Jane Austen's World

This article was researched, written, and designed by LiYuan Byrne, Josephine Chan, Ariana Desai, Carolyn Engargiola, Ava Giles, Macy Levin, Gage Miles, Sophia Romagnoli, Kate Snyder, Oscar Steinhardt, Lauren Stoneman, Alexandria Thomas, Varsha Venkatram, and Dr. Ben Wiebracht.

Introduction to this class project

This article is by the teacher and students of “Advanced Topics: Love Stories” at Stanford Online High School. It is part of a class-wide project to explore the city that so dazzled Catherine Morland, but about which Austen herself had mixed feelings. We started with the 1795 satire “Bath: An Adumbration in Rhyme” – a roughly eight page poem by little-known poet John Matthews. The poem is chock-full of allusions and references to Bath institutions – some still familiar, like the Pump Room and the Royal Crescent; others long forgotten, like the riding school of Jonathan Dash. Working in small groups, the students consulted a wide array of sources to track down these many references, and in so doing reconstruct a typical day in the life of a Georgian visitor to Bath. They looked through old guidebooks to the city, published scholarship on Georgian Bath, old Parliamentary records, newspapers from the time, and much else. They also had the benefit of a virtual visit from two experts familiar to readers of JAW: Vic Sanborn and Tony Grant. Then, they distilled their mountain of research into what we hope is an informative and enjoyable article, one that does justice to the playful spirit of our poem, and indeed, of Northanger Abbey itself.

When Northanger Abbey was finally being prepared for publication in 1817, nearly twenty years after its composition, Austen worried that the novel had missed its moment. Anticipating criticism on that score, she included an “Advertisement” warning that “places, manners, books and opinions have undergone considerable changes.” This was particularly true of the city of Bath, where the first half of the novel is set. The thriving Georgian resort town that Catherine Morland discovers had lost much of its luster by the late Regency as the upper classes, disdainful of the new, middle-class visitors to the city, sought out other retreats (see Akiko Takei, “Sanditon and the Uncertain Prospects of a Resort Business”). Austen’s advertisement is a reminder that her novels, immortal though they may be as works of art, are still very much grounded in time and place.

This semester, my students and I have been working to recover the Bath of the 1790s. Our rather unexpected guide has been a long-forgotten satirical poem that I discovered over the summer: “Bath: An Adumbration in Rhyme” (1795), by the Herefordshire physician and poetaster John Matthews (see the full text here). The poem describes a typical day in the Bath season, from the morning trip to the Pump Room to an afternoon stroll along the Royal Crescent to the inevitable evening ball at the Upper or Lower Assembly Rooms. The poem is hardly fine verse, but it is a fun read, tripping along in four-beat couplets and cracking good-natured jokes about the vanity of Bath life. For readers of Jane Austen, it is also a rich source of information. As Matthews ribs and roasts his way through the town, he touches on many of the places and customs that Catherine herself experiences, often in ways that help us better appreciate Austen’s own treatment of the city.

The students spent almost two months tracking down the allusions in this poem, placing it in its literary and historical context, and drawing connections between it and Northanger Abbey. Our article is truly a collaborative project – both the research and the prose. And, we’re not quite done with Matthews yet! Next semester, we hope to publish a new edition of Matthews’ “Adumbration,” complete with an introduction and annotations, and designed specifically for readers of Jane Austen. For now, we offer you a day in Catherine Morland’s Bath, courtesy of John Matthews!

Morning

The Pump Room

Of all the gay cities in Britain renowned,

Dear Bath is the place where most pleasure is found.

There alone is true breeding, politeness, and ease;

You have nothing to do, but each other to please.

There the circle of day is one scene of delight,

From morning to noon, from noon until night;

For if dull in the morning, you open your eyes,

You may run to the Pump Room as soon as you rise,

[…]

So the Beaux in their boots, the Belles in their slippers,

Come to walk up and down and peep at the dippers,

For though strange it appears, I’d have you to know,

Whilst you’re drinking above, some are bathing below,

And each glass of water, brought up by the pumps,

Contains the quintessence of half-a-score rumps.

Oh my! Our poem begins with some rather indecorous insinuations. Could it really be true that the supposed healing waters of Bath were literal bath waters, and that lecherous men could watch women bathe from the Pump Room?

In reality, the Pump Room was located at the site of the old Roman baths, where mineral water from hot springs was ingeniously pumped up and served to guests. The water was thought to have curative properties, thus making Bath a popular destination for wealthy invalids. Eighteenth-century aristocrats had the choice between descending below to relax in the baths, or drinking the mineral water in the Pump Room above the pools, giving some the perfect vantage point to peep at the underdressed bathers (cotton tends to mold to the skin!). Matthews’ racy joke that some may have visited the Pump Room to catch a glimpse of others bathing was, surprisingly, true. Fortunately, despite what rumor-mongers like Matthews might say, it was completely untrue that drinking water was pumped up from the baths below, and that those who frequented the Pump Room partook of the “quintessence of rumps”! 

And frequent they did: the Pump Room was a staple of the Bath morning routine. It was a popular, casual meeting place for visitors to “parade up and down for an hour,” conduct private conversations with friends, or search for their crush! Catherine hastens to the Pump Room several times over the course of her stay in Bath, once anxiously checking the Pump Room book to see if Henry Tilney is still in Bath, and another time consulting it for his address. The Pump Room book was a register with the names of everyone currently staying in Bath: a good way to keep tabs on interesting young men or women! All in all, the Pump Room was an important institution in the Bath marriage market. With a register of guests (with addresses), inbuilt opportunities to spy on the opposite sex, and a standard morning routine that nearly everyone followed, the Pump Room treated lovesickness at least as effectively as gout!

The New Arrivals

Having there drank enough to banish the spleen,

You go home to breakfast with appetite keen;

But as strong tea is apt to give people the vapours,

After that ‘twill be proper to read the newspapers,

To behold where your own name appears in the list

Of arrivals at Bath, where Sir Sawny MacTwist,

And Lady O’Connor, with Mynheer Van Prow,

All figure away in the very same row.

Sure such honor as this, must make a man vain,

And chase all the megrims that trouble his brain.

Leaving behind the Pump Room and its dubious refreshments, Matthews escorts us back to our rented lodgings for breakfast – one of the few private moments a visitor was likely to enjoy during a day in Bath. There we peruse the newspapers, but not for news. The Bath papers all featured a weekly list of new arrivals in town, organized by rank. For January 7, 1784, to take an example at random, the Bath Chronicle begins the list with “Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire,” proceeds through an array of lesser nobility and gentry, and concludes with (one suspects) a number of spinsters: “Miss Mitchell, Miss Hervey, Miss Praed, Miss Danvers, Miss Portley, &c. &c.” Where you fell in the list, as Matthews hints, was a matter of some concern. 

The famous list of Bath arrivals does, interestingly enough, make an appearance in Austen’s novels, and exactly where you would expect it to. Sir Walter Elliott learns from it that his aristocratic relatives Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret have arrived in Bath. If anyone in Bath were to be studying the list of arrivals, it would be the intensely rank-conscious Sir Walter!

Afternoon

Town and Country

When you’ve with politics done, the beauties to meet,

You may stroll for an hour up and down Milsom Street;

Where the Misses so smart, at ev’ry fine shop,

Like rabbits in burrows, just in and out pop;

Where booted and spurred, the gay macaronies,

Bestride Mandell’s counter instead of their ponies,

Preferring the pleasure of ‘tending the fair,

To breathing the freshness of Lansdown’s pure air;

Besides, ‘tis the tippy’ and more in the flash,

To canter away in the school of old Dash.

Time to sally forth again! From breakfast, Matthews shifts the scene to fashionable Milsom Street, where the best shopping in Bath was to be had. In the shop of the milliner Elizabeth Mandell, we meet a swaggering set of “macaronies” – foppish, overdressed fellows who embody both the pleasure-loving spirit of Bath and its absurd vanity. Despite their flashy spurs, these pompous bachelors are apparently less interested in riding than preening for the ladies. When they do ride, they limit themselves to a trot around the yard of Jonathan Dash’s riding school. Lansdown Hill, a popular and scenic destination nine miles from the city proper, is much beyond their range. Thus the town-bound macaronies will never know the pleasure of “pure air” – one of the few luxuries not for sale in crowded, smelly Bath (more on the aromas of Bath later…).

Matthews suggests that a young man might venture to Lansdown instead of “’tending the fair,” (read: courting the ladies), but as John Thorpe shows, the two could be done at the same time. Careful readers of Northanger Abbey might remember that John Thorpe offers Catherine a ride up Lansdown Hill during their first meeting in Bath. The Tilneys and Catherine, on the other hand, choose to traverse Beechen Cliff – the closer, more natural, and perhaps less frequented location. Jane Austen walked both Lansdown Hill and Beechen Cliff during her time in Bath, and in Northanger Abbey, she may be using the two locations to draw a distinction between Catherine’s two suitors. The hour-to-two-hours-long carriage ride to Lansdown Hill would provide the perfect occasion for Bath gallants hoping to be in close quarters with young women — how scandalous! Mr. Allen questions the propriety of such carriage rides, thinking it “an odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by young men, to whom they are not even related.” It makes sense that the cocksure, indecorous John Thorpe would propose such a thing to Catherine. Henry’s choice of the more respectable walking trip to Beechen Cliff (with his sister accompanying them) may be Austen’s way of offering him as the more thoughtful and substantive option for Catherine.

The Masters of Ceremony

Next on the parades, you must walk for a while,

Then to lounge at the pump again is the style;

For at Bath, goddess Trivia has ‘stablished her throne,

And even Pleasure is managed by rules of her own,

And her laws are so good, that ‘twere pity to break ‘em,

So there’s appointed two priests, to make people keep ‘em.

Them her Masters of Ceremony Folly here calls,

Who preside o’er the concerts, the assemblies, and balls;

The one is named Tyson, the other called King,

Who wear each a gold medal, tied fast to a string.

On grave Tyson’s bright bauble, Minerva is seen,

But on King’s (much more proper) is Beauty’s fair Queen;

For Wisdom with Fashion can never be found,

But too often with Folly does Beauty abound.

Baubles? Kings and Queens? What is Mr. Matthews talking about here? Well, Richard Tyson and James King were Masters of Ceremony in Bath, responsible for “presiding over social functions, welcoming newcomers, and enforcing an official code of regulations designed to preserve decorum and promote social interaction” (Gores, Psychosocial Spaces: Verbal and Visual Readings of British Culture, 1750-1820, p. 71). Though it wasn’t part of the official job description, the Masters of Ceremony were also matchmakers, personally visiting everyone who arrived at Bath and then, especially at balls, seamlessly introducing them to each other. Indeed, were it not for Mr. King, who oversaw the Lower Assembly Rooms, Henry and Catherine may never have met at all: “the master of the ceremonies introduced [Catherine] to a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner;- his name was Tilney”! As for the “gold medals,” the Masters of Ceremony were given official medallions for their roles as Arbitres Elegantiarum or “Judges of Style”. Mr. Tyson’s medallion was engraved with the somber Minerva, goddess of wisdom and war, whom the city’s Roman founders associated with the hot springs. Mr. King’s medallion, meanwhile, featured the graceful Venus, goddess of beauty and love. Matthews considers Venus the “more proper” patroness for the city. While there isn’t much wisdom to be found among the fashionable follies of Bath, there is, he concedes, plenty of beauty! (See The New Bath Guide, 1799, p. 67).

This isn’t the only passage, by the way, in which Matthews invokes classical gods and goddesses. The poem abounds with such references. This was characteristic of the eighteenth-century “mock epic” style, which found humor in describing trivial events in a lofty tone. Seen another way, though, the Roman gods may have actually provided an appropriate parallel for Bath life. Despite their power and beauty, the Roman gods had terrible tempers, exploited their inferiors (mortals) for their own gratification, and were generally rather rotten to each other: not a far cry from General Tilney and his rakish elder son.

Evening

The Belles of the Ball

Having paraded the Crescent full two hours or more,

For our dinners, ‘tis usual to part about four,

In eating and dressing, employ ‘till near nine,

And then to the ball to repair it is time,

That scene of enchantment, so truly divine,

Where mortals, like angels, transcendently shine.

To attempt to describe it, I fear is in vain:

So much beauty on all sides, quite turns my weak brain.

But I’ll muster up courage, and banish my fears,

For who can be silent, when Witham appears?

In the minuet so graceful, who’ere sees her move

Must than marble be harder or else he must love.

When the Gubbins’ advance, arrayed with each grace,

You’d swear they were daughters of Aether’s soft race;

And Browne’s diamond eyes, armed with love-piercing darts,

Whenever they’re seen, wound a hundred fond hearts.

Ah, the public ball – the apex of Bath amusement, and a near-daily ritual for some Bath-goers. If, reading Northanger Abbey, it seemed to you as though Catherine was at some ball or other almost every night, you weren’t far off. There were four public balls a week during the Bath season, two at the Upper Assembly Rooms and two at the Lower Assembly Rooms. Each one consisted of two sets of dances: first the more precise minuets, then the livelier and less formal country dances, with a break for tea in between. Benches were set up in the ballroom for those who preferred to watch the dancing, and there was a room set aside for cards as well.

Who are the paragons who dazzle the company in this passage: Witham, the Gubbins’, and Browne? At first, we assumed Matthews had made them up. “Gubbins” in particular didn’t strike us as a plausible name, and we knew from elsewhere in the poem that Matthews delighted in the invention of ridiculous designations (“Lady Flutter,” “Miss Di-Puddle,” “Colonel Mushroom”). However, according to the Bath papers, a certain Hon. Miss Browne, daughter of Lady Browne, did visit Bath several times in the early nineties, and often led the minuets thanks to her high rank. And indeed, it turns out that a pair of sisters by the name of Gubbins also resided at Bath during the time. One, Honora, was a beauty and an accomplished singer, remembered at her death as the “accomplished and lovely Honora Gubbins, whose amiable disposition, vocal powers, and refined taste, were the theme of universal praise.” (The Athenaeum, 1807).

It is interesting to picture these long-forgotten belles of the ball alongside our own, humbler Catherine, who excited no “rapturous wonder, no eager inquiry” upon her debut in Bath. The Hon. Miss Browne and the accomplished and lovely Honora Gubbins may have ruled the ballroom in their day, but it is their unassuming fictional sister, with not much more than a good heart and a love of life to recommend her, who has lived on in the world’s imagination ever since. 

A Mad Dash for Tea

The minuets over, see the crowd how it presses,

What havoc is made on the ladies’ fine dresses!

Distinction of rank, in a moment is gone,

And all eager for tea in one mass now move on;

Even the peeresses’ selves, for whom benches were kept,

Angry with the torrent, impetuous are swept;

And Mistress O’ Darby, the dealer in butter,

Now sweats by the side of the sweet Lady Flutter,

Who would certainly faint, but her senses so nice,

Are supported by smelling fat Alderman Spice;

Whilst his Worship’s white wig, almost smothers the face

Of her dainty young cousin, the dear Lady Grace.

The Countess of Pharo is forced to huddle

Between Doctor Squirt and his niece, Miss Di-Puddle;

Sir Stephen Newmarket, Sir Simon Profuse,

The Ladies St. Larum, and old Madam Goose;

For Commoners now so saucy are grown,

That Cabbage the tailor, Lady Tombstone,

The Duchess of Basset, and Marquis de Frieze

All bundle together in one loving squeeze.

One of the most memorable moments in a Bath ball was the transition from the first set of dances to tea. Matthews devotes about a tenth of his poem to those few chaotic minutes, and for good reason: they are comedic gold. If the minuet was a picture of Bath society at its best – a graceful display of beauty and breeding – the mad stampede to the tea room was Bath society at its hilarious worst.

The most immediate danger was simply that of being squashed. Even before the rush, it was hard enough navigating the jam-packed ballroom. Mrs. Allen and Catherine Morland are nearly “torn asunder” as they try to squeeze through, and Tobias Smollett’s Matthew Bramble contracts a sort of “sea-sickness” from the churning of the crowd (The Expedition of Humphry Clinker. The imagery of waves and currents was common in descriptions of the crowds, perhaps a joke on the bathing sites the city was known for). But when the crowd reached the bottleneck of the tea-room door, all best were off. It was the fortunate lady who escaped with her sartorial integrity intact. Mrs. Allen, Catherine Morland’s chaperone in Bath, is relieved to have “preserved her gown from injury” during the tea-room rush, but few of the ladies in the “Adumbration”’s ball, we suspect, have been so lucky.

Then there was the assault on the senses. Little as we see of the phenomenon in BBC period pieces, the Georgians sweat. When they crowded themselves into a poorly ventilated ballroom and danced vigorously for several hours under chandeliers of candles dripping hot wax, on polished wooden floors that trapped heat, they sweat all the more. And Matthews isn’t about to let us forget it: noblemen sweat (“Sir Simon Profuse”) and professional men sweat (“Dr. Squirt”); males sweat and females sweat (“Miss Di-Puddle”). And when they sweat, they smelled. Matthews’ limits himself to a light joke on the subject of stenches: the delicate Lady Flutter nearly faints in the presence of Mistress O’Darby, but rallies, as though by hartshorn, thanks to the even more pungent “Alderman Spice.” Other satirists were less restrained. Smollett’s Matthew Bramble offers this rather gruesome description of the smells of a Bath ball: 

Imagine to yourself a high exalted essence of mingled odours, arising from putrid gums, imposthumated lungs, sour flatulencies, rank armpits, sweating feet, running sores and issues, plasters, ointments, and embrocations, hungary-water, spirit of lavender, assafoetida drops, musk, hartshorn, and sal volatile; besides a thousand frowsy steams, which I could not analyze. Such, O Dick! is the fragrant aether we breathe in the polite assemblies of Bath. (The Expedition of Humphry Clinker)

But Matthews hints at a larger danger in this scene as well: the danger of social mixing. To be sure, some mixing of the classes was part of the charm of Bath. As the 1796 edition of The New Bath Guide puts it, “Ceremony beyond the essential rules of politeness is totally exploded; every one mixes in the Rooms upon an equality.” During a ball, this vision would be fully realized. The flowing currents of the minuet would swirl the visitors together without excessive regard for station or birth. Exciting affairs of the heart would precipitate out of the joyful mixture. The magic certainly works for Catherine and Henry. She is the daughter of a middle-class clergyman in rural Wiltshire; he is the son of a fabulously wealthy landowner living eleven hours away. Their social circles are totally separate. Where is such to pair to meet, but at a public ball in Bath? As Matthews’ crowd squeezes through the doors to the tea-room, however, we get a very different picture of social mixing: duchesses and baronets quite literally colliding with tailors and merchants. The absurd competition for tea and personal space between Mistress O’Darby (who sells butter) and Lady Flutter is a particularly obvious affront to the British class system. Evidently, Mistress O’Darby’s awe and respect for nobility don’t go for much when refreshments are on the line!

Interestingly enough, it was just such an influx of lower-middle-class visitors that eventually drove the gentry and aristocracy out of Bath. We see a little of this snobbery already in Northanger Abbey, when General Tilney declares that there is “nothing to detain me longer in Bath” after two of his upper-crusty friends – a marquis and another general – fail to show up.

Tea Time

Arrived at the tea room and compliments past,

Behold them sat down into parties at last:

But the tea-table-chat so fully is known,

‘Tis scarcely worthwhile by the Muse to be shown.

There’s such a damned noise and such a cursed clatter,

A bawling for sugar, for cream, and hot water,

None seem very anxious a long time to stay,

But just swallow their tea, and hasten away;

For the young ones, allured by the fiddle’s brisk notes,

Make their mothers and aunts near scald their old throats;

So many a character ‘scapes being dissected,

And Scandal, for once, is for dancing neglected.

After battling their way to the tea-room, Matthews’ ball-goers are finally seated, only for fresh commotions to break out as the guests clamor for their tea. While Matthews emphasizes the noisiness of the scene, the tea-drinking process was actually a rule-bound affair. To enter the tea-room, guests would have to pay an extra sixpence on top of the pricey seasonal subscription that granted them access to the balls. After paying this fee, women had yet another obstacle in acquiring refreshments: they could not eat without a man’s help. The food was generally set at a long table at one end of the room but women, for decorum’s sake, were not permitted to go up and get it. A man had to serve them. During Catherine’s first ball at Bath in Northanger Abbey, she and Mrs. Allen find themselves in this hungry predicament — in the tea-room but with no man to bring them anything. When a gentleman at their table finally notices them and makes an “offer of tea,” no wonder it is “thankfully accepted”!  But even with refreshments secured, tea at a Bath ball was hardly an opportunity for leisure or relaxed conversation. Matthews notes the way ball-goers “swallow their tea, and hasten away” and how the young people “[m]ake their mothers and aunts, near scald their old throats” trying to quickly return to some more intriguing or exciting aspect of the ball (usually the dancing). All in all, Matthews’ view is that tea at a Bath ball was something to be accomplished rather than enjoyed.

What about Austen? To be sure, during her first ball, Catherine mainly yawns her way through the tea break – with no one but Mrs. Allen and a transient, if polite, gentleman neighbor to talk to. But at her second ball, a certain Mr. Tilney changes the equation: the two converse happily through the entire tea break, and dance again when it is over. Tilney provides an escape for Catherine from the otherwise shallow “tea-table-chat”; in fact, the first words we hear from Henry in the novel are a mocking imitation of that chat:

I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”

This is a sign that Henry both understands how tea-room conversations were done in Bath, and has the wit and originality to do them differently.

The Country Dances

Country dance, of all others, best pleases the fair,

When the Belles and the Beaux so agreeably pair,

When each lovesick nymph may hear her dear swain,

In whispering murmurs, declare his sweet pain;

Where the sigh, and the smile, and the soft gentle squeeze,

All contribute the hearts of each other to ease;

Where no prudish aunts, through old-maidenly spite,

Can hinder these symptoms of youthful delight.

But stop, my rash pen, it is time you should cease;

‘Tis dangerous to dwell on such subjects as these.

For if, presumptuous, you venture to trace

In the maze of the dance, who moves with most grace,

You will find it a task, not so easy to tell:

It’s an art wherein beauties so many excel.

But yet, I should hold you not a little to blame,

Forgot you to mention the charming Miss Vane;

The Butlers and Hamilton, Vassal and Mays,

So justly entitled to share in your praise.

Rehydrated and refreshed, the Bath-ites hit the ballroom for one more round of dances! It is no surprise that the country dance “best pleases the fair” as it provides more of a chance to converse, or perhaps flirt, than other ballroom dances such as the minuet. This is because each couple spent a good part of the dance waiting for other couples to complete their movements, allowing for more conversation. Thus, while Catherine and Mr. Tilney have “little leisure for speaking” while dancing a minuet at their first meeting, they are able to have a complete, lively conversation during the country-dances at a later ball. But the country-dances certainly weren’t all talk! The hand-in-hand steps afforded moments of physical intimacy, too. All of which is to say, the “whispering murmurs” and the “soft gentle squeeze” that Matthews hints at here are both quite plausible. 

Matthews also gives us a taste of who might be enjoying the country-dances by singling out five names among the rest of the charming “beauties.” We believe that, as in his account of the minuets, he is referring to real women here. One Elizabeth Vassall, for example, daughter of the wealthy American landowner and loyalist John Vassall, resided in Bath during the early 1790s. But the more suggestive name is Hamilton. Could Matthews be referring to the dazzling Lady Emma Hamilton, best remembered today as the lover of Admiral Nelson, but already famous in the early 1790s for her high-profile affairs and stunning beauty? In the 1780s, she was the subject of a series of paintings by the great portrait artist George Romney, who also painted John Matthews and his wife. And she made a memorable appearance at Bath in 1791, during which she exhibited for the Duchess of Devonshire her “attitudes” – artistic poses meant to evoke characters and scenes from antiquity. But while Lady Hamilton may have been beautiful and graceful, but she was also a socially disruptive character who challenged Georgian notions of respectability and class. The English aristocracy sniffed at her mean origins and were shocked (or pretended to be shocked) by her affairs, even as they gaped at her portraits and devoured the papers for news of her doings. All in all, if the Lady Hamilton is present at Matthews’ ball, it instantly becomes a much spicier affair! 

The Card Room

But the ballroom’s so hot, ‘tis stifling to stay,

So now to the cardroom, let’s hasten away!

See old Mistress Macardo and Counsellor Gabble,

Young Colonel Mushroom and Alderman Dabble,

At whist down together most lovingly sit;

Was ever a party so happily met?

The first, who though toothless, her prayers never said;

A lawyer the next, who a brief never read;

The third, a field officer, just out of the cradle;

And the last, an old beast who lives but at table.

As the country dances heat up (literally), Matthews escorts us to the cooler air of the card room, where those disinclined to dance could play. He introduces us to a party playing whist, a four-player, trick-building game that, according to historian Daniel Pool, had something of a “stodgy” reputation in Austen’s time (see What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew, p. 62-66). Playing largely in silence, a whist party in the card room would have seemed stodgy indeed compared to the spinning, hopping, chatting dancers next door. Nevertheless, in Bath, which attracted so many gouty invalids, seated entertainment was a necessity. Austen’s Mr. Allen heads straight for the card room as soon as he arrives at the Upper Rooms, and doesn’t emerge again until the ball is wrapping up. Hopefully he found a more engaging party there than the one Matthews describes! Among other non-entities, Matthews shows us a lawyer who has never read a brief and a colonel far too young for the rank: more proof of the emptiness of titles among so much of the English upper class.

To Bed

Though much more of the rooms, the concerts, and play

‘Tis true (if he chose it), the Poet might say.

But as through one day of folly you’ve safely been led,

He’ll wish you good night and retire home to bed.

And so Matthews hits the hay after treating us to this “day of folly.” While he is pretty uniformly critical of Bath life – its vanity and pretentiousness, its overly packed ballrooms and possibly contaminated waters – one can’t help but wonder: did Matthews, in the end, actually like the place? 

On Richard Tyson’s official medallion as a Master of Ceremonies was a strange pairing: the visage of Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and beneath it, the cheeky inscription Dulce est desipere in Loco: “It is sweet to act foolish sometimes.” Wisdom and folly sharing the same medallion? It feels like a contradiction! But if so, it was one that suited late Georgian Bath. If you came to the city in a sour mood, determined to stand aloof, you’d have the pleasure of feeling superior and not much else. But if you came with a friendly sense of humor – able to laugh at the place and yet still join in the fun – then you might find that Bath still did have the power to refresh and renew. Wisdom in folly! John Matthews mocks the town, but given the detail of his descriptions, he clearly took full part in its pleasures as well. Henry Tilney makes fun of Bath dances… while in the very act of dancing, and dancing quite happily! And Catherine, while amused by Henry’s satire, doesn’t let it spoil for a moment her delight in the balls, the concerts, the operas, the walks: somehow the satire only makes them more fun! A lesson for life: sometimes the only people who “get the joke” are the ones willing to be part of it.

Questions to the Reader

Reader, we’re curious what you make of John Matthews’ take on late Georgian Bath? Are Matthews and Austen on a wavelength here? Or does the poem rather show us just how original Austen’s satire in Northanger Abbey was? We’re interested in your thoughts and insights!

A note of Thanks: The authors thank Vic Sanborn and Tony Grant for sharing their abundant knowledge of Georgian Bath; Latinist extraordinaire Dr. Thomas Hendrickson for helping with the Latin; and librarian Anna Levia for showing us the ropes of the Stanford Libraries.

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“Look with compassion upon the afflicted of every condition, assuage the pangs of disease, comfort the broken in spirit.” —Jane Austen, Prayers

This time of year—especially during 2020—many people are in need of comfort and compassion. I find it particularly touching that Jane Austen’s own timeless novels and prayers provide messages of hope that never seem to fade or wear out.

When Marianne Dashwood falls ill in Sense and Sensibility, she is “afflicted” in both body and heart. She doesn’t just need the physical “pangs of disease” assuaged; she needs comfort for her broken spirit. Sick at heart, she also lies sick in bed. It is during these difficult days that we see family members and friends coming to her aid to provide the love and care she needs.

First, Elinor spends her days “attending and nursing” Marianne and “carefully administering the cordials prescribed” (ch. 43). When Marianne worsens on the evening of the third day, Elinor notices her altered condition and stays with Marianne while Mrs. Jennings goes to bed, “knowing nothing of any change in the patient.” Anxious to see Marianne rest quietly, she resolves “to sit with her” as she sleeps. When Marianne’s pulse becomes “lower and quicker than ever,” and she suffers hours of “sleepless pain and delirium,” Elinor anxiously calls for the apothecary, sends Colonel Brandon for her mother, and never leaves her bedside.

This example of sisterly love is similar to the type of care Jane and Cassandra Austen provided for their own family members when they were unwell. When their brother Henry became suddenly and severely ill during one of Jane’s visits to him in London, Jane and Cassandra both helped to nurse him. Caroline Austen provides this detail in her memoir, My Aunt Jane: “Aunt Cass. stayed on nearly a month, and Aunt Jane remained some weeks longer, to nurse the convalescent.” And when Jane herself fell ill, Cassandra, along with Mrs. Mary Austen (née Lloyd), to “take a share in the necessary attendance,” went with her and cared for her in Winchester.

Even once Marianne begins to improve, Elinor stays by her side, “with little intermission . . . calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath” (ch. 43). It is only when Elinor is absolutely sure that Marianne is peaceful and sleeping soundly that she can “silence every doubt” and finally quit her post.

Mrs. Jennings, “with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,” also provides as much comfort and practical help as she can during Marianne’s illness: She sends for the Palmers’ apothecary and endeavors, “by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from.” Elinor quickly finds Mrs. Jennings “on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.”

 The morning after Marianne’s long, difficult night, Mrs. Jennings greets Elinor “[w]ith strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid.” Austen tells us “[h]er heart was really grieved.” She is “struck” with concern for Marianne’s life, one who “had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and . . . was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy.” She imagines the “distress” Elinor feels and is awakened to the fact that Marianne must be to Mrs. Dashwood what her own daughter Charlotte is to her: and “her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.”

Finally, Colonel Brandon helps the Dashwood family by staying close at all times and volunteering to bring Mrs. Dashwood to town when Marianne becomes delirious and asks for her mother. When Elinor goes downstairs to the drawing room to ask his advice, “her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.”

The entire Dashwood family is greatly relieved by Colonel Brandon’s help:

“The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon—or such a companion for her mother,—how gratefully was it felt!—a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!—as far as the shock of such a summons COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.”

Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen

Again, during Marianne’s recovery, Colonel Brandon is never far away. He stays in town, visits often, and only returns home when Marianne is well enough to travel back to Barton Cottage with her family.

True to Jane Austen’s style, this portion of the novel also provides us with a message of hope. It’s not just that Marianne’s health improves; it’s also the idea that the long night of anxious waiting doesn’t last forever. That dark hour for Elinor and Marianne does pass. A new day dawns, their mother arrives, and Marianne heals in body and in spirit. Back at Barton Cottage, she once again finds great delight in music and books, walks and nature. And she is eventually able to move forward, finding a deeper, truer love in her marriage to Colonel Brandon than she previously thought possible.

As we enter into this holiday season, perhaps we can find inspiration and hope in the example set by Austen and her characters. Though things look a lot different this year for many of us, we can still provide comfort and compassion in a variety of creative ways. Like Elinor, we can check in and keep careful watch over those who are vulnerable or lonely. Like Mrs. Jennings, we can sympathize and provide for others with genuine concern and generosity. Or, like Colonel Brandon, we can anticipate needs and jump in to help wherever we’re needed.

This year more than ever, we have the opportunity to help those around us, provide care where needed, and extend small kindnesses. We can write, we can call, and we can meet online. We can send gifts and treats and little surprises. And we can share with others those things which give us the most comfort—whether it be a handwritten card, a prayer, a poem, a verse, a piece of music, a handmade gift, or a copy of one of Austen’s beautiful novels.

RACHEL DODGE teaches college English classes, gives talks at libraries, teas, and book clubs, and writes for Jane Austen’s World and Jane Austen’s Regency World. She is the author of Praying with Jane: 31 Days Through the Prayers of Jane Austen and The Anne of Green Gables Devotional: A Chapter-By-Chapter Companion for Kindred Spirits. You can visit Rachel online at www.RachelDodge.com.

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