by Jean Stubbs
‘Well, Ralph has connections with this particular section of the industrial community. That is all.’
‘And a weekly newspaper — for that is what it is! They cannot rely on us for the latest news, can they?’
‘As I said,’ cried Toby, striding up and down, ‘we inform them. We distil, translate, give them the essence. Think of the influence we shall have! Think of the good we shall do! This is not like you, Lottie.’
‘It is not like I was,’ she replied composedly, ‘but I wish to have some guarantee of earning a living before I give up the one I have established.’
‘Oh, if that is all. Ralph shall speak to you. You will not mind dealing with him? He is a dry stick, but totally reliable!’
And in some pique he went downstairs to see if there was any wine left in the supper bottle. But he obviously needed her co-operation, for he was back again before long, his breath scented with claret, full of bonhomie.
‘And how is our good friend Joseph Johnson?’ Toby asked amiably, though the idea of The Analytical Review was still a bolus for him to swallow.
‘I have grown to like him very well,’ she said, smiling.
‘We have each been so busy of late,’ Toby continued casually, as though their year of non-communication had been an unavoidable weekend spent apart. ‘I know so little of all your enterprises — though our very bread has come from them. And that I do not forget, Lottie, my love,’ he added, with a sincerity which calmed and delighted her. ‘Come then, tell me how you met with him. We have not gossiped for such a while!’ and he settled himself down again, lying more comfortably upon the bed, by her side.
‘Well, where should I begin?’ she answered gaily. ‘Our good friend Edmund Crowley sent me to him, and first I met Mr Johnson’s assistant, Miss Wollstonecraft — who seemed in much the same case as myself … ’
Poor, talented, vulnerable, prickly, and too honest for her own good.
‘The alarming red-haired mistress?’
‘She is not his mistress, but his friend,’ said Charlotte coldly. ‘May not men and women be friends?’
He squeezed her hand in penitence, crying, ‘Why should I not believe it, when you and I are such friends, my love?’
‘Well, Mary is not his mistress — he set her up in the George Street house because he believed in her. But I digress. Mary heard my plea, looked at my work, and took me in to see Mr Johnson — who grasped my hand as though I had been a man, and said he dined at three! He says that to every poor and radical writer he employs, because most of them are hungry I expect! I know I was … ’
But had secreted food to take back to the children, just the same.
‘So you dined at seventy-two St Paul’s Churchyard?’ said Toby hastily. ‘Whom did you meet? Some of our friends?’
‘All friends in spirit, certainly. Yes, some I knew and some I did not.’
‘You should not give up Johnson entirely,’ said Toby, thinking of future introductions.
‘I had no intention of doing so. We are not yet rich enough for that!’
‘And you like Miss Wollstonecraft, I take it?’
‘Better than any woman I have ever known — except my mother, but that is a particular relationship,’ said Charlotte sadly, knowing how much it had diminished in the years of their separateness.
‘Then I shall like her too. We must sup together, Lottie. Aye, and Johnson also. I am not such a poor creature that I can envy a man who seizes his opportunity as well as Johnson has done.’
He stole a glance at her downcast eyes.
‘I used to discuss matters with my mother as I now discuss them with Mary,’ said Charlotte quietly, ‘but these days all Mamma and I have between us are our guarded letters. There is no freedom of thought or speech or written word any more. She was once my friend and mentor. Now? Oh, full of wit and anecdotes and wise remedies for small ills, but no more than another northern correspondent.’
‘The very name!’ cried Toby, thankful to divert her from this topic as well. ‘You shall write the leading review of the day, Lottie, in letter-form, and we shall call our journal The Northern Correspondent, in honour of your mother.’
And he kissed away the tears which brightened her eyes.
*
The first issue, in December of the same year, carried a full account of Dr Price’s discourse, preached the previous month at a meeting-house in Old Jewry, in praise of the glorious French Revolution. Charlotte reported the event with wholehearted fervour, and yet in such an easy and loquacious style that it seemed she was talking to her readers.
It was a fortuitous beginning for a swaggering, passionate, and honestly indignant courier such as The Northern Correspondent and its subscribers grew steadily as the journal hammered away. Price’s sermon drew forth a stinging attack upon the revolutionaries by Edmund Burke, in the House of Commons, three months later, to be followed by the publication of his thesis, Reflections on the Revolution in France. Both factions were up in arms. At Upper Marylebone Street, the reformer Tom Paine was busy composing his measured answer to Burke. But long before his Rights of Man could be published, Mary Wollstonecraft rushed in with A Vindication of the Rights of Men, which Joseph Johnson printed sheet by sheet as she wrote it. Hers was the first refutation, and captured the public fancy. A second edition, early in 1791, carried her name upon it.
Charlotte, wearing paper cuffs to protect her sleeves from ink, was writing a note to her that first bitter winter of the ‘90s, and waiting for Toby to come back from France — whither Ralph Fairbarrow had sent him, as foreign correspondent.
So yr Name is now Illustrious, and I Rejoice for you, but Pray do not Forget me Utterly. Tho’ I Look Up to you I shd Detest yr Looking Down at me! The Northern Correspondent does Well in my Home County of Lancaster, and in Yorkshire also, among those who have both Wealth and Insight into the Evil of our present Society, and those Strugglers after Truth — less Fortunate in the Worldly Sense, but with the Wit and Courage to think for themselves, and the Desire that their Children may Live in a country where Liberty, Equality and the Brotherhood of Man may Prevail …
A small rough hand put down a cup of tea on her writing-table. Charlotte acknowledged the attention with an abstract glance, which Polly Slack received as thanks.
I shall send this Letter by Personal Messenger, since they tell me that Government Agents are Watching the Mail. Folk are linking yr Name with that of Tom Paine, but I am Sad that Mr Jordan published his book instead of our Friend, Mr Johnson. Take Care of y’self. If They can bring such Pressures to Bear upon J.J. then They will not Hesitate to Muffle Others, and tho’ I Like You very well — you was never Discreet! It is close on Midnight and I have not yet Done. Farewell, Amazon: yr Friend, Lottie.
She reached out for the cup, and sipped while she read through the proofs Davy had just delivered from downstairs. The candles were flickering in their sconces as she drank tea and made her corrections. She initialled the leading article Y.L.C. and snuffed their flames with a pinch of the fingers.
*
Jack Ackroyd, son of a Millbridge weaver, adopted son of Henry Tucker the late headmaster of Millbridge Grammar School, graduate of Cambridge University, and present headmaster of the same Millbridge academy, picked up his copy of The Northern Correspondent in March 1792 and began to read Charlotte’s monthly letter.
… and after a Supper of bread, cheese and porter, these nine Honest Men lit their pipes and Discussed the subject of Parliamentary Reform. History will Remember this winter night at The Bell Tavern in Exeter Street, for the Occasion was the First Meeting of the London Corresponding Society, whose Purpose is to Communicate with Groups of people such as themselves Throughout the Realm, and thus Little by Little to Build a Mass of Opinion which shall Topple the present System. The Founder and Secretary, Mr Thomas Hardy, is a shoemaker, who dresses Plainly and speaks Frankly. The Shoemakers are Prominent in Revolutions! But the Society Welcomes all those who seek Reform. Whether Artisans or Labourers, Profess
ional Men or Small Masters, Dissenting Clergy or Soldiers and Sailors, they Belong to the Brotherhood of Man and claim the Rights of Man. The weekly Subscription is One Penny — a Humble sum to make a New World. The First Intention is that Every Adult Person, unless He is Mad or a Perpetrator of Crimes, should be able to Vote for a Member of Parliament. And the Membership of the Society is — UNLIMITED:Y.L.C.
*
School House,
The Grammar School, Millbridge, Lancashire
7 March 1792
Dear Madam
I have long been an Admirer of Journal, both for its Aims and its Achievements, and to my Astonishment I now discover that Y.L.C. — Yr London Correspondent? — is None Other than the former Miss Charlotte Howarth, whom I Knew as a Learned young lady Teacher at the Misses Whitehead’s so-called Academy. You Graced that Ridiculous Establishment in a Manner wh both Amused and Moved me, and I shd have liked to know you Better, but I was never a Parlour Gentleman and so Millbridge ladies Seldom received me. But I do not mean to Run on merely in a Social Vein. I mean to Pick a Bone with you. In yr latest issue you Cry up this London Corresponding Society as tho’ it were the First of its Kind, whereas Sheffield, Derby and (not Least) Manchester have already formed such Radical Organisations. Pray remember of Loyalties, Y.L.C., for you come from the County of Lancaster of self and are writing to Lancastrians — and Those across the Border! London is very Fine, but it is not the Only School of Ideas. Furthermore, I Wager that Radical London is something like its River, a Fluid Mass, while here the Radicals form round Centres of Industry, thus making a Heart of Belief rather than a Head of Opinion! Yet do not think I Decry you or the Society, for I wish Both of you Very well I’ Humble Servant, Madam. Jack Ackroyd.
*
Longe & Son,
Printers, Publishers & Booksellers,
No. 3 Lock-yard,
off Neel Street,
London 14 March 1792
Sir,
I Remember you as an Alarming Person, tho’ I do not Doubt I shd now find you Less so, for my lift has led me into a Very Different Sphere from that up I knew Formerly. In one Respect you have not Changed, sir, for you Still declare War upon the Slightest Pretext! Tho’ I Cried Up the London Corresponding Society with Fervour, in not One instance did I say it was the First of its Kind, nor ever Hinted at such an Untruth. The Reason my Husband, Mr Tobias Longe, Directed The Northern Correspondent at Lancashire and Yorkshire in particular was Because these places were foremost in Radical Thought and Action.
Having said my Piece, sir, may I condole with you upon the Death of y Benefactor, Mr Henry Tucker, last year? He wd have been greatly Heartened by the Choice of his Successor, and the Grammar School is Fortunate in you.
There is great acclaim for the Second part of Rights of Man by Mr Thomas Paine, wb we think even Finer than the first part. Shd you Require a copy we shall be Pleased to send one. I also Suggest that you study its Female Counterpart by my Friend, Miss Mary Wollstonecraft. When she had done Writing her Vindication of the Rights of Men I asked her, ‘What shall you do next?’ She has Answered me with A Vindication of the Rights of Women and we can Supply you with a Copy of this too, if you Wish.
We grow Wiser, I believe, as we grow Older, but oft our Wisdom is Ingrained in us. Tho’ Ignorant of my Mission at the time, I did Endeavour to Amend the puerile Education of young girls at the Misses Whitehead’s Academy! Yr, Charlotte Longe.
Bitter Winter
Eleven
London, January — March 1793
That morning Charlotte had to break the ice in her water jug before she could wash, and sat over her work breathing on her fingers to uncramp them. A little fire struggled to make an impression on the chilly room. Last night, with Toby still away in France, she had brought both children into the high bed, and the cat joined them all. Now Ambrose and Cicely were downstairs with Polly Slack, sitting upon tall stools like islands in a sea of soap-suds, while Polly scrubbed the flagstoned floor. In the printing shop Davy carried on their shrinking trade, and waited for Charlotte’s editorial. The Northern Correspondent was in troubled waters, politically speaking, and the Longes had once again fallen on hard times.
What a year 1792 had been, with only the alleviation of Miss Wilde’s legacy to Charlotte: tied up so that the capital could not be realised. This was a double blessing, for had the gift been a lump sum it would have become another of Toby’s lost causes; whereas Mr Hurst invested it wisely and sent the interest direct to Charlotte on the first day of every month. This, and her salary as editor, kept their domestic side running, while Toby’s business was supposed to pay for extras and overhead costs. He became evasive whenever she enquired about his financial affairs, so until recently she had been forced to comfort herself by remembering that she could earn a living. But the ominous tidings from France, and the increasing fear of an English revolution, had driven King George III to condemn all radical meetings and writings as treason, and The Northern Correspondent was in danger of extinction.
Since May of last year they had printed and distributed it under cover, and for the main part it was read under cover too. Many a Lancashire free-thinking gentleman concealed his copy beneath the papers on his desk, as the artisans hid theirs inside their jackets. But what precautions the Longes could take were flimsy in the extreme, considering how many government agents were infiltrating societies and watching suspected Radicals. Possibly the journal was less important than they themselves believed, but it could only be a matter of time before it was harvested. So Charlotte lived from day to day, from hand to mouth, and Toby had been absent for three weeks now, without so much as a letter to plead for him.
She was half expecting Ralph Fairbarrow that afternoon, for in these days of severe political crisis he had become almost a regular visitor, though she would not have called him a close friend. He did not appear to have wife, child or home. When he was in London he stayed at an inn. His northern addresses changed constantly. He was care of anybody with whom he was engaged at the time. And though he often supped with them at Lockyard, and Toby’s hospitality was open-handed, he was never drunk or talkative over his wine. He remained curiously anonymous, so that if Charlotte had been asked to describe him she would have chosen subdued adjectives. His image retreated even as she strove to imprison it in words. Only his aims and beliefs brought him to life, and then he was possessed of a cool violence far more frightening, and more credible, than Toby’s wildest flights of rhetoric. In this she was afraid of him, but on the whole they understood each other pretty well. She was adept at dealing with difficult and clever men. She had learned patience and perseverance in a hard school. And they both took great pride in The Northern Correspondent and thought it the finest radical newspaper in existence.
This bitter winter’s day she struggled with her editorial in vain, her spirit chilled by the weather and the latest news from France. Just now, as the dull light waned, she had written to her mother to ask if Mr Hurst could forward her allowance a little earlier than usual. As she read the letter through again Polly Slack came in with the candles.
‘And Mr Furbelow’s downstairs, ma’am,’ she said, with a lowly servant’s usual disregard for names, ‘a-talking to the children, and would like a word with you. If convenient.’
He knew that her convenience was of no account, but preserved a punctilious regard for the proprieties he was endeavouring to overthrow. His brief conversation with the children, too, was another mark of convention. They had nothing to say to each other, but he persevered in a wooden manner, convinced that this was the correct thing to do: aware also that he was addressing the future citizens of a radical age, whose minds needed improving.
‘Pray tell Mr Fairbarrow that I shall be glad to see him,’ Charlotte replied, ‘and fetch us some tea presently, will you, Polly?’
‘There’s only potatoes for supper, ma’am,’ Polly observed, more in interest than dismay, for though she toiled willingly she relied upon Charlotte to give orders and take
responsibility.
Obedient to the hidden request, her mistress searched pockets and drawers and finally looked into the empty cash-box in hope that something had filled it.
‘Then potatoes we have, Polly,’ she said finally.
‘Yes, ma’am. I can bake them, and put a bit of salt in them.’
‘You are very good, Polly. I should be lost without you.’
The girl was now twenty but seemed far younger, though her backwardness had become forwardness in this benignly careless household. She had been Charlotte’s mainstay for seven long years; and the children loved her, for she was a child with them, and yet an adult who could tell stories and cook simple meals.
‘I’ll fetch the tea, ma’am,’ said Polly, ‘and put the potatoes in the ashes. We ain’t got no more coals, neither,’ looking at the sad grate.
‘I shall attend to that tomorrow,’ said Charlotte, with more confidence than she felt. ‘Please to show Mr Fairbarrow up, Polly.’
He was dressed in the same snuff-coloured suit, wore the same dingy linen, as always. His long sallow face was pierced by a pair of slate-blue eyes. He bowed, and his hair slunk forward with the movement, and retreated as he straightened. He carried a black felt tricorne hat which he brushed with the cuff of his coat as he waited for her to speak.
‘Why, Mr Fairbarrow,’ cried Charlotte, hoping he might advance her something, ‘you are the very person I need, for I have laboured all day over my newsletter, and a sorry spectacle it is, both in mood and content, since I heard that King Louis was guillotined Monday last.’
‘Aye,’ said Ralph Fairbarrow, parting his shabby coat-tails as though contact with a chair would damage them, ‘our Citizen Capet has lost his head for the last time!’
‘You cannot be glad of this?’ cried Charlotte, though even the September massacres had left him unmoved, and they quarrelled over the policy of the journal in consequence.
‘No, not glad,’ said Fairbarrow deliberately. ‘Sorry that the French have done their cause and the radical movement such a disservice.’