no ill for such. ’Tis asking too much to expect them to stand with me and risk a charge of witchcraft.” She shrugged. “And for the prince, a chance to rid himself of a disappointing wife who only bore him one son.”
“Oh, Milady! It hurts me so to hear you speak as though resigned to fate.”
“Dear friend. Do not despair. My heart has always belonged to another, that fate sealed from childhood. If only I’d been stronger, surer! If only I’d followed my heart and run away with my Toby when—”
She broke off, her face losing all expression.
“Milady? What—a vision! ’Tis a vision you’re seeing. Cease fighting them! Use them! Use the power!”
“I—Tarot, someone’s watching us.”
“Watching? I bribed the guards well. They have no cause to—”
“No, not the guards! Someone from—someone not here. Someone who sees us, who knows me. Knows me in her soul. Someone who can—dare I say it? Someone who can help me! Help me change the start of this disastrous path!”
In her dream, Katherine tried to leave, to get away. Enough of this misery that wasn’t hers. Except it was. Somehow it was hers.
“Oh, please! Please don’t leave! Help me! Help us!
“How?” The dream Katherine spoke. “How do I help you?”
“I cannot tell you!”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“The portrait! Yes, I see it. There’s a painting, a painting yet unfinished! ’Twill show you the way! It must show you the way, or you will never be.”
“Milady? Your vision speaks to you?”
“The portrait! The portrait will know!”
The portrait will know…the portrait will know…the portrait will know…
The words followed Katherine back through the depths of the dream and echoed in her ears when she woke, gasping into wakefulness.




Popular Posts

Books We Love Insider Blog

Blog Archive